My Life in Smells, by Suzy Davies.

The most commonly known of the human senses are: sight (visual), taste (gustatory), touch (tactile), hearing (auditory), and smell (olfactory). The sixth sense is that of “knowing before” and writers can make use of all of these senses to create a text that will create a rich sensory experience for the reader.

But the power of one of these senses, that of smell, is that it is inexorably intertwined with memory, and as Melissa Gouty suggests in her article on Medium, “The power of smell comes from the fact that smells don’t have to go through the part of our brain called the thalamus like sight, sound, taste, and touch do. Smell goes directly to an area of the brain that processes emotion and memory.”

Instead of arguing my case, I want to show you how smells conjure with the imagination and tap into memory. I hope you make a list of your life in smells, and the emotions and memories they evoke. Sometimes, it helps to close your eyes...

In my own life, I can think of many smells that conjure up feelings and memories. Here is a my list:

The smell of a baby’s skin. I remember this from when I used to baby-sit and bath a neighbour’s child, Phillip. At that point I was just 7 years old, and was an only child.

The wonderful aroma of baking bread. A staple diet of The Welsh, it takes me back to a baker shop in The Aber of my childhood.

The smell of cowpats - a kind of grassy gassy vegetable and earth smell. I used to pick them up and play frisbee with them as a child - much to the disdain of my mother, who never actually said I was throwing cowshit. The thought of this smell takes me back to picnics in Wales, where we had to avoid the cows and their cowpats in the fields.

The smell of rain on grass. Almost lemony, it is so refreshing. It transports me to Ireland, where I stayed, when I was around 11 years old, with my Irish aunt and uncle and my cousins. Fast forward to Waterford, Eire, in my adulthood, and I am speaking at The Writer’s Festival.

The smell of soap and sandalwood. I am kissing my Dad who always smelled mostly of these things, with a tinge of tobacco smoke.

The smell of oranges - my favourite smell. It takes me to my very early teens, when I was 11 or 12, and most probably quite precocious. The fragrance - my first grown up fragrance - was “Aqua Manda” and came in an exotic dark brown bottle with a glitzy orange label. It was a light sweet, citrus smell, and I loved it so much, I most probably put on far too much. I remember wearing it when I went disco dancing with my friends. We danced around our handbags.

The smell of hair lacquer. Again I’m around 11 or 12, and my mum has her hair up in a Dusty Springfield style bun.

The smell of chlorine and vinegar, and ink. Curious combination. When I went swimming at about 12 or 13, my parents used to take me to a chip shop, straight after. We all sat in the car, eating chips out of newspaper.

The smell of shoe polish. I have my first pair of regulation black flats. My dad has put newspaper down on the kitchen table, and the family’s shoes are lined up, with polishes in different colours and the brushes, for me to clean them. To this day, I love shiny shoes. Shoes say a lot about characters.

The smell of glue and nail polish. I’m staying with a family in Tregaron, Wales. I’m 11, and the daughter is around 16. She is helping me “do my nails” with stick on talons. It brings back memories of my dad being furious because he thinks they are not at all what I should be wearing. He goes off and sulks. I take them off the next day. I would do almost anything not to get his disapproval. Now my nails are usually completely natural. But I do like to bling them for special occasions. The smell of nail polish nowadays takes me to sunny Bournemouth, where I used to live, and there are more glamorous salons - more per square mile - than any other town I have known!

The smell of the wind on a Borth beach in Wales. It’s a mixture of shellfish, seaweed and brine, and I am gazing into the rock pools. It occurs to me that they are worlds in miniature.

The smell of roses. It is summer and school’s out. The family are in the drive at Nuneaton, and there are blowsy roses, swaying in the breeze in the border, on one side. We are going to Wales for the summer. I love the feeling of freedom, and the anticipation of seeing my grandmother in Wales at the big house of my early childhood. Flash back to my late mother’s birthday bouquets. She loved them, too. Fast forward to my first bouquet of red roses. Pungent sweetness. I put my nose into the flowers, close my eyes, and inhale.

The smell of geraniums. Always on my mum’s front porch. Zesty, cheerful, and sometimes, with lemon-smelling leaves.

The smell of moss on a tarmac drive. We are in Wales at Plas Antaron, my grandmother's house. It’s a damp, petrol smell with the tarmac and moss combining.

The smell of Ponds Cold Cream. I am kissing my grandma on the cheek. Whenever I want to remember her, I just get a jar.

The smell of horses and hay and fur. Grass, mud and earth. I rode a horse for the first time in Wales.

The smell of my dog, freshly-bathed outdoors in an old tin bath, (after much protest.) He jumps from the tub, and showers water as he shakes his body, head to tail. I squeal with laughter. I can hear mum laughing, too. My dog smells of lanolin, light, fresh and lemony. He races around the garden to dry off. The birds are building nests with his fur - it is so silky and soft. It must be spring…The smell of my dog, when he needs a wash. A fusty kind of smell, mixed with earth, leaves and grass.

The smell of paint. My mother and her oils. She is doing my portrait. I find it difficult to sit still. She is telling me that skin is not pink or black or yellow or brown, it’s made up of lots of colours. It makes me think. I can't make art like she can, but a few years later I do a portrait of a stranger, a Beatles fan. I do it in three colours - grey, yellow and black. The teeth are very difficult to do. But I love splashing around and making a mess. I feel proud when it’s hung in the local art college. But I’m not that good. Fast forward to decorating the rooms in our house. A faint smell. No lead. It takes me back to mum and dad, who were both artists.

The smell of wood burning, and charcoal. I am 11 years old in the Chemistry lab. I ace my lessons, but now I’ve spoiled it. I have a crush on my Chemistry teacher. I’ve set fire to the wooden clamp with the bunsen, through a few seconds of inattention, watching him and not keeping an eye on the experiment. I can see the blaze of magnesium. The clamp is charcoal at the edges. I can see my Hero in his white lab coat. In my imagination, he’s running in slow motion to save me, like they do in the movies - but in reality, he’s there in seconds. He’s very forgiving. I worry for weeks that now I won’t get a straight A anymore. He is kind, he gives me A-. I don’t feel bad about it. He’s taught me it’s O.K to make a mistake as long as you learn from it and don’t repeat it.

The smell of champagne. I’m still 11 and the bubbles smell faintly of flowers. I’m not used to the fizz, and I wrinkle my nose when I sniff the rim of the glass. I feel very grown up. I’m at a ball. My dad tells the waiters, after two glasses, that I’ve had enough. Dad supervises me. I understand as an adult it was quite a controversial thing to allow. But he wanted to take the novelty away so I would never think it was forbidden.

The smell of bank notes. Ink and paper. I’m a teller at a bank. We have computers, but we still count the money with a rubber finger thimble. It’s a kind of madness that I have ½ the keys to the huge safe, and my friend has the other half. There are thousands, locked away. We would never touch it.

The smell of Indian spices. The first time - in my mum’s kitchen. She’s making curry. I love it. This is a smell that I revisit time and time again, at friend’s houses, in curry restaurants. It wafts from the terraces on a street in Leicester where I’m a teacher at a centre, not far from The Golden Mile.

The smell of apple logs. A homey smell. My husband and I have just bought a new house. I am full of hope. It’s nearly Christmas. I am reminded of the apple pies my mum used to make. When the logs are all used up, I bake apple crumble to get more of that happy apple smell.

The smell of lilacs in a garden. I live in a village. I am married, but unhappy with my life. The smell is so sweet and pungent. It disturbs me that I am so sad, when everything around me is so beautiful. I want a child, but it is not to be. I weep alone, silently. The mauve conical flowers blur in my tears. I am reminded of the mauve dress I wore at my late grandmother’s funeral.

The smell of whisky and sickness. Oh Hell. Woody alcohol spew. I won’t go there again. What on earth did I say? What on earth did I do? He won’t say. My head and my heart hurt. Bad. Eurgh! I spend the day ruminating, regretting my feelings. Fast forward. A few months. My best friend has committed suicide. Booze and pills. The smell of alcohol reminds me of her.

The smell of burning hair. It is graduation day, and the remnants of a rocket land on my head and singe my crown. I think back to a French hairdresser, when I was on an exchange visit from school, years ago. She burned the ends of my hair to seal the split ends. Now, I am thinking of the words, “baptism of fire.” I am superstitious by nature, and know this is the beginning of a new rite of passage. I then remember something else. A lover with a bright, round face, and an Italian restaurant. The table has a candle centrepiece. He whispers something in a soft, low voice. I am so in the moment, I lean forward, and my hair catches fire, I throw water over my head to douse the flames. There’s something about fire. Best not to get burned… We both laugh.

The wonderful aroma of kippers, burning in a smoke shed. I am strolling along a little street, very close to the sea, that lashes over the barriers. It is the first and only time I visit Whitby. I think of Dracula and smile. I wonder if he liked kippers?

The smell of cabbage. In fact, the smell of Kimchi. At first, I did not like it. It pervades the lifts, the trains and the restaurants. It’s on everyone’s breath at breakfast. It’s a pungent vinegary vegetable smell. But then, I fell in love with Korea. Now, I love the smell of Kimchi.

The smell of pine trees, combined with salt. Cleansing. Energising. Sometimes, like a kind of natural disinfectant. I’m in Bournemouth. When they are selling Christmas Trees at Boscombe market, I am reminded of the pines along the seafront, and walks in the woods in Nottinghamshire, when I was a girl.

The smell of mirror polish. Chemical. Difficult to breathe. I have just heard that my mother has died. To this day, I abhor the smell.

The smell of pizza, cooking. Tomatoes, garlic, and cheese. The faint aroma of oregano. It is late. I am in Florida. Happy, tired, relaxed. My husband is cooking. Welcome to my new life!

The smell of gasoline and oil at the petrol station. I kind of like that smell. Takes me back to Silverstone, when I went with Dad, and to my first car. Sometimes, these days, I smell petrol in perfumes.

There is no snow in Florida. But in memory, I can summon the smell, and imagine. All of my early childhood, the smell, in winter, of woody ice water in Wales, snow that tingled my cheeks, and on the air, in the town, the smell of coal, burning in the homecoming hearths. There are two Welsh china cats and brasses, either side of Miss Parry’s fireplace. She has seven real cats. And at Mrs. Sticky Stuck’s, a giant lollipop is waiting, like the ones on the school crossing that the ladies hold up. But of course, my one is a big sweet on a stick! Elsie has a silver crown, waiting for me when we call. But she wants me to sing a song first, although she is quite deaf. She has a fire as well. We stamp the snow off our boots, and say, “Merry Christmas!”

The smell of coffee, made with real beans. Coffee and friends. Coffee and family. Coffee and writing. Coffee and cosiness. Coffee and home. Coffee and writing my books, at all hours. Flashback to Italy. Me and Mum at an Italian coffee shop, sipping cappuccino in the sun. I can hear The Opera.

The smell of a peach! Delicious Georgia peaches. So sweet, ripe with the sun. The best in the world. Memory of Donna, handing me one. Cannot believe how good it tastes. The smell of peaches emanates from the fruit bowl.

The smell of paper. New lined paper and notebooks. I want to make my lists, do my outlines, before I get on the computer to sit down and write. Paper takes me back to when I was a child, starting a new term, with new workbooks for me to write in. It takes me back to making paper mosaics, in particular, one of an owl. It takes me back to my early adulthood, to Seoul, in South Korea. All the Art shops that sold paper. All the different kinds and colours. I’m obsessed with paper. It smells so clean. The smell of new books in a bookshop. Book Signings. Ink and paper. My first romance. Paper and ink. I am in love!

When writing, my suggestion is that you can stir memories for your reader, and associations that will move the emotions in a subtle way. Write of smells with a delicate hand, and they provide a rich texture that will add credibility to your settings, scenes and characters. Show what aromas mean to the narrator of the story to reveal backstory, character, atmosphere or mood and forward “premonitions” that come from the characters’ associations with particular smells.