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RE: Into the Dreaming: Chapter One "Collin" (Fantasy Y/A Novel)
I know exactly what you're saying, fortunately for me I have the best memory of anyone I've ever met. I can connect with any point in my past- which is why when my 18 year old daughter does something most adults- even much younger than my 40 years consider 'foolish' I find myself chuckling instead as I clearly remember being that age, and the thought processes that go with it.
So in my case, the many years of writing experience between then and now would improve it without taking from it I believe :)
Very cool story about the young singer, you sound like a fine man Arthur, glad to 'meet' you.
The empathy you mention feeling for your daughter comes to you through having a good memory? I would say it helps, but the truth is, most people get impatient with the young despite remembering what it was like. The reason? They think they have learnt that they must be careful and avoid emotions and get angry with those they love because they are obviously making the same mistakes, refusing to avail themselves of the pool of experience they have.
The problem is, some people learn from experience, while others only become fearful of life (and love).
As a child I spent over one and a half years very sick, with 9 months of it in hospital. Being a long term patient meant I had no friends and family could only buy just that many comics for me. It meant I spent most of my time living in imaginary worlds.
It also meant I usually was the last to learn of or understand what is going on around me, so I never learnt how to acquire that patina of practicality which makes people think they know better.
After I have finished reading, I hope you let me know when you re-publish, as I'd love to see the effect on your characters - it is the reason why I find it so difficult to go back and make changes; my characters become people to me and they dictate the direction the story takes and for me to change something, it would be, to me, a way of showing disrespect and a lack of love to people I love very much. Which means, I can never become a good writer (author), just a ghost writer, writing their story as they tell it to me.
:)
First I just want to say that I really appreciate the time you're putting in, and I apologize for not responding right away, life's a wee bit hectic right now.
Okay.
It's not memory the way most people view it, it's the ability to...jump into myself at those ages, to not just recall things I did or what I may have thought, but to smell it, taste it, touch it, be it.
I didn't suffer from physical illness, so I can't say I know how that feels, but I did live in a world of serious oppression. I was brought up as an Evangelical Christian in a Statist household. My parents believed that Jesus was the only way to Heaven, all other roads led to hell- more than that, if I had a question about something in the Bible it was some kind of satanic deception working on my mind, or if I did something wrong it was satan's influence-- I can't tell you how many times my mom rebuked demons in the name of Jesus (and when you have an imagination like I do? That means I could 'see' these malevolent creatures floating around us).
And they also believed wholeheartedly in 'their' government, in the school system, in the medical field-(much of which seemed contradictory to their christian beliefs) so breaking free of these chains of religions that were shackled to me from the time I could think was a monumental task . Especially because they were my heroes, and they truly loved us. As crazy as it sounds when I describe such things, it was my normal and I was well taken care of.
Books are what changed everything. My journey out of the cave/box began with mom inadvertently putting Ayn Rand in my hands for a college scholarship. She never read, really anything except the bible, devotionals, and the occasional romance (which she hid from us like a dirty little secret). So she had no clue that The Fountainhead contained some philosophies that would flip my world on its side. Not that I subscribed to these philosophies in particular, but realizing that there were perspectives so wholly different than my own was life changing.
But not overnight. It took years for me to finally say out loud that I didn't believe in any of it, to lose the fear of the repercussion of burning eternally in hell.
I've known many people who call themselves Christian, attended church etc, but most of them came from a more traditional background where it wasn't discussed much beyond a church service- this is not the same as where I came from I assure you- I read your other comments already and feel this might address what you were asking about only examining beliefs I believe in-there are few beliefs I haven't or wouldn't examine, but this particular one was such a struggle for me it's the only point of real division between who I am and who I was...actually...if I could impose on you just a little more, there is a short story series I wrote called The Playground- it's what got me noticed by some key people when I first joined the platform and possibly my best work. It's also young adult, but it's philosophical in nature and addresses all kinds of controversial issues while having a bit of fantasy mixed in...here's a link to episode 9- the final episode of the first season- reality in fiction: swear no oaths which contains links to the other 8. It is the clearest depiction of my truth seeking journey.
Again thank you for your thoughtful responses, it's not often people put such care and time into comments.
Reading your comment, I tried to use imagination and empathy to place myself in your shoes. As my Teller family of empaths find out (I had not thought of this, they did), empathy can open us to feeling the other person, but, unless we have the experiences for empathy to draw its data from, all we can do is 'imagine' we feel the other person - of course, even that 'empathic imagining' does open us to the other person and, at times, to truths new to us.
I grew up in a family of tepid Christians. At the ages of ten to twelve, I became devout and even told my teacher, while we were in a plane going through a bumpy ride, that I hope we crash, because it means I am then guaranteed a place in Heaven, since I am still a child. The teacher was terrified and did not appreciate my comment.
My imagination tends to run away with me, so I began to question things like, how could God have always existed. If he has always existed and always will and He is omnipotent, doesn't He get bored? If He gave us, as a gift, our free will, why is it compulsory for us to take religious instrction? Why did he give us free will, but not for himself (since He exists throughout time and is simultaneously aware of all of it, it means He cannot change any of it since it would change Him, and he is meant to be immutable). And so on. Of course my teachers and my local priest (from Greece and not very well educated in philosophy) did not tell me they do not have the answers, instead they demanded I stop asking questions. When I got punished for refusing to stop, I instantly switched off religion. It is only as an adult that I can differentiate between what religion is responsible for and what I should blame on the ego of Man.
There is one thing I like about myself of that time and now - I refused to argue against religion. I took the attitude that I may be wrong, maybe Jesus did/does exist and if I use my abilities to convince a believer that He does not, I could end up costing that person a life in Heaven.
I remain respectful to all religions, apart from Islam, for I do not see that as a religion, but as an evil system of indoctrination. I have met many very good moslems and I have wondered how they can believe in something so evil and be so good and compassionate.
As should be expected, my characters reflect my own beliefs, but they discuss it more openly than I do (they piss me off when they draw conclusions that are opposite to my way of thinking).
I am 76 years old, my characters are mainly children, in body, if not in mind, and I wonder how it is they can be so much more mature than I am. Is it that we form certain ways of looking at the world and block ourselves to the truths which may question them, which slows our process of maturing, but that, when writing, with the excuse that it is not 'me' I am writing about, my subconscious allows me to allow them to argue those very attitudes that drive me?
Could it be said that an honest writer benefits more from his writing than his readers do?
I have opened the page to your other story so as not to forget to read it after I've finished the current stoy I am reading...oh-oh, I gave in to temptation and read part 1. Different pace and I like it. Now I will try to keep the rest for later.
I've bent your ear enough, thanks for reading :) if you made it to here.