Mined Memories By Morgan Christie, author of Boolean Logic

Mined Memories

By Morgan Christie, author of Boolean Logic

In writing, as in most things, I find myself thinking about the future: the next project, submission, reading, event, etc. So whenever I’m asked to discuss my writing journey, I constantly find myself pausing; taking more time than I otherwise would to sort through my memories and the process which has led me to where I am. Even with a few books under my belt and the inherent reflections embedded in our appreciation for the people and circumstances that led us to our publication opportunities, I still need a moment.

A moment to gather my experiences and narrate them in a palatable way, not the jumbled up forget me knots they exist as. In some ways, the process of organizing the journey is similar to the process I took in writing my current essay collection, specifically, events from my childhood. Mining memories, I guess that’s what I’ll call it, mining memories for our gems. Take this excerpt from the essay “Paper Guns”:

I heard the footsteps above my head, first. I was young, but knew I shouldn’t be hearing those on the roof. The footsteps almost had a cadence to them, a unified and mellowly urgent pace. Like a secret coming to life that didn’t entirely understand the unspoken nature of its existence. They scurried around until there was a deep silence, petrifying me into stillness. I was terrified of disturbing the quiet that suddenly surrounded the house, my sky comforter as shield and stuffed pig as weapon. 

I heard loud muffled sounds then, booming from outside, and footsteps now coming from below me. They too were quiet, but panicked and pacing, dripped in what I now know was not just fear, but deliberate caution. The sounds from outside continued and became even louder. They were voices, I soon discovered, but I was unable to make out what they were saying. The footsteps below ceased and there was a notable pause before the creaking of the front door started to wail. I knew the sound well, I’d hear it when my father came in late and would weakly push the door open in an attempt to be quiet, when really the slow motion did nothing for volume control. It was old and worn out, and sometimes old things just cried a little when they were pushed. 

When I started drafting this essay, I had no idea the memory of the swat team closing in on our home would begin this section; but the deeper I dove into the past, its sounds, sights, even the textures running across my remembered young skin, the more the memory shone. This gem, not in beauty, but resilience hardened through decades of preservation and vigorous withstanding, still existed. Pronounced and as rich as the night it happened over two decades before, this moment was mined and laid out in a way in which both I, and hopefully the reader, could resonate in the angst, wonder, and fear I felt then. Where we could breathe together, and find tiny bits of ourselves. Similarly, sometimes stepping out of the self serves this purpose, as it did in the following excerpt from “The Aphids”:

They told the city the aphids were coming earlier in the week. Massive swarms would sweep over as the insects migrated to some distant northern home. They also told people not to harm them. That their innocuous nature was a thing to consider before swatting or smushing. The aphids were innocent, and they told everyone to be mindful of that. People weren’t. 

She was alone out back when they came. A hazy flood of lush green streamed towards the yard. It seemed she should have wanted to run, but the ‘harmless’ reports echoed her mind. So she stood there, watching the approaching swarm like it was a thing she’d watched her entire life. When they got close, she lifted her arms, holding them still as the aphids suffocated the air and swallowed her whole. They were everywhere. Fluttering more than flying, they landed all over her little body. Blanketed in feet and wings she could not feel, they touched her like invisible things. She wondered if they were that color so that when they touched someone, there’d be proof they were there. 

She began to spin then, in small infinite circles. Slow enough for them to stay, but fast enough for her to feel gone. And for a moment, she was green. Her skin disappeared and only the aphids were there. She remembered nothing but them. 

In stepping away from the first person, I intended to showcase the distance I had, or have, from my encounter with the aphids. A distance so poignant, I believed it a dream. Though the distance is elevated, so is the intimacy of the moment. Again, this gem that remains present, colorful, and distinct, still exists after decades have passed. As I mined these memories and attempted to do the same in reflecting on my writing journey, a thought occurred to me. Our gems, these mined memories, really aren’t about the lived moments we unbury and offer, they’re about the mining process. My writing journey, like this collection, like these excerpts, are all about the discovery. The willingness to evaluate and reflect on the worst and best moments, to relive times we tuck away in an attempt to avoid. My writing journey has been about taking risks, not knowing when to quit, and believing that gems can exist wherever we’re willing to look. So while I’m usually looking to the future, it’s in moments like these, buried right here in this article, that my writing journey lies. As for most writers, I imagine, they reside in our words, our reflections, and the small pieces of ourselves that we leave behind. 

About the Author

Morgan Christie’s essays, stories, and poems have appeared in Room, Callaloo, The Hawai’i Review, Sport Literate, and elsewhere. Her first chapbook, Variations on a Lobster’s Tale, was the winner of the 2017 Alexander Posey Chapbook Prize, and her first full-length short story manuscript, These Bodies (Tolsun Books, 2020), was nominated for the Hurston/Wright Legacy Award in fiction. Her most recent poetry chapbook, when they come (Black Sunflowers Press, 2021) is featured in the Forward Arts Foundation’s National Poetry Day exhibit. She is the 2022 Arc Poetry Poem of the Year Prize recipient, and her collection People Without Wings (Black Sunflowers Press, 2021) is the winner of the 2022 Digging Chapbook Series Prize. Her new short story collection, Boolean Logic, is the winner of the 2023 Howling Bird Press Nonfiction Prize. Her novella Liddle Deaths (Stillhouse Press) is due out in 2024. Christie currently splits her time between North Carolina and Toronto. To learn more, please visit MorganChristieWrites.com.

BOOLEAN LOGIC

Powerful and Lyrical Essays from a New and Noteworthy Poet and Fiction Writer

Morgan Christie’s book is in conversation with various themes including race, gender inequity, socioeconomic disparities, and others as questions regarding how experiences define us are viewed through a BOOLEAN LOGIC lens, where sums do not always equal their parts. These essays intertwine sport, family, and community and other aspects that assist in shaping identities through lineage and the lessons we take from them.

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Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing