While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.
*****
"You rode your passions down the wrong street."
———Keija Parssinen
——--The Ruins of Us
In college, I worked with a mentor who knew me as worthy, smart, and talented. She told me I was a writer. I’m aware of this ony because my best friend witnessed the relationship. I don’t remember a thing about it.
I got excited when I learned my inability to remember was due to a treatable condition—dissociative amnesia. I followed my love of research and learned more. Research revealed that science had methods to reclaim lost memories. Further research led me to a therapist who taught me a writing exercise to communicate with my subconscious.
Instead of the worthy, smart, talented college Dawn I’d hoped to meet, the exercise produced a spectral child—The Little Girl I used to be.
The Little Girl who cowered.
Look at her. You see it, don’t you? How her spunky pose misleads you. Her innocent face bleeds torture. Razor strop. Headaches. Ridicule. Empty stomach. Roaches. Mice. Nightmares. Predators. Alone. Alone. Alone.
You see it, don’t you? How she lures me into dark corners.
*****
"You rode your passions down the wrong street."
———Keija Parssinen
——--The Ruins of Us
In college, I worked with a mentor who knew me as worthy, smart, and talented. She told me I was a writer. I’m aware of this ony because my best friend witnessed the relationship. I don’t remember a thing about it.
I got excited when I learned my inability to remember was due to a treatable condition—dissociative amnesia. I followed my love of research and learned more. Research revealed that science had methods to reclaim lost memories. Further research led me to a therapist who taught me a writing exercise to communicate with my subconscious.
Instead of the worthy, smart, talented college Dawn I’d hoped to meet, the exercise produced a spectral child—The Little Girl I used to be.
The Little Girl who cowered.
Look at her. You see it, don’t you? How her spunky pose misleads you. Her innocent face bleeds torture. Razor strop. Headaches. Ridicule. Empty stomach. Roaches. Mice. Nightmares. Predators. Alone. Alone. Alone.
You see it, don’t you? How she lures me into dark corners.
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