Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
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In September 2019, a seizure revealed a lime-sized meningioma pressed against my hippocampus—the part of the brain that governs memory and language. The doctors said it was benign, but benign didn’t mean harmless. Surgery removed the tumor, and three days later I opened my eyes to a new reality. I could walk, I could talk, but when I looked at my wife, her name was gone. I called her Precious—the only word I could find. A failure of memory, yet perhaps the truest name of all. Recovery has been less cure than re-calibration. Memory gaps are frequent. Conversations vanish. I had to relearn how to write, letter by halting letter. My days are scaffold by alarms, notes, and calendars. When people ask how I am, I don’t list symptoms or struggles. I simply say, “Seven Degrees Left of Center.” It’s not an answer—it’s who I’ve become. |
| I am reading through my manuscript today, and I keep asking myself one question. What was I thinking? Some sentences feel stronger than I remember. Others feel like they were written by a tired raccoon with a keyboard. I flip pages and find surprises that make me laugh, cringe, or reach for more coffee. This is the strange joy of reviewing a draft. I meet the past version of myself, the one who wrote late at night and trusted I would understand the note that says “fix this later.” Now I stare at it and wonder what “this” was supposed to be. I thought I would remember. I did not. Still, there is something comforting in this chaos. I can see how far the story has come. I can also see where it needs help. That is the real purpose of reading a manuscript with honest eyes. Every rough sentence is a chance to improve. Every confusing moment is a signpost pointing to the next edit. So I keep going. I shake my head. I laugh at my own choices. I fix what needs fixing. I remind myself that no writer thinks clearly during a first draft. We just write and hope our future selves will sort it out. And here I am, sorting it out with coffee in hand and a sense of humor. It is messy, but it means the story is growing. “What was I thinking?” is not a failure. It is the beginning of the rewrite. |