The Stories That Made Me

Here is something I have been pondering the past few days. I am one of those people who can watch movies and tv-shows repeatedly without a problem. I’ll still enjoy something no matter how many times I’ve seen it because I’ll see something new, or maybe I’ll be with someone else, and therefore, the experience is different due to that. It can be the same with books – I can read a book over and over, because I’ll notice something I never did about a character, or a line written, or a word placement, or some philosophy I never picked up on before.

I don’t really get bored that way.

The same with video games. I can play a game numerous times and still enjoy it because each time I play it still brings me joy, immense joy. Maybe not the same, intense joy as the first time, but still a lot of joy. You’re all thinking I have a bad memory, yeah, maybe, but not when it comes to stories—

I am very good at remembering stories.

Which is a problem when so many movies and tv-shows are now beginning to repeat the same tired, exhausted pattern and tropes to the point that I can predict how characters will act and how an arc will playout and then I do get bored and go and watch The Walking Dead AGAIN.

But—

But—

In saying all that—

There are some movies that I am very tentative about watching again.

Because they have crystalized in my mind as a moment in time and space as an experience I never want to erase and I worry that by rewatching the movie, I will taint that experience.

It is an odd worry, isn’t it? Or maybe not - maybe it isn't odd to pick up a DVD box and remember the video store you went to with your family to borrow it the first time, the joy of watching it together, and those fond feelings. Or recollecting the precious time spent with a loved one at a movie theater.

I have been contemplating doing a series of posts about the: “Stories That Made Me.” As when I look back on my life I feel immensely blessed by the stories, mythologies, legends, characters and lands I was given doors and windows into as a young child and as I grew. When I sometimes ponder why someone who is dyslexic, who really couldn’t write at all – and still really has no grasp on grammar – wanted so badly to be an author from such a young age – I am reminded of the little girl who would turn cardboard boxes into spaceships in the backyard; she was always telling stories, from the very beginning—

My life has always been about stories.

So maybe it isn't any surprise at all that my strongest memories are usually those that are tied to stories.