Narrative Fixation

Keith and I were cooking dinner a few nights ago.  There I was staring down into the saucepan full of onions and garlic, letting my mind wander freely, when all of a sudden I realized that I had this inner monologue going on:

She watched as puffs (clouds? wisps?  no, definitely puffs) of steam (waft? burst?) rise and (hang?) hover lazily over the pot, its (strong-scented) contents (going?) transforming from crisp white to soft yellow, finally turning palish green color before becoming limp and transparent.  It was time to add the beans.


I was narrating my actions, my life, in my mind.  Not just narrating but also revising, editing the sentences.  And this is really nothing new for me.  For as long as I can remember I have narrated myself through most of my day.  It seems to be the way my mind works.  So this is a normal part of my life, natural, it's just what I do.

But it occurred to me that it's probably not what everyone does.  Maybe it's a reader-thing.  Since I read so constantly, read so many books, maybe it seeps into everything I think and do.  Maybe I can only experience life the way I read it.  So I asked Keith, because he's a reader too.

"Do you ever find yourself narrating your life in your head?"

He looks at me from across the counter, where is busy mixing turkey meatballs that stick to his fingers, and raises dark eyebrows.  "You mean like your whole life story?  Narrating from beginning to end?" he asks.

"No, I meant more like individual scenes, capturing the images and the nuances.  But do you do the whole thing?" my pulse quickens slightly.  He understands.

He shakes his head.  "No, I don't actually do either of those," he answers, and I suddenly feel just a little bit lost for the tiniest of moments.  I was counting on his kinship in this, more than I realized.  Maybe it's just a weird-thing.  Maybe it's just a crazy-person-thing.  And then another thought occurs to me and the world rights itself again.  Maybe it's a writer-thing.

I've said it before.  I process my life through my pen, through my words, and sometimes it almost feels like unless I've thoroughly written through an event in my life, it may not have really, actually happened.  And it is natural to me, a part of me.  As natural as breathing.  And not everyone does this?  So maybe it's just a me-thing.  A writer-thing.  That might be kind of cool.