Of Lions, Dark Alleys, and Memory Hiccups: Writers, Brace Yourselves for the Inaccuracies
Tim Tries to Define Memory and Identity, LeeAnna's Kangaroo Hat Steals the Show, and Seth Turns Up a Day Late
Welcome back to The Alchemy Podcast, where lofty discussions about memory and identity are frequently hijacked by fashion statements, scheduling mishaps, and wildly off-topic detours. This week’s installment kicks off with Tim—the self-proclaimed memory expert—trying to define the connection between memory and identity. Spoiler alert: no one actually cares because LeeAnna’s wearing a waterproof kangaroo-skin hat that somehow becomes the intellectual star of the show. The hat, by the way, is more memorable than any of Tim’s theories.
Before we dive into the super serious topic of how memory defines our sense of self, Seth graces us with his riveting story about showing up to a gig a day late. Classic Seth. Of course, in a truly impressive feat of blame-shifting, Tim takes responsibility for Seth’s embarrassing lack of calendar awareness. You can’t make this stuff up—well, maybe you can if your memory’s as glitchy as theirs. I suggest they both borrow LeeAnna’s hat, not just for the rain, but to shield themselves from the hurricane of their own incompetence.
Dry Drunks and “White-Knuckling” Through Life: Where’s the Cure for the Alcoholic Writer?
Next up, Tim drops a real gem: the concept of the “dry drunk.” These poor souls have ditched the booze but, surprise surprise, forgot to deal with the psychological dumpster fire that led them there in the first place. Now, they’re just raw nerves white-knuckling their way through life. Fun! It’s like quitting alcohol but continuing to lose every battle against your own personality. Charming.
Naturally, Seth swoops in with wisdom straight from the AA playbook: Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic. It’s basically a lifetime subscription, whether you like it or not. Therapy might help you figure out why you’re a hot mess, but according to AA, you’ll never actually be “cured.” Tim seizes this juicy tidbit to offer some writerly advice: stop writing alcoholics as cardboard cutouts who either “win” or “lose” the battle against booze. Make them complex. Give them layers. You know, like an onion that reeks of stale whiskey. Their true battle isn’t with the bottle, it’s with themselves. Don’t just write them to quit drinking—write them to quit being disasters. Or don’t, because where’s the fun in that?
Memory, Schmemory: How to Misremember Your Entire Childhood
Let’s talk about memory now, which—newsflash—doesn’t work like a pristine filing cabinet. No, your brain’s more like a glitchy printer that messes up the photo every time you hit ‘print.’ Seth’s all riled up about how our brains love to take a perfectly fine memory, scramble it around like eggs, and serve it up as something only vaguely resembling the original. He’s annoyed by this, naturally, because who wouldn’t be irritated that their memories are essentially glitchy reboots?
Tim, always ready to drop some textbook knowledge, explains that we have two kinds of memory: episodic (think mental time travel) and semantic (our brain’s attempts to be helpful by predicting what might happen based on the past). This apparently evolved from early ancestors who learned that escaping a lion could come in handy the next time one appeared in a dark alley. Sounds like a solid survival tactic.
Of course, this also explains stereotypes, which—according to Seth—are just your brain trying to save you from imaginary lions (or shady characters in dark alleys). So the next time you feel that involuntary cringe when a “certain type” of person walks by, just thank your “helpful” brain for perpetuating every social stereotype in the book. Bravo, evolution.
Pie-Scented PTSD and School Play Trauma: Nostalgia, but Make It Weird
Naturally, an episode about memory wouldn’t be complete without some good ol’ fashioned nostalgia. LeeAnna lovingly recalls her grandmother’s kitchen, full of pumpkin pie and warm fuzzies, until adult life shrinks it all down to the size of a shoebox. Seth chimes in with his own scent-triggered flashbacks to his great-grandmother’s house, which is all very sweet and sentimental—until Tim busts in with the smell of horse manure. Yep, that’s his trigger memory. Because of course it is.
But wait—LeeAnna, never one to be outdone, brings in a man from an elevator who recognized his late wife's scent on her. It's like the beginning of a rom-com, minus the meet-cute. But Seth takes the cake, or rather, the perfume bottle, confessing he’s practically the Sherlock Holmes of fragrances. Too bad not all perfumes remind him of pleasant moments—just PTSD in a bottle.
Seth tops off the nostalgia tour with a heavy memory from his youth—his dad missing a school play. It’s like the foundation of every therapy session Seth’s never had, and honestly, aren’t we all just walking collections of formative trauma masquerading as functional adults? Fun times.
For Writers: Forget Backstories, Lean Into Memory (Even the Messed-Up Ones)
Writers, take note. Tim’s got some wisdom to drop. Forget the overdone “born on this day” character backstories—no one cares. Instead, build your characters around impactful memories. Yes, even the wrong ones. Because let’s face it, no one remembers things perfectly, and your characters shouldn’t either. If they do, you’re doing it wrong.
Seth pipes in with this gem: “Keep taking into account human complexities, if we're talking about the way memory can be misinterpreted, can be misremembered… just understand that that's true for your characters as well. And if you go in with that framework of understanding human nature, it's going to resonate more with your audience, even if they don't know why. Because it is true.” Basically, lean all the way into that unreliable memory thing. Make your characters’ minds as messy and chaotic as your own, because nothing says “relatable” like a character who can’t remember what they had for breakfast, but swears they’ll never forget the Great Turkey Debacle of ’97.
Tim, ever the philosopher, adds that human nature is complicated. People don’t understand themselves, much less the world around them. So, why should your characters be any different? Give them memory glitches, personality flaws, and a few existential crises while you’re at it. That’s the good stuff.
Homer Simpson’s Identity Crisis: Wet Clothes, Dry Martini, and a Lampshade for a Hat
Here’s where it gets existential. Tim throws out the terrifying reality that our whole sense of self—everything we think we are—is built on the shaky foundation of unreliable memories. Great. Just what we needed: a reminder that everything we know about ourselves is a giant lie.
Cue Homer Simpson as the perfect cautionary tale. Remember the episode where Homer recalls himself as a suave, witty party host? “I must get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini,” he says in his charming fantasy. But reality? Oh, Marge remembers him as a sloppy, drunken idiot with a lampshade on his head. That, folks, is memory distortion in action.
Seth, never one to miss an opportunity for a zinger, wonders if this is about memory or just the effects of alcohol. LeeAnna pragmatically diagnoses it as dissociative amnesia, otherwise known as “three glasses of champagne and a blackout.”
The lesson for writers? Your characters’ memories are always going to be skewed by their sense of identity. Homer thought he was charming. Your characters will have their own skewed memories, whether they paint themselves as heroes or lifelong victims. Either way, if all your characters remember things perfectly, congratulations—you’re doing it wrong.
Let’s please please wrap this up, gang
Tim’s last point? If you’re writing stereotypical, cartoonish characters, you’ll likely lose steam halfway through writing your novel. Writing is hard work, but if your characters are nuanced and layered, the process becomes more exciting—and you’re more likely to finish it successfully. Seth agrees, saying that fiction becomes “alive” when it reflects universal truths about the human condition.
At that point, your work transcends fiction and becomes a mirror of the world we all live in. And that, folks, is when you know you’ve written something that’s more than just words on a page.
The Snark :/
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