Ideas occur to me at the most inopportune moments. I am driving my car for the ten-thousandth time down I-95 to the Mamaroneck Avenue exit on my way to the city. I am loading or unloading the dishwasher, or worse, sudsing a pot with my hands full of Brillo. I am power-walking with weights, far from pencils, paper or computer.
I have learned, sadly, that I can't rely on my failing memory to retain these gems. If I'm in the house, anywhere near a pad and pencil, or on the street or in a store with my purse on my shoulder, I can stop and jot the idea down in the little red notebook stored in my bag. Somehow the act of writing it down cements the idea in my head, even if I never look at the note again. But when I'm driving, I can't write it down. I've taken to repeating out loud, over and over again, whatever it is I am trying to remember: "Max sees a photo of his sister Frieda's wedding and remembers;" "Sarah's red hair is from her grandmother Ruby." I say it several times and hope it sticks until I am somewhere safe to write it down in my red book.
But it's amazing how even then, I reach my destination and the brilliant nugget has drifted out of my head. I have completely forgotten it--until I am lying in bed in a half awake state, just before drifting off to sleep. Then I battle with myself: get up and jot it down on the pad on my bedside table, or fall asleep with the half formed idea in my head believing I will remember it in the morning. Usually, if I don't write it down, it is gone forever. In the battle between an act of discipline and an act of faith, I know which one works better every time.
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