At my daughter’s basketball practice, I had an enlightening chat with one of the other coaches. He mentioned that he was closing in on his 40th birthday. I realized that put him 10 years behind me. It was a startling thought, and I began to wonder what films and other stories had made an impact on him.
“You were born in 1986,” I said. Then I thought about it and added, “Well that means you missed everything!”
He laughed and said, “That’s what they tell me.”
Glorious anticipation
I grew up in the era of Star Wars. I remember eagerly awaiting the release of The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. I lived multiple lifetimes between each installment. Remember how difficult it was to wait a week when you were younger than 10? I had to wait years.
My fellow coach never had to experience that. He had the opportunity to watch all three Star Wars films in a row on some lazy Sunday morning. He didn’t have the chance to sit and speculate and reenact sequences at recess because the only Star Wars you could watch was in your imagination.
Even now, when I watch those films, I remember the color of the jackets my friends used to wear, and the fuzziness of their mittens. I remember pretending to evade Stormtroopers in the gravel pit. I remember my Empire Strikes Back lunchbox with Yoda on the thermos.
If you were born in 1986, you didn’t get to experience any of that. I realized with astonishment that I’m incapable of separating those memories from the film.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Back to the Future and Goonies both came out in 1985. Even now I can visualize the camera floating through the eye of the giant pirate skull. Can you? Could my fellow coach?
“What were the most impactful shows of your youth?” I asked.
I suppose it says something about the difference between us that he had to pause and think about it. Finally, he said, “Whenever I meet new people, I ask them who their favorite ninja turtle is.”
“Michelangelo,” I said instantly.
“Me too! That means we can be friends!”
I always liked the ninja turtles, but they seemed to be a poor substitute to growing up on Star Wars. Then again, that’s the nostalgia talking.
The era of newsprint comics
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that many of the things that seemed important to me when I was young were really of no consequence at all. The lingering good feeling I get from certain movies and shows is not from the object itself, but from the sense of nostalgia they evoke.
The first Calvin and Hobbes strip came out in November of 1985. I remember reading it in the paper and instantly recognizing it was something special. The artwork and the use of watercolor for the Sunday strips was particularly captivating. To this day, I still read Calvin and Hobbes to my children every night.
I realize that my children are collecting nostalgia from that strip as well, but it’s not the same as my experience. I remember turning to the funnies page in the paper in the morning as I ate my cereal. That was a nice way to start the day. I remember meeting my friends in the playground and sharing our first laugh retelling the joke from The Far Side or Bloom County.
Today, when I go through Calvin and Hobbes it brings all those memories back. There are a few panels that were the favorites of my grandpa, and I always think of him when I read them again.
I find it lovely that my children will have their own nostalgia when it comes to Calvin and Hobbes. They’ll remember me reading it to them, and they’ve already said they plan to read it to their own children. Even though the nostalgia is handed down, it’s never quite the same.
Films from a decade abroad
If I take the time to discuss things I remember from reading a book or watching a film, that nostalgia might live on with the people I tell.
The power of nostalgia is not something I might have recognized if I hadn’t spent my adult life contemplating texts and crafting stories of my own. Today, we have the advantage of streaming services that make all the old classics available at the touch of a button.
I can scroll through the titles and see patterns emerge. I find myself gravitating not so much to stories, but to eras of nostalgia. For example, from 2000 to 2009, I lived in Lima, Peru. One of my great joys during that time was to listen to English for a few hours during the pleasant escape of a film.
The movie theater was inexpensive, so I went to almost every new release. Today, when I rewatch any film from that decade, the experience brings back memories from my life in Peru.
There are bad films that I remember fondly because they were some of the first dates I shared with the woman who would become my wife. How we interpret anything is constantly measured through the lens of our emotions at the time of viewing. We can watch something excellent during a bad time and conclude it’s terrible. We can watch something terrible when we’re falling in love and think it’s grand.
In many cases, the nostalgia is more important than the story itself.
Stories gather nostalgia like a stone gathers moss
When a story is newly born, it has no nostalgia. It’s a fresh thing that’s measured by its merits alone. But once you send that story out in into the world, it becomes a nostalgia magnet.
Memories and feelings become associated with every story even when they have nothing to do with the story itself. You cannot observe a story without changing both the story and yourself.
As storytellers, it’s our obligation to at least recognize the extent to which nostalgia influences every narrative. Sometimes it’s unfair, but sometimes the accumulation of nostalgia can be a powerful thing.
Nostalgia is the raw material for inspiration
On more than one occasion, I’ve tried to share a book or film with somebody only to discover it did not live up to my expectations. In those moments, I realized my memories meant more than the story itself.
It might seem like a cause for sadness when other people can’t see what captivates you, but nothing could be further from the truth. Your emotions are real. If nobody else can perceive them, then that represents an opportunity.
When that happens, I gather up all the positive feelings and I try to convey them without being limited by the old story. A new story arises from the old. It’s like tilling up a crop and planting seeds in the fertile soil of creativity. The cycle of nostalgia and rebirth continues.
If you can take your emotions and repackage them into something new, then you’ve completed a glorious cycle. Perhaps the next kid that reads your work will improve it with her own experiences on the way to creating something even better.
The moss a stone gathers transforms into a larger stone. In this way, our delight and our emotions become fused with the essence of an ever growing narrative.
You all make this newsletter happen! Thanks for your sponsorship! I have payment tiers starting at as little as twenty dollars a year.
I’m so happy you’re here, and I’m looking forward to sharing more thoughts with you tomorrow.
My CoSchedule referral link
Here’s my referral link to my preferred headline analyzer tool. If you sign up through this, it’s another way to support this newsletter (thank you).
I'd Rather Be Writing is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
