Yesterday we harvested our first honey. It tastes like flowers: clover, delphinium, Queen Anne’s lace? A hint of hydrangea? A splash of zinnia? Rugosa rose? It has a bouquet like fine wine, hard to describe, subtle, specific, unlike anything store-bought, our bees’ unique digestion of their surroundings. Are writers like these busy workers created to suck the nectar from their circumstances and produce food for thought? As I scribble, a striped visitor buzzes the lip of my teacup laced perhaps with its own elixir. Oh, to capture life’s sweetness, like a bee, with wild words.
The more specific a story, the more universal. I love memoir because it's willing to face the truth. No matter the topic, if it's true, it reveals what needs to be known by both author and reader.