All About The Senses

I have always been all about the senses.

When I think about a place I have visited, I don't always remember what it looked like first. Sometimes I remember the smell. Sometimes it is a sound. And if I ate something fabulous while I was there, there is a very good chance I will remember the food before I remember exactly where I was when I ate it.

For me, experiencing a place has never been only about what I can see.

It is the smell of something baking when you walk through a door. The sound of water hitting the shore. The feel of the sun on your face or the crunch of leaves beneath your feet. It is a flavor that somehow takes you right back to a particular moment, even years later.

I think that is why I write with my senses too.

When I create a scene, I don't only think about what my characters see when they look out the window. I wonder what they hear. What does the room smell like? Is it warm or chilly? Is there something cooking nearby? What tiny sensory detail will make that moment feel real?

I have done the same thing throughout my Annie the Porcupine books. There is the perfect carrot cake, of course. There are the sights, sounds, and experiences of a day at the park. But in Annie's latest story, there is one small detail that I especially love.

Her mom always smells like dandelion tea.

It isn't a grand description. It isn't necessarily the most important thing happening in the scene. But to Annie, that smell is Mom. And isn't that how memories often work?

We don't always get to choose what our minds tuck away. Years later, it might not be the beautiful view that suddenly brings a memory rushing back. It might be the smell of a cup of tea. A song playing somewhere in the distance. The taste of a piece of cake. The feeling of grass beneath our feet.

Suddenly, we aren't just remembering the moment. We are there again.

Maybe that is what I am always searching for when I try something new or visit somewhere new. I don't just want to see it. I want to experience enough of it that some little piece stays tucked away in my senses.

A smell. A sound. A taste. A feeling.

Something that, years from now, might unexpectedly whisper, Remember this?

And I will.

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