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Mar 16, 2023·edited Mar 16, 2023Liked by J. M. Elliott

This was an absolutely fascinating read! I found your description of hallucinatory scents extraordinary (and disturbing, actually).

My husband doesn't have a sense of smell - he lost it around five years ago - and now he finds that he's missing out on flavours. I'm not making light of it at all - I'd hate to lost my sense of smell, or to have my sense of taste dulled - but it does mean that I can be much more generous in the kitchen in my use of seasonings and flavours that he didn't used to enjoy (think mustard, vinegar, ginger, lemon), and we're both equally enjoying what we eat.

I'm in awe of how beautifully you describe scents and the feelings associated with them in your writing - I had NO CLUE about your anosmia from reading your beautiful work.

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I enjoyed this deep dive into the sense of smell in writing. I can sympathize with you and think it's awesome you've found ways to convey scents and aromas in your writing. I bit through my tongue as a toddler and it severely limited my sense of taste as I aged. I still have a hard time eating several types of foods because they are just a non-descript bland when I eat them. I end up gravitating to foods that have stronger seasoning because they're easier for me. to taste and enjoy.

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This was so interesting and I can sympathize, but from a slightly different angle. I think what you argue can apply to “inner” senses as well. I spent much of my childhood incapable of picking up on certain vital social queues and this caused me a lot of anxiety and depression, like getting mocked and not really understanding why I was being mocked; and frankly much of it was (in retrospect) behavioral tics I had that were off-putting, but not matter how articulately people conveyed these things to me, I didn’t understand what they were saying because my tics were as natural to me as breathing. For example, lecturing adults on some topic that interested me and continuing to do so, even when they walked out of the room, got into their cars, or told me to shut up. I would just keep rambling because I literally couldn’t understand why they were interrupting me.

I overcame this by teaching myself through very close readings, often brief passages or sections in longer works, how characters were interacting with other people and what was going on in their minds while they were doing it. I could watch these reactions on a TV program but they didn’t explain the whys, and, since I’m a good mimic, I could memorize responses and replicate the behavior of the actors, but I still couldn’t figure out why they had moved them to act that way. Really good authors are adept at exploring these kinds of things, and I believe the neural pathways were eventually built up (partially through an act of will on my part). At first it was merely a recognition of patterns of markers that I conditioned myself to recognize, and then later I think I was able to build genuine emotions to go with the new wiring. I still don’t experience certain common emotions the way others do, but I’ve managed to create some sophistic programming that has enabled me to experience these sensations at an abstract level. So your remarks about writing about senses you don’t have resonates with me at a certain level.

And for what it’s worth, your lack of smell has not detracted in any way from the vivid sensations you describe in your novel. 😊

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Brilliant reflection, Jacquie. Learnt so much. Echo Rebecca - makes your fiction even more impressive.

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Wow, this was a really interesting take on your condition and our relationship as writers to the world around us. Well done. Thank you for sharing and upcycling!

On the flip side, I have an extremely strong sense of smell. My wife and I joke that I could be one of those professional sniffers. I think I would choose sniffing coffee or wine before armpits, though.

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