Writing Therapy

When writing the first draft for the third book of my current series, I revisited a long-term trauma of childhood to pass to a character; not to solve it, not to unearth the skin-crawling details, but to work with a theme I didn't need to research. It was a challenge that was both intellectually lazy and emotionally heavy. I wasn't sure I'd be able to integrate it. For one, some traumas create blind spots and bewilderment that can be difficult to make coherent for others. Then there was the fact that the character was distinct from me so I had to think of how her circumstances would alter how she reacts and copes.

So the part about therapy shining a light towards healing wasn't a myth. There was a euphoria in the Eureka moment, a high in both understanding what happened to me and being able to sympathize with her for the differences that didn't belong to me. Yet the happily ever after isn't realistic and, once I moved on from it, a familiar dread crept in. The bright light on the other side of the door dimmed and it creaked shut slowly, with me on the other side.a sense of dread settled in--that this was a draft I'd have to revisit, to refine later, brought in a different sort of vulnerability. Would I be able to add to her story or would I sand away the rough edges to comfort myself?

I like to think I'll tackle it with stoicism and evoke the raw emotion, but writing from a place of vulnerability means that I've created a place I'll either be cold or hot to and extremes are murky places I often try to avoid. The writer in me knows that this is just one part of a story and not even at its core. It has to be important to that story, but how much honesty or detail is interesting or evocative? While that's my burden to decide, I am keenly aware that the person who discovered the insight was not preparing for the person who needs to refine it.

It's likely that I'll find the solution, that I'll create the distance once more while preserving the raw emotion. Yet to say I'm not apprehensive, well, plans always tend to create an anxiety, but one that usually melts away once I resist the urge to flee or procrastinate.

One thing is certain--I'm not at all new to the vulnerability of a bald confession of my own life story. Real life apathy or criticism or disbelief is not virgin territory. Yet I've never padded it through fiction quite like this. Whether or not that should make it easier is moot. What exists is an approach I haven't tested and that is the playground for the apprehension. No, I'm not going to take criticism of her character personally, but I also don't know how to be her champion.

Does a strong woman need a champion? Yes. Everyone needs one sometimes. I can't say that having to defend myself was always ideal. Always being defended is not better. Expecting people to read my mind is ridiculous. So there is no ideal situation yet, like most situations, being wholly unprepared is foolish. What I am certain of is that I don't want to pretend her story wasn't heavy. No matter how much I distance myself from the story, it would be an injustice to be flippant of the gift I give to my characters. Even though I bled for the words, I healed through the words, but the wounds don't just vanish. They are the scars that ache when it rains and they will always carry that weight.

Perhaps that's why I enjoy having the print copies. Attributing the weight of my work to an actual physical weight seems to mentally cement the journey I once took, the sacrifices I made, the joys of the craft as well. Even when the epiphanies fade, the residual magic tingles in my hand when I hold the paper and ink. Those lives I visited flash through my mind and I feel a genuine pull of satisfaction at the corners of my mouth.

Mostly one corner. I'm a bit of a smirker.