While I’m still slogging away at NaNoWriMo (and about now it DOES feel like a “slog”)…I’m also trying to get through the last of this semester’s course work and final papers, etc. As a Ph.D. student with more than one Master’s Degree behind me (I have 4 if you’re counting), I’ve learned to separate “emotional” responses from “critical” responses. Despite this ability, since 2012 when I was first diagnosed with PTSD, one of the struggles I’ve had is responding “appropriately” to images, sounds, and texts. In other words, when I see violence, I “over” react. But what does this actually mean? This week’s reading for a course I’m taking on the history of documentary photography – Susie Linfield’s “Cruel Radiance” – focuses on images of “political violence” and responses – critical and personal – to these images. It’s rare that my academic reading aligns with specific “real life” events but reading critical discussion of how “we” should respond to images of human suffering while the events in Paris unfolded was both apt and also, incredibly difficult. To be clear – my suffering is not as “personal” as that experienced by those who lost loved ones or were direct witnesses to the Paris attacks (or those in Lebanon) – I’m not claiming that. One of the worst symptoms of PTSD is the way it makes it difficult, if not impossible, to view violence and achieve that distance necessary to “process” it. But is this really what we should be doing? I don’t want to feel the debilitating pain that I feel when I view new footage, photographs or read about human suffering (torture, war, famine, etc.) but I also agree with Linfield that we have an ethical obligation NOT to turn away. But how do I get past the feeling of shock and helplessness such viewing causes? How do I process these images (or in the case of my class assignment – write an “appropriate” response paper to an academic text) without internalizing the fear and despair I feel at witnessing the suffering of others. Linfield suggests that it is through the viewing of images of suffering that we become inspired to be active in human rights efforts. But for those of us who suffer from PTSD and who don’t have the “proper” filters for viewing such images, is it ethically wrong to turn away? How can we learn to empathize without descending into the deadly cycle of flashback-anxiety-hopelessness that PTSD can cause? No answers here, just questions.
It’s Day 11 of NaNoWriMo and although I’m in the midst of one of the busiest times at my day job and in my semester, I’ve still managed to crank out over 13,000 words so far. What my main character is up to I’m still not sure but I’ll let her do what she wants and hope it all turns out. Currently there are two main story lines going: some formative event(s) from the main character’s past and what is apparently either a story about a woman going slowly mad or more likely, some kind of haunting (?). Also, yellow roses appear to be a big problem for her. This is the first time in a while that I’ve written with a female protagonist throughout. It feels odd but as she’s different from me, it’s interesting to find out how she feels/thinks/acts. As to the writing process itself, it’s very difficult (impossible?) for me to find periods of concentrated writing so, instead, I’ve been writing whenever and wherever I can. I just wrote 300 words on my lunch break at work – not much but it introduced an important plot point. Last night, I was stuck on a NJ Transit train that was 30 minutes late pulling in to Penn Station and that gave me well over an hour of writing time. I’ve never been precious about where I write although, of course, I prefer my desk at home. I write on a small pad of paper when I don’t have my laptop with me and on my laptop when I have it. I have a couple of long flights coming up and those are always good for getting writing done. I don’t understand writers who need a specific “atmosphere” to write – I’m just too busy to be so precious about my writing space. As long as I have my iPod and a few spare minutes, I’ll be writing. However, there is one aspect of my life that suffers during NaNoWriMo and that’s my daily poems. I wrote a short poem today but otherwise, I’m not able to stick to my daily schedule. I’m hoping to be at 25,000 this weekend in anticipation of some major academic work that needs to get done over the next four weeks. Meanwhile, what IS it about yellow roses?
So every year I participate in NaNoWrimo (National Novel Writing Month) and every year I finish the 50,000 words required. Most years, I wait until Thanksgiving Week and then I pound through the word count, breathlessly finishing by 11.59 on 11.30. In the past, I’ve usually just sat done and written whatever story was in my head at the time and it all seemed to connect eventually. Often, it’s a character’s voice demanding to be heard. Sometimes, it’s a place or a moment or a line of dialogue but I’ve never written with a plan or a central conflict or a list of pre-created characters.
This year, I decided to be a sane human about things. In the few days prior to Nov. 1st, I wrote an outline. I thought about characters. I thought about place and conflict and all the other things that go into writing. And yesterday, once I’d finished my reading for class tomorrow night, and making a pot of soup, and feeding the cat, and cleaning the apartment and putting the clean laundry away and checking my email…I turned off my phone, sat down and started to write. At some point, I realized it was time to stand up and stretch and go to bed. It wasn’t that much writing – only about 2,000 words – but it was a start. And it was NOTHING like my outline, nothing like the rough plot or characters I’d thought about. Currently, I’ve left one character downstairs fetching luggage while another character sits in a bedroom in an old house she hasn’t seen since childhood. Outside a storm is raging and, of course, the power’s just gone out. No idea what happens next. I guess I’ll have to wait until tonight to find out. And for me, that’s half the joy of writing – letting the story tell itself without being forced to follow an outline, without putting limitations on characters, and without knowing what’s going to happen next.