The heart of man is very much like the sea, it has its storms, it has its tides and in its depths it has its pearls too” – Vincent van Gogh
There’s no escaping the fear and fury these days. It echoes in every news report and flashes in the eyes of neighbors, our faces masked as we scurry about our strange new lives. From our DC condo, we sometimes hear downtown protest chants and helicopters zipping across the night sky. Two weeks back, we felt the stun grenades as forces cleared Lafayette Park several blocks to our south. Given all this and more, I suppose it’s no surprise that I’ve found myself thinking a great deal about trauma. With my work in progress nearly stalled, I’ve taken to crafting brief scenes, short stories, and snippets of dialog for story ideas that may never take shape. But no matter the format, inevitably the emotions captured are tumultuous, erupting from tightly wound characters longing to be heard, needing to be loved. Indeed, they are like the cries of damaged souls, individuals gripped by trauma.
One benefit of the exercises is they have given me a means to consider how injuries and injustices shape individuals, both in fiction and in real life. Along the way, I’ve also reflected upon my first novel, pondering what drew me to the story of a shell-shocked youth returning home from WWI. From the start, I considered it a coming of age tale, and at its heart it is precisely that. To my credit, I hit those marks well – the urgency to find one’s path, the hesitancy of first love, the bristling to break free. And yet, I wonder now, with the benefit of hindsight, if perhaps my protagonist’s wartime trauma, while present in parts, could have been more integrated on the whole. Perhaps I treaded too gingerly, rather than leaning into his painful battle experiences.
All of which has led me to some realizations, as well as ideas for developing characters coping with trauma. The following are ways I plan to approach my future works, regardless of whether the traumas within my characters drive the entire narrative or serve instead as threads within the underlying fabric.
Readings and Research
As you all know, writing fiction involves continual research. To craft a convincing historical fiction, I perused old train timetables, studied troop movements, and read countless wartime accounts from both stateside and abroad. And though the research topics vary, the same is true of other genres as well. Science fiction invariably relies upon a knowledge of existing technologies as a basis to imagine future ones. Even the wildest fantasy tales often have a basis in or make reference to existing mythologies.
While stitching together character backstories for my future writings, I intend to consider more fully the kinds of traumas, both large and small, that may have shaped them. Online resources are readily available. One I found in preparing for this post is a collection of materials provided by the National Center on Domestic Violence, Trauma and Mental Health. The point is not to create a color-by-number recipe for character behavior; I doubt that is even possible (and sounds horribly unimaginative). Rather, the idea is to identify and better understand the influences that may have shaped them. Think of it as giving your creative subconscious more information from which to draw. As an example, I was fortunate to have both of my parents in my life throughout my childhood. But if my character in a new story has lost a parent, then I should take some time to learn how such a loss might change a family dynamic or might impact how the character approaches relationships as an adult. It is simply another window into the mind of your character, another crayon with which to color them.
Personal Interviews
Of course, research doesn’t have to be a solitary mission. Perhaps you know someone who has experienced the same type of trauma as your character. I once interviewed a woman who organized political campaigns to better understand what all was involved and how it felt to travel into a battleground state to set up a get-out-the-vote operation. Depending on how personal the issue, and the level of trust, one could do the same to discuss traumas. In the case of a child losing a parent, I could talk to childhood friends. Even just a kernel from a conversation might change insights into my own character, fleshing them out a bit better.
For subjects that might prove too difficult to broach, professional resources may also be available. Just as crime writers often develop sources, you might want to seek out a resource to discuss the challenges, for example, of adults victimized as children.
Look within Yourself (Trust your Instincts)
Neither of the above suggestions is intended to replace instinct. As writers, we tend to possess keen observational skills and abundant empathy for the human condition. Moreover, we have a lifetime of our own experiences. We all carry bruises. They may not be the same, and some cuts are deeper than others. But characters come from our imaginations, and that irreplaceable instinct is a great compiler of experience and observation. Likewise, trauma doesn’t exhibit itself the same for every individual. I have great faith that, in due time, characters show you what you need to see of them.
But a bit more knowledge and reflection about trauma, outside the busy work of crafting the plot, settings and scenes, may help you to develop deeper layers and greater subtleties in your characters.
What do you think? Have any of your characters experienced a trauma that required extra research on your part? Are you consciously aware of the traumas of your characters, or are they simply understood? Do any particular stories stand out for you as an example where an author displayed keen insights on a character coping with trauma? If so, please share your thoughts in the comments — I look forward to hearing them.
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About John J Kelley
John J Kelley crafts tales of individuals at a crossroads, exploring themes of growth, reconciliation and community. His debut novel, The Fallen Snow, about a young soldier’s homecoming at the close of WWI, received a Publishers Weekly starred review and earned an Honorable Mention nod at the 2012 Foreword Reviews Book-of-the-Year Awards. Born and raised in the Florida panhandle, John graduated from Virginia Tech and for a time served as a military officer. Today he lives with his partner in Washington, DC.
My first novel has a protagonist who suffered a lot of trauma in his past. Not only did it affect the story itself, his guarded perspective even controlled how I was allowed to tell the story. His story comes from a combination of my own personal witness, sympathies and empathy, research, and interviews, topped off by my own (apparently) sadistic imagination.
Oh my goodness, Lynette. I knew exactly what you mean about the condition of your protagonist controlling how you could tell his story.
That was precisely the situation of my protagonist, a young man returning home who is locked off emotionally and burdened by a secret. In my case, the story really was of his attempts to overcome, or at least to start the process of finding his own direction again, rather than to succumb to what others expect of him.
Was your story centered on your traumatized protagonist as well?
The story is indirectly because of his trauma, but mainly because his cause-and-affect logic is so warped. When someone is living in denial so they can’t react to life in normal ways, almost everything they do or say is a lie.
“When someone is living in denial so they can’t react to life in normal ways, almost everything they do or say is a lie.”
Well said, and provides a solid basis for a compelling read. Feels timely too, given the angst and denial of our current situation.
In my forever-novel, a child is raped. And it is how that experience affects my MC (and of course how it has changed the victim’s life) that is the heart of the story. My MC is driven to help and care for others, believing that if she had run to discover the reason for a child’s screams, she could have changed an entire series of events. It’s a metaphor for the road not taken, which many of us have in our pasts. I read Bruno Bettelheim, a child psychologist, to try to understand how a child might grow up with this cloud of anger, fear and mistrust. Your sections of The Fallen Snow that dealt with the experience of war presented trauma in all its brutality. It’s life. It’s in the news, in film, in personal stories. And so we write. Thanks, John.
Thank you, Beth, for the observation on your own novel and your efforts to get it right. Yours sounds like a gripping and painful story, one that I’m sure is difficult to write at times as well.
Thanks, too, for the comments on my own. As I said, I think I got many things right. WWI was just such an atrocious war, and I know I could have described the battle scenes more savagely and starkly if I had chosen. It was a conscious decision at the time not to go too far with that, fearing it would deviate from his personal journey. I’m not one to look back, but these days my mind wanders. Ultimately, I suspect it is more of a recognition that I’m in a different place now, figuring out what my voice is now as I regroup on a new story.
At any rate, thanks. And I do hope your progress is sure and steady as your story comes together. Write On!
A big thank you, John — all your insight here is helpful. My current writing endeavor (a trilogy of historical fiction) centers on someone who in childhood never knew the identity of his parents or his ethnicity. Only on the threshold of manhood did he discover that nearly all the adults he’d trusted most had schemed to prevent his knowing these things (and much more), and that the man he respected most had schemed to further his own selfish aims by essentially selling the boy into servitude to a despicable but powerful enemy. Nothing at all like my own childhood, so I’ve been trying to comprehend the likely lasting impact of all this in the young man’s adulthood. It has been a huge challenge. Your words encourage me to continue seeking to make the most of “irreplaceable instinct” but also to keep searching for additional perspectives, observations, and careful findings from those who better understand similar trauma.
Starting on a lighter note, it is good to hear your story doesn’t reflect your own upbringing … hey, we have to find laughter where we can these days.
As for your trilogy, it sounds fascinating. Be assured that, as you well know, writers have always written difficult stories about characters with vastly different experiences than themselves. Half the battle, I believe, is being cognizant of the long-term effects of some traumas and learning more about how they can alter perspectives, motivations and relationships. Sounds as if you are very much on the right path on your (daunting) work in progress.
John, what a richness you offer. I especially appreciate the way you have thought through your first novel and come up with new and different ways to approach your next — all without beating yourself up, but in a useful reflective mode.
The traumas my characters have experienced? These people are waiting not-so-patiently behind my NF WIP, and their story keeps bubbling away. All of them, I realized long after meeting them, have lost something and are trying to make up for their losses; some constructively, some not. One was a nameless orphan, who grew up to take what he could get by any means possible. One lost her home, family, and culture by fire and finds partial refuge in her art. One is a young man whose father had to sell his ancestral land; he is stubbornly working to earn enough to buy it back while his father is still alive. One is a fading adjunct professor, chasing after tenure, which continues to elude him. All come together in an expedition that may or may not fill the holes in their lives.
To what extent is any of this personal? I’ve never been a professor but have known plenty. I did sell land, but it wasn’t ancestral. No fires burned any of my dearest; nevertheless, I have the most in common with the artist and have to be careful to let her be herself. The grasping grown orphan? Not me, surely, but heedful of Solzhenitsyn’s admonition about the line between good and evil cutting through every human heart, I don’t have to look far to go into that guy’s depths.
If I don’t stop now, my NF WIP will suffer….thanks, John.
Don’t stop! This is a perfect example of the story coming from within you, or through you as some believe.
I trust in the craft of writing, the work and the planning. I’m kind of a hybrid pantser & plotter. But I do believe a lot of the jumping off points and scenes that hit upon truth stem from leaps of faith. And I think there is some therapy involved, for some of us who write.
Regarding loss, it wasn’t until I had nearly completed my first novel draft that it struck me that nearly every character was haunted, on some level, by a personal loss – a parent, a friend, a brother, a lover. I had not set out with that intent, and most were not a primary focus (though one loss was key to the entire tale). But others were simply woven into the character backstories. I wasn’t bothered at all by it; in fact it gave me a chills when I realized it. For me it meant a theme was there, that all my conscious and subconscious meditations on the story were getting at something, leaving strands I could work on during the revising process.
Oh, and I do love the Solzhenistyn caution. I feel we’re all more keenly aware of that these days. I know I am when I look at myself and within myself. If a time ever called for self-reflection, this is it.
I do hope your story comes together. It sounds positively gothic from your hinting synopsis :).
Hi, John:
Important topic, thank you. In THE COMPASS OF CHARACTER, I provide the following two examples from fiction of how trauma has radically affected a character’s life. I think they echo and bear out your points well. Thanks for the thought-provoking post:
In his non-fiction collection Paper Trails, Pete Dexter opens with the story of a man on whose rural property a cat bears a litter of kittens. The man is obliged to watch as a large hawk perched in the pines across the road picks off the kittens one by one. After the last is taken, the mother cat comes up to the man and rears up on her back legs as though to ask for her kitten back. He shows her his empty hands to let her know he doesn’t have it, then turns away, and when he does his shadow crosses the cat, and the animal cringes. The image haunts him that night in bed:
“The man had lost things that mattered before, and he knew what it was to cringe at sudden shadows, the ones that just drop on you out of the sky.”
In his short story “Lobster Night,” Russell Banks tells of a skier named Stacy who’d once had Olympic ambitions, but saw them vanish one night when she was struck by lightning at age seventeen. She felt like she’d been shot in the head, and though she’s tried to put the episode behind her all she has to do is the say the word “lightning” and it comes back with agonizing vividness, along with the fear that it might happen again.
“The only people who say lightning never strikes twice in the same place have never been struck once.”
Thank you, David! Those are excellent examples, and both haunting in their own right.
I have your book The Art of Character, which I love; but had not yet purchased The Compass of Character. In addition to fitting well with today’s topic, it sounds like an excellent companion to your first exploration of craft. I’m so glad you’ve produced another!
Be well, and write on!
I chose to rewrite a myth I’d only seen in ‘third person remote’ from the points of view of the protagonist and those who lived it with him.
He was injured at birth and his life was a struggle, first to walk, then to rise above dismissal from those around him as a ‘useless cripple’ then to distinguish himself physically in order to participate at the level he wanted, and finally to deal with a heritage that condemned him as a monster.
I didn’t do much with the trauma except to use it as something he had to overcome if he were to realize his dreams. He didn’t know anything but struggle, so he felt his doubts and fears swallowed them and tried again, beyond condemnation to redemption and peace at last. As far as I know he’s never been presented that way before.
Recognizing the scope and ramifications of his trauma really fueled much of the story. I hope I did it justice.
I saw this comment last night when I was climbing into bed, utterly exhausted; but knew I was too sleepy to absorb it. I’m glad I waited.
Your idea for reimagining the myth sounds promising, and you clearly have a good handle on what you want to do with it. One of the best unexpected compliments I received from an established author on my then-partial work in progress was that I clearly knew my story from the inside out. Nowadays I realize what a blessing that was in a way I didn’t fully appreciate at the time.
The way you describe it shows that you very much understand the underlying difficulties and traumas dealt to your driven hero. That’s half the battle, I think, or even two-thirds. Sounds like you have it well in hand.
Good luck with pulling it together and getting it out there. Might make for an interesting screenplay too, given the new perspective.
This post holds a special interest for me because my WIP is the life story of a real person. He is a Liberian man who, with his growing young family, survived the almost-13-year Liberian civil war (1989-2003).
He told me about horrors he witnessed and the danger, hardship and deprivation he and his family personally experienced. His delivery was low-key, only occasionally saying something like “It was very terrible.” I asked him to describe his visceral reactions when, say, a rebel shoved an automatic rifle into his chest. He did, but I still have a hard time getting my head around the reality of the trauma he endured.