When someone has stolen the bright colours from your palette, do you paint with what is left? Does smearing your greys and blacks onto a canvas help anyone, but you?
Before a few months ago, I could access the hurt, the pain, the fear, and I could pour it into fiction, even the worst of all the bad things that happened- watching my mother’s breath being switched off, hearing the silence after and knowing that space would never be filled again, I could put it into a novel, a story about a woman that wasn’t me, despite the obvious similarities. I could put all the bad that has happened, that has been done to me, that I have done, and make my characters do the same, and watch karma pay it all back by the end of the book.
What could be worse than losing your dearest loved ones? Losing yourself? Your belief in love and goodness and karma, in the idea that everything will be all right in the end. I am not an overly religious person despite, or probably because of, having a priest as a father. I don’t believe in the organisation of faith. I believed that if we figure out what we really want from life, we can paint that into existence. And I did, and still to a certain extent, believe that there must be more than what is visible. I was sitting in a church a few days ago, a stopgap, a quiet place to wait for an interview that could change my future, and I felt the heaviness of silence and asked the question that weighed heaviest on my mind in that moment. “What decision do I make, what path is the right one?” The one that doesn’t lead me to fall off a cliff. Because my previous decisions have left me stranded at the bottom, broken and unable to take more than a few steps in any direction, unsure whether there are more cliff edges to come and where they are.
The unsettling answer I got back very clearly was that there was no pre-ordained path. That I write my life myself in every moment. That I could choose security or adventure. That nothing is written anywhere that says I will not fall off the cliff again. Nothing is written that says I will not feel that betrayal, that hurt, that absolute depth of pain that comes when you place your foot on what appears to be solid ground and out of nowhere there is nothing but an abyss, into which you fall mostly bewildered, until the ground that was solid and firm beneath you is now actually the hard surface against which you smash and break.
I broke my ankle about ten years ago during a simple soccer training session. Training that I had been doing for years, every week, twice a week. Until that day when I took a step forward to stop the ball with my right foot and my left foot got lost, leaving me with only a round moving object to provide balance. Before that, I belonged to a world where a fracture was a theoretical concept. I was brave, I thought proudly, I would make any tackle, put my head in the way, save a goal from going in against my team, but this wasn’t a heroic goal-saving ‘worthy’ moment, this was an innocent, ‘whistle as you walk’ ordinary moment. When my ankle fractured, when all everyone on the training pitch could hear was the sound of bone breaking, ligaments tearing, muscles ripping, as a foot swung in ways it was never designed to do, in that ordinary moment, something more fractured, more than just a tibia and a fibula. Belief in the physical fractured. The belief that nothing so bad, so painful, so awful, could happen to your body in those ordinary moments of life. Not when you were not prepared. And certainly not when you were careful. Not when there was no use, no purpose for the pain.
Before my ankle fractured, I used to dance freely, with rhythm. I used to be able to pick up any sport and play it pretty well almost immediately, which I’m sure was annoying to others, but it gave me a sense of confidence, in my world, in my body. The broken ankle was patched up and bolstered with a titanium plate which is strong I have no doubt, but now I do have doubt in my bones, my muscles, my ligaments, my body. I dance awkwardly now. With fear. I still have rhythm, an inbuilt memory of the movements, but no grace, no confidence, no laughter in those movements.
When everything, and I mean everything, went wrong a few years ago, it was slow coming. I could see the cliff edge approaching, could prepare my mind and body, could distance myself and watch as loss after loss buffeted me. And after, I could collect the pieces and even on that lonely beach at the bottom of the cliff, I could still marvel at the spark off a rock, the glint of light off the waves, something to brighten my moments and possibly a laugh or a smile to brighten the moments of others. I wrote my novels and included the darkness, but also the light because I still had an open heart, a childlike innocence because I believed that there was a purpose, a light, a love waiting for me. That for someone somewhere I would be enough, more than enough, that we would blend the colours that would make our lives shine truer and deeper, that there would be someone I wouldn’t lose and who would not want to lose me.
But instead something happened a few months ago. My mind was fractured. There are no visible bruises and only I heard the sound of breaking. It was not the heartbreak to which I have grown accustomed at the end of relationships. Not the well-worn track that I know and can adjust my gait, my movements, my expectations. I loved someone who I believed with everything inside me to be my soulmate, who used the dreams I showed her to portray herself as everything I wanted in my life, who made me believe that everything I had wished for could come true. Maybe I was a fool to believe, maybe I was vulnerable clinging on to the wreckage on that beach, fighting against being drawn out into the sea, of drowning. I had built a life raft from the pieces of my life and she offered me a safe haven designed to protect us. When I discovered that it was all fiction, that she did not even exist except in that fiction, something snapped in my mind. A mind walking along in the innocent belief in the ‘ordinary’ truth, that things are what they are, suddenly had no ground beneath it.
And now, my mind cannot dance anymore. It is awkward and shy, without grace, without confidence. It peeps out, makes a half-hearted attempt, and then crawls back inside. There are no visible scars, no crutches, no few months of ‘keep the weight off’. There is no Plaster of Paris cast to be signed. There is only the grind of bone against bone as I hold the ends together to get through the day. Making sure not to let others see the break because in my world, where even before reality was twisted in on itself I would not show vulnerability, a fractured mind leaves me more vulnerable than a fractured ankle. And is less acceptable.
As a writer of fiction, I could escape into stories. I could connect with others without being too vulnerable because, ‘they are fictional characters in pain, not me’. And, until a few months ago, I have always been able to use bright colours to lighten the darkness in some little way and hopefully even bring a smile. When readers connected to share their wonder at the concept of a vision painter, at the pleasure in the thought of being able to paint a life with happiness, I felt the same wonder and pleasure again. That even through pain and darkness, my words could reach others and we could share hope. I was pleased that despite the obvious negatives in the novels, what had connected and lifted spirits and remained even for a brief moment, were the positives.
Now, all I can do is post up pictures on Facebook of Clio, my saving grace, the main reason that I can smile. I can hide my fractured mind behind that smile and we could go on existing like that. I’ve been working on my next novel, though I haven’t written anything for the last few weeks, wary of adding more negative than positive, more shadows, making another dent in innocence, adding falsehoods to a world already brimming in them. I know that my writing is not that important in any grand scheme of things, but it is to me. It is important to me that my words have integrity whether they are in the guise of a medical thriller, a romance, or a fantasy of magical realism. It is important to me that when someone reads my words, they do not feel worse after, do not have to endure the grinning companion of hopelessness that stamps out any flicker before it can become the flame that might burn bright and leave me destroyed, or might light the way.
Existing now without my palette of bright colours is gloomy enough, should I put that out there into the world and darken what can already be a shadowed canvas? Should I stop writing and connecting with others now, when I need it most? Or, should I just put on my big-girl pants and invent a Happy-Ever-After, because dammit, I’m a writer?
I feel the need for answers from outside my own fractured mind. I want to know from authors – do you put your novels on hold at times like these, until the story that pushes to be written can offer something more than what life at that current moment holds for you? From readers – do you wish to be drawn into the darkness in the same way you were captured previously by the story?
We’ve all had those terrible dark patches to overcome. If we’re very lucky we come through them with understanding and a new strength. If we’re unlucky a shadow remains with us for much longer than it should.
As readers we will always be drawn into a well told story whether it is dark or light; but we are simply visitors in that world.
You need to write what moves you. It may be the path that brings you back to the light and the joy in life.
Thank you Mary Anne. I worry that what moves me now is more negative than positive and there is enough negativity out there. I’ve always wanted my writing to result in positivity. I hope you’re right, and that the path ahead leads to light and joy. I read a line yesterday from Anne Lamott’s ‘bird by bird’ that stuck with me…where she quoted E.L. Doctorow “writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”
Don’t worry about being an author–it doesn’t have to be a coherent or publishable story. Be a writer–write your way through. For writers, words are how we grieve, dream, and heal. Write when and how you can.
Thank you Erica. That is a beautiful description of what words can do..I haven’t been able to find the words since it happened. Apart from one short story. So I’ve focused on getting a novel out there, something coherent and publishable…something that lets me fool myself that I have some control over something..
Keep writing, sun or rain, happy or sad, you’re a writer and your soul needs you to write. Thank you for “Daring Greatly”
I agree. Just close your eyes and let the words come. Don’t stifle them or try and change them. Your heart and soul need to heal and writing is a way through that process. Your readers will always be here, to keep you buoyant when you feel like you are sinking. The darkest hour is just before dawn…..
Irma
August9.2013 11:22pm
I had that feeling you were in some quandary about your writing,even knew you had doubts about yourself,it came throughto me very strongthis evening .you are a very strong woman,you will keep on writing for a long time,anyone reading
your books.ifelt that your last book i read brought this out,you really were using your own life situation in the story
you were the main character and i felt your pain,your insecureties and doubts.all writers go through this if they feel like you do about their written words,but you will renew your strenghts and continue writing .keep the faith,dont push it,but take breaks when you must,all will go well with you.!!
RJ, I found your post almost moving me to tears – and that is ok, you haven’t failed me – or you – or anyone – that I am not sort of ‘not happy’ after reading it. In fact, quite the reverse, I admire you for having the strength to take the bandages off for us to see the scars and cuts.
I can really empathise about the pain of such a relationship, and also about writing when you are in a place devoid of almost all colour or even light. Basically, I have been “taking a break” from writing for about 35 years, (not because of a particular relationship, but because of a block of my creative spark, muse, drive – what?) and am finally feeling able to try opening up that part of my brain and soul again, the part that is the writer in some people.
I suppose that what I am trying to express is that if you can continue to write, try to. If it is good: great, if it not, what have you lost? Write whatever: poems, book, blog posts. Just as your ankle is still gradually healing and becoming stronger, so will you. Really. Eventually, you will go a whole day without worrying that you are vulnerable because of the ankle, and then a week and so on. I truly believe that we have an amazing capacity to heal emotionally, too. Maybe not quickly, but eventually.
Good luck with your journey, and I know it sounds cliched, but you will be stronger, even if you don’t realise it…
You know, RJ, sometimes we look into a shattered mirror and think, ‘yes, that’s me, all fractured and broken,’ but the mirror is the one we broke when our illusions of what is good and true have been revealed as illusions that only hurt us—so WE shatter the looking glass as an act of self preservation–but then we forget WE survived. And when we remember, it can be very depressing–who am, then? What do I write about, now? How can I ever trust? Do I even want to? Was it something lacking in my capacity to see the truth of things sooner rather than later?
But the perpetration of illusion is not innocence—you still have that or you wouldn’t ask for something outside yourself to take a look and see what we think—so sweet of you to think anyone else might have an answer. Well, actually, we do: We’ve been where you are and survived it. We are you, so you’re not alone.
Whatever you thought was true that turned out not to be? An admirable sentiment for the wrong person, no more, no less. That truth is living in someone with a different name: go find her. Not today, not even next month, maybe, but keep your eyes on the world around you until someone in that world looks back at you. Try her. And if not her, wait…a while…let a different her find you. It will happen, and you will want it to, and you will think back to these days and smile. It’s just how the road goes.
You’re going to be fine, and keep writing…you must write. Thanks for telling us how you feel…I understand..tarra
By the way–Clio helps you mow the lawn??? Hell, take that girl on a beach date, or shopping! Clio the wonder dog! Love it! Lol.
Thanks Barrett. I am going to keep trying, even if it is just on scraps of paper here.
Thanks Jane, it means a lot to know that. I will remember in the dawn to write about the good too and pay forward what you and others who commented and replied by message or email have given me with your words.
Thanks Irma. I appreciate the support and the good wishes. I use feelings, hurts, happiness, real things, other people’s experiences, a lot of things, in my writing. All writers do..but my main characters and the book situations are not me or mine, they are composites of a lot of things, real and imagined. As a person, I can’t take ‘credit’ for the good things my characters do or ‘blame’ for the bad 🙂
Thanks Jai.
I’m sorry to hear you haven’t been writing for 35 years. My few months seems like nothing now. It is brilliant that you are starting to feel the creative side again and really hope that everything flows again. It is such a powerful thing that its loss, even temporarily, is difficult.
Thanks for understanding.
I don’t mind whether it sounds cliched or not to say that I will be stronger, it is hopeful and helpful…
Hi Rejini,
just from your words above, one can tell what a truly talented writer you are and anyone who has read your poems, novels or other work will testify to this. My belief is that whatever you’re going through will inevitably end up in that melting pot of creativity and directly or indirectly come out in a great rush of creative energy.
Without trying to compare, I’ve had a spectacularly crap year myself but am finding that although I’ve become somewhat impatient and at times frustrated with my own attempt at writing, that connection I make with myself and the world around me through it, is stronger than before. So through the dark days and sometimes sleepless nights, I scribble and type and regardless of where it goes, I never ignore the call of it. Even if its just three sentences that I never use again.
You are hugely admired as a writer and it’s for a reason. Your work has many fans and will continue to draw many more. Be good to yourself, enjoy the fun with the brave Clio and of course in your own time and rhythm, keep writing.
Thanks Tarra. I really hadn’t thought of it that way. That what has shattered is the mirror. I need to think about it more and absorb that, and the rest of your words. Thank you for understanding and for your thoughtful comments.
I think in this case, what I am worried about is that my eyes shattered too. Not just the mirror that reflects back what I see of myself, but the way I look at the world. That everything I see is now distorted by the mechanism through which I view it. And that is the part I don’t want to bring too much into my novels. The part that feels cynical, that cannot believe..the part that knows how words can be used to deceive and break others..
I was devastated by the loss of this person, but more than that, what has affected me the most (I’ve had losses before that did not stop me believing) is the uncertainty of reality. It is a a strange experience..I guess the closest would be if you fell for someone believing her to be real and one day the words stopped and you looked up and realised you’d been reading a book all along, one tailored specifically for you..
It helps to know that others have been through and come out the other side. Even more, to know that there are people who have found their one person and it wasn’t an illusion. Maybe I need to ask people in that situation to tell me about it and I can draw comfort and also use it in my novels without feeling like a fake..
LOL Tarra, did you mean take Clio on a beach date or shopping? People think I’m weird enough as it is!! 🙂
She does help me mow the lawn, and take out the rubbish, and other tasks, and and even to write (if sitting on the keyboard counts..)…. She really is my wonder dog in every way 🙂 she brings a sense of wonder to my moments 🙂
Thanks Chris. I’m so sorry to hear you had such a bad year! I hope things are a bit better now.. And I like your description ‘spectacularly crap’ 🙂 It would be fun to see how many phrases we could come up with to describe the awful times. I need to see humour in those times and I’m usually able to find some (even by just being a great source of material myself with all the stupid things I’ve done). It’s been a bit harder to find the funny side for the last few months, but I’m trying. And Clio certainly helps with that 🙂
I’m glad you’re still writing through it all. I love your writing. Hopefully we can meet up again, it’s nice to have the support of a writing group.
RJ, I think your answer lies in the fact that this post has allowed so many people to open up, explore and share their own experiences. For a writer, I think writing provides the best healing.
Thanks Margo. The comments, emails, and messages have made me feel less alone and made me think in different ways. And you’re right..even the process of writing the blog post helped. Thanks for posting it further and for asking people to dig deep and reply. I’m very grateful to everyone who did.
RJ, first a big hug to you to remind you that you are not alone. Many of us have had or are experiencing similar life struggles. After my Mom, my best friend was taken away all too soon, I fell into a funk of bitterness and despair. To say I wandered lost for months is an understatement. I too tried writing it out and the bitterness and darkness weighed heavily on my words. Creating anything positive or happy was totally out of the question. What I eventually found myself doing was writing all the bad stuff out of my system. The words, phrases, sentences, didn’t make up any kind of story, but they were slowly being purged. I would never read them after I typed, but would close the file until I felt a need to write more. As the funk began to lift, I found myself needing to enter the bitterness less and less. When the sunshine returned to my world I printed the file and without another thought burned it in the fireplace and erased the file. I still grieve and miss her with every breath I take, but found it was therapeutic to put those thoughts, feelings and regrets to rest.
It is obvious by these responses, that you have a great friend and fan base who support you and give you encouragement. Let your words and tears flow.
Rj,
What you wrote was heartfelt and beautiful, even if you didn’t mean it to be.
I can’t add much more to the words already written in reply to your post, but I do have a few things I would like you to think about.
You mention the loss of this person, someone special, and wondering if any of what you shared was real.Was it real for you? That is what matters the most, how real it was for you. This person has already taken from you, don’t let them take anymore by letting them take away what was real for you. If that happens, they win again, and you suffer a double loss. No matter how hard we try, we can never really ‘know’ someone, only what they allow us to see.
It is not you or your beliefs that were wrong, it was the other person who was.
Like Ali and others have mentioned, let your grief, sorrow, anger, and every other emotion that is inside out. Even if it means writing pages of gibberish, it needs to come out sooner or later, and preferably sooner. With that being said, it is also something that can’t be forced or rushed. Everyone deals differently with emotions, and only you can tell when enough is enough.
Good luck on your journey, and always remember your friends are here for you.
Thanks Ali. Thank you for the big hug, much needed and very welcome.. I’m so sorry about your mom and your best friend. Thank you for sharing what worked for you. I haven’t tried writing and then destroying the words. I’m a hoarder and I have all the papers on which I scrawled stuff. I’ve been able to cry (too much), but the thought of writing the words to let the fictional ‘her’ go is holding me back from writing anything truly real (if that makes sense..) even in a novel.. Or maybe I’m holding the words in until they come out in a changed way in the novel and that will serve the same purpose of letting go.. By examining ‘other’ characters doing good and bad, maybe I’ll be able to let go of the ‘bad’ character.. If I get the nerve, I’m going to try the writing and burning too.. Did you lose any of yourself in that process..? Did it affect the depth of your writing? That is a fear at the back of my mind..
I’m very grateful for the responses and do feel very supported.
Thanks Nancy. I didn’t actually mean the post to be about the person or what she did to me (I’ve been boring the pants off a friend by email whenever I think she can bear hearing anymore about it). I was trying to get answers to whether the loss of my belief would affect my writing in a way that would make it ‘less’ for the reader. But the responses have shown me that I need to deal with the cause of my loss of belief before I worry about the effects.. In answer to your question, yes, it was very real for me. And that is what shattered my belief. That I could get it so wrong. That my conviction was misplaced. And that’s a hard thing, that it wasn’t just someone else who did me wrong, it is that MY strong belief led to me getting hurt. So, how do I know it won’t happen again? It could, if I let it. Logical answer is don’t let it.. Problem is, logic isn’t much use in these matters.. I’m going to try the ‘writing gibberish’ approach as the logical approach obviously isn’t working..
Thanks again for your reply, it means a lot, and to know that there are friends out there.
RJ, I think it only helped me in developing deeper emotions with my characters by allowing myself to be placed in their shoes as they faced adversity. Write honey, just write!!
Thanks Ali, will try, will try 🙂
Atta girl!
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The lady who came up with the analogy of the broken mirror was partly right. Those who tell you to keep writing and to write how you feel are also right but it is sometimes just too difficult to get going. Time heals eventually but don’t do as I have done in the past by waiting for time to do everything. Time does heal but it takes forever. Try to do a little when you feel up to it and one day you will just find yourself taking off. I have heard it said that it is easier to act your way into a feeling than to feel your way into an action. As for the impact of your current loss of belief on your writing and the effect it may have on your readers – don’t let it stop you from expressing yourself. Picasso’s blue period was one of the most productive of his career and was followed by his Rose period. Your Rose period is just around the corner…