We study how great personal tragedy (and even slight hiccups in one's general existence) can propel us to create something better than we ever could without it.
Tragedy is necessary. And no, I am not advocating for monumental tragedies such as the horrifically fruitless wars our nation insists on waging or the racism-driven deaths of so many of our African-American peers (which could only be considered necessary as a vehicle of publicizing the violent racism our country still prides itself in). There is no reason for tragedy, no means to rationalize it: tragedy is simply an errant tip of the scale. It is up to the victim to discern whether or not it is necessary.
How does this relate to writing? you may be thinking as you plod through this oppressive and somber opening. Well, writing is tragedy. And comedy, if the two masks of drama are any indication, but even comedy cannot exist without tragedy. Situational comedy is propelled by minute tragedies (damage to one's appearance before Picture Day, terrible dates, getting dates or appointments confused); however, because these tragedies are interpreted as opportunities for humor and reflection, they seem less like tragedies and more like the minor inconveniences we face everyday. The line between comedy and tragedy rests comfortably in that ambiguous grey area where tragedies stop breeding hilarious results and start breeding angst.
Consider the byproducts of tragedy (not fictional, real tragedy, we'll get to that fictional stuff after I depress you for another paragraph or two). In the heart-wrenching and stunningly composed article "Fatal Distraction" (a Pulitizer Prize-winning report on car deaths among young children, written by Gene Weingarten and well worth the tears), we get to explore the broad spectrum of reactions to losing one's child in such a sudden, bloodless manner. Some contemplate suicide; others condemn themselves. And still others seize the opportunity to reach out to others, to campaign for the issue so that no other family has to endure an agony so severe. Another example is the story of Josie King, an eighteen-month-old who was taken to John Hopkins after sustaining second-degree burns and died not from the burns, but from an undetected infection and severe dehydration. This tragedy inspired her mother, Sorrel, to pursue better patient safety in hospitals to ensure no child would have to die so slowly and without help.
I'm not implying every parent needs to take up arms when their child is taken. The parents need time to grieve and heal from the experience. However, as writers, we must learn from the example of Sorrel King and let our personal tragedies make us stronger. If we are wronged or go through an experience that robs us of something dear, it is our responsibility to put words to it. These words never have to be published or even so much as shared as a Facebook status: they merely need to be expressed. Without expression, we have nothing.
If you're willing to let this tragedy manifest itself into your work, let us examine what this process entails. First, we must care for ourselves in the wake of it: this includes grieving in a healthy manner (avoiding destructive behavior, such as binge-eating or self harm, talking to family members or friends, reaching out, keeping one's health in check), giving one's self the time to heal, and maybe even putting the pen down for a few days (or picking it up, if that's how you heal). You should never force yourself to talk or write about an experience in detail when you're not prepared: the results can be volcanic. Instead, listen to your body and be as self-indulgent as possible. This is about you, after all.
Now that you're prepared to write again, try your hand at something new. Sometimes, returning to the craft you were involved in before the accident or event can seem daunting and dig up old memories. Instead of plain fiction, try writing a poem. Write about a television show you like. Write a review for the book you were reading. Write an email to a friend. Even draw a picture if you refrain from exploring the full spectrum of the pen in your hand. Afterwards, read it over. Does it sound different from the tone of your work before the tragedy? It might. You may be writing more pessimistically or apathetically. The connotation may be completely different. Compare what sort of words you use. This may sound trivial, but the words you choose in your writing often speak volumes about how the author feels (we will continue exploring connotation in a future post).
Do you feel like incorporating elements of your personal experience into your work? Well, let's talk about it. As enticing as that may sound to us writers (who are forever seeking a way to further ground emotions and situations in reality), it may be detrimental to you. If this was an incident that deeply affected you as an individual, writing about it at length may conjure up disturbing memories and even contribute to depression or anxiety surrounding the event. In this case, writing directly about it may not be beneficial, especially if you haven't given yourself enough time to heal.
If you feel you've moved on or that your mental health will not suffer, then give it a go. Personal experiences are what shape a writer's voice. We all may make sandwiches, but we all don't make sandwiches the exact same way. And although this may sound like it strips a story of its universality, it actually makes it all the more relative. Your experience may be universal (a death in the family, a car accident), but your recovery process and reflections on the incident, whether your own or a character's, are entirely unique to you. This uniqueness is what makes a story interesting and distinguishable from a long list of similar novels that don't cut to the heart of its material.
Tragedy is necessary. A life never corrupted by tragedy is hardly a life at all. Just as characters overcome obstacles on their journey, so do we and we do it without an author to guide us. We are changed by pain, experience, tragedy. We are made stronger. We are made weaker. The things I've seen and been through have greatly influenced me and my writing, especially the three big events that occurred in the last year for me. These three things, however, no longer trouble me the way they used to. I have learned from them, even though, at the time, my pain seemed unnecessary and prolonged. And once I gather the means to translate them into my writing, then I'll finally be able to face the truth: tragedy has made me strong.
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