It’s traumatic to see your home planet blown up by a giant laser-gun it’s traumatic to get lost in the woods and chased by a wolf it’s traumatic to be told over and over again that your perceptions aren’t reliable. With this in mind, you might be able to see the many directions from which trauma can originate in narratives. The thing to keep in mind here is: If a difficult or unpleasant experience changes a person in a lasting way, it’s trauma. The escape route a brain designs in response to trauma can take many, many different forms. Trauma is not always massive, is not always physically harmful, is not always immediately recognizable. This is because their brain, upon recognizing the input “fire,” activates a neurochemical response that is designed to help them escape the harm they previously endured. That person, in the future, might have an extreme response to seeing or being close to fire. In the moment of trauma, that person’s brain was unprepared to react to the fire in a way that would keep the person safe. This extends beyond momentary unhappiness or discomfort and extends into long-term changes to brain function.Ĭonsider, for instance, a person who has been physically harmed by a fire. Here is a very boiled-down version of what that means: The human brain is prepared to process a number of things on a given day, and when something comes up that the brain is not prepared to process, is not capable of processing, the result is a change in the chemical processes that the brain uses to respond to input. My favorite description of trauma is this: trauma is simply too much, too soon. What is Trauma, and Why Should I, a Writer, Care? Those endings are, I find, infinitely more complex, valuable, and grounded. It’s possible, I’ve learned, to write endings that don’t attempt comprehensive closure but instead offer compassion and respect to the trauma that characters endure throughout the plot. It was only once I decided to take a trauma-informed approach to narrative that I found peace with the idea of endings. As a person who lives with the effects of deep, far-reaching trauma, I’m uncomfortable with the very concept of closure and finality, especially as part of traumatic experiences. I suspect this is the source of my struggle. In some cases, the comfort that comes with catharsis is the entire reason we want a story at all.Ĭatharsis has, for many, become synonymous with the ending of a story. Stories are for readers, and for many readers, catharsis is a vital part of the narrative experience. Moreover, the purpose of a story isn’t to continue indefinitely. Every campfire dies down, every book has a final page, every reader has dinner to make and dishes to wash. Too often, endings disrespect the stories that precede them, sewing up wounds for the sake of neat margins rather than actual healing.īut all stories must end-and I don’t mean that in the sense of the much-abused “death is inevitable but don’t be sad about it” metaphor. I’ve always found them to be dishonest things, fraudulent claims that a story can possibly be contained within the boundaries of narrative comfort. Too often they’ve made promises I’ve simply never been able to trust. We’re pleased to share these instructive and thought-provoking pieces with the wider speculative fiction community. Note: Over the next several weeks, the SFWA Blog will be running articles, including this one, that first appeared in October 2021 in our SFWA member publication, The Bulletin #216.
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