Universal Emotional Truths
This is an archived post that was originally published at beyond-terminal.com
How do you get past that inertia that lodges itself in your gut and threatens to take root?
When I stared at my computer screen last week, I asked myself this very question – and many others. How do you start over? For me, I’m thinking specifically of my manuscript. But my brain traveled to other places too. I started thinking about my friends who have gone through nasty divorces, friends who have traveled across the country looking for a new and better life, friends who have just received a cancer diagnosis.
If we’re lucky to live long enough, we all have to contend with questions like these at some point and develop strategies for moving beyond this place of fear and doubt.
For me personally, I’ve had to get more comfortable with the word “creative” the last couple of weeks. The genre that I’m writing in is referred to as creative nonfiction. It’s different than other nonfiction works in that it aspires to evoke emotion and be literary. Because of this, creative nonfiction emphasizes the narrative over a list of facts.
I realize that my story is unique. Given this, I initially focused on “sticking to the facts” as I worked on stringing together my manuscript. I thought by sticking to these facts my story would be more credible to those who didn’t witness my illness firsthand. However, now that I have those facts and chronology recorded, I realize I need to rework some of these passages so that they hum and others can discover those universal emotional truths that lie within them.
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This is a new passage that I wrote last week. I intend to have this follow the excerpt that I included in last week’s post.
But the crushing reality is that these moments of reprieve were short-lived, and as soon as I awoke, I was forced to contend with my sweaty palms.
I couldn’t believe I didn’t have more agency over my body, that my sympathetic nervous system was on high-alert…all…the time. Had I finally pushed my body to the brink?
Regardless, here I was, with hands that literally dripped. At night in my room with the door closed tight I would sit on my bed, hold my hands palms up and watch in horror as sweat pooled in my cupped hands. I’d make my way to the bathroom, wash my hands, dry them off, only to have sweat pool in my hands all over again.
If it were only awkward, perhaps I could have dealt with it. Maybe come across as a germaphobe, someone who couldn’t shake hands for fear of getting someone else’s germs. But this impediment of mine? It was so much more than awkward. It left me fumbling with my pen as I tried to take notes in class, desperation clinging to every inch of my body as I tried to prevent the pen from sliding from my grip. But slide it did. So much so that my fingernails would scrape along the pages in my notebook as I gripped the tip of the pen. I imagined an imaginary line being left behind by my fingernails, a line that screamed, Look, you can’t even hold a pen!
All those damning words that had been flung my way over the years had become internalized. And, because I didn’t have an alternative narrative, these were the words that repeated themselves in my head. Again and again.
Ever since I had gotten sick, I had this recurring nightmare where I couldn’t swim, I had lost the ability to do so, I was too skinny, I no longer floated. I would wake up from this nightmare gasping for air, just gasping.
Now this nightmare of mine seemed to be poking at me during the daylight hours as well. Of course, I knew I wasn’t going to die in a puddle of my own sweat, but watching the words that I tried so hard to transcribe on paper, words that conveyed meaning and purpose, words that were critical to capture because their transmission to and retention in my brain were the gateway to passing my classes —watching these words being turned into blue ink smudges because of my sweaty hands? I felt utterly helpless. So helpless that I was left gasping for air even though I knew there was no chance that I was going to drown.
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I’ve asked myself and those I’ve consulted with this question: Who is really going to care about my story – and be interested in reading it — outside of those who know me?
The people I’ve spoken to have told me that it comes down to the ability to capture universal emotional truths on the page. So, while my story may look very different than yours, can I capture that emotional essence, that fear, that trauma, on the page – and can you, in turn, relate to that feeling based on an experience that you, personally, have had?
As I rework my manuscript, this will be my goal. Will I have moments of inertia when I question how I’m going to be able to elevate my work to this level? Absolutely! But I’ve got to start somewhere, and I’m going to be certain to surround myself with people who can support me along the way.