Novel Catharsis
By Guest | June 9, 2012 |
GIVEAWAY: One commenter will receive a copy of today’s profiled novel, The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D., to be chosen at random on Tuesday, the 12th. Good luck!
Therese here. It’s my pleasure to introduce today’s guest, Nichole Bernier. Nichole has worked as an editor (Conde Nast Traveler) and freelance writer (e.g. Elle, Self), and is the co-founder of the literary blog Beyond the Margins. Just this past week she added a new title to her resume: debut author. Nichole’s first novel, The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D, has been named one of Bookpage’s Most Anticipated Debuts of 2012 and is on Vogue’s Six Summer Reads Hit list. It’s the story of a woman’s cathartic journey following the untimely death of a close friend, after she inherits this friend’s journals. And it may have been a bit of fiction imitating life, as the writing of her novel was in many ways therapeutic for Nichole as well. That’s what today’s post is about. Enjoy!
Novel Catharsis
The day I accidentally started my novel, there was a torrential downpour. I remember sitting in the car waiting to pick up my children from preschool, rain streaming down the windshield. Like tears, I thought, and out of nowhere—because they’re always out of nowhere, the mental triggers of grief—I thought of my friend who’d been on Flight 11 on September 11th.
Four years had passed since the terrorist attacks, but the thoughts were still with me, much the same as they’d been when the shock was fresh. In the midst of mundane activities, I’d find myself wondering the sort of things that aren’t polite to wonder aloud. About her last thoughts. Who sat beside her on the plane, and what they said to one another. Whether she’d had time to cry.
I had always expressed myself through writing. I’d been a magazine writer for a decade, and I kept a journal to scratch the itch for anything more personal, more cathartic. But suddenly it wasn’t enough. As much as I love reading fiction, I’d never had an urge to write it, not even so much as a short story. Yet after I got home that rainy day and put the kids down to nap, I wrote a dream sequence about a woman imagining her friend’s last moments. Not on a flight that had been hijacked and driven into a skyscraper, because that was too close to the bone. A generic plane crash, if such a thing can ever be said to be generic.
It didn’t occur to me that this would be part of anything more than an unusual journal entry. But that raw spurt of writing would become chapter three of a novel, to be bought by Crown four years later, just before the birth of my fifth child.
We each have our own method of catharsis, of letting the constantly replaying tapes finally spool themselves out. Some people establish charitable foundations, plant memorial gardens, or throw themselves into athletic feats fueled by confusion and grief. Some go quiet until the tears run dry.
Writing the novel was my way to make sense of the thoughts I couldn’t quite put a name to, or put to rest. I’d just had my third child, and after I’d tucked all three into bed at night I’d settle into writing this thing that was not a thing—not an article any magazine was paying me to write, so too indulgent a use of daytime sitter hours. But I kept writing, and the further I wrote, the more I shed anything that resembled my actual friend, her actual husband, their actual baby. The nameless piece of writing became peopled with strangers familiar only to me, driven by unique motivations, idiosyncrasies, pain, and joy. Most fiction writers I’ve come to know are propelled by “what-ifs,” and these were mine: What if someone who kept journals all her life died suddenly? What if the journals showed an interior life that was nothing like what her friends and family expected—including where she was really going when she died?
Fictionalizing the facts of the story freed me up to dig deep into emotion I could imagine, and expand upon in my characters. The widower, who receives consolatory lasagna when he’s seen mowing his lawn while his motherless children play in the driveway, when all he wants to do is mow his own damn lawn like other fathers. The children, baffled by the suffocating kindness of strangers. The best friend, slowly becoming unhinged by the anxiety of parenting in a world where everything seems dangerous, and possible.
I set the story in 2002, so that my characters would be experiencing the same tenuous sense of safety I remembered. There was anthrax, and there was Mad Cow disease. There were bomb threats and fear of contaminated reservoirs. If the Ebola virus had arrived at an airport, microbes bobbing down the jetway of an incoming flight, it would not have been surprising. Many of my friends felt the same way. We walked around numb, waiting.
Two days after the terrorist attacks, I spent the afternoon fielding media calls for my friend’s family. I developed a handful of quotes to focus on her life rather than on her inconceivable death — pithy sentences about road races with a baby jogger, about her flaming red hair and ridiculous laugh, and the way she’d navigated the challenges of returning to work after her maternity leave. I believe I even said she’d “hit her stride.” After I returned the last call I sank to the bedroom floor, nauseated by reducing a person to a sound bite, and disgusted with myself for doing it.
What would she have wanted said about her? I wondered. What would she have thought should be her legacy?
Interestingly, few of the newspapers or magazines mentioned her strong career in retail, beyond the fact that she’d been traveling on her first business trip following her maternity leave. It struck me that in the end, most of us will not be remembered for what we do, but for who we are—thoughtful friends, generous volunteers, dedicated advocates, loving family members. But for some people who are passionate about their work, what they do might just be integral to who they are. That became chapter 29.
I never thought of myself as someone with a novel inside her, but now I can’t imagine myself without it. Similarly, I have a friend who never thought of herself as much of a runner, but she just finished a marathon—fueled by a need to keep a neurological disease at bay—and that reluctant achievement is now at the top of her psychological resume.
In any kind of recovery, it seems there is an element of reach, of going beyond our comfort zone when it is failing to provide comfort. We don’t know what we’re capable of until we embrace something we never thought we could do — sometimes, as an antidote to something we cannot bear.
Do you write for catharsis?
Learn more about Nichole and her debut, The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D, on her website, and by reading the first chapter on Scribd. And follow her on Facebook and Twitter. Write on!
Photo courtesy Flickr’s tomswift46
Many thanks to today’s guest.
You can read more WU guest posts by visiting this link.
I knew this novel was coming through seeing the occasional Tweet, but never its origin. Beautifully written blog post. I look forward to reading the novel (and promise to buy it, not win it). I spent some long days and nights in my sister’s kitchen, fielding similar calls about her husband – my brother-in-law- who died on the 104th Floor of the South Tower. I won’t even do the math right now (or the Google search) to recall if that was Flight 11. Amazing how many moments take you right back to those days. And amazing – thinking originally I would want to forget – that there is a strange comfort in remembering every detail. Wishing all success to The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D.
Thank you so much, Burns. My heart seized as I read this. I’m sorry for your loss.
Oh wow, this sounds like a captivating story, Nichole. As a life-long journaler, I’ve already informed my husband that when I die, my collection of journals is to go to my best friend. Not because I have anything to hide, but because she knew me and was a part of my life since the time I started scribbling teenage angst into multiple spiral notebooks. It’s all boring stuff, but still, I’m sure there are things she would be surprised to learn about me upon reading my private thoughts…
I’m sorry for the loss of your close friend. :( What an honor to her memory to release something beautiful out of the ashes and tears. I can’t wait to read it! Thanks for an uplifting, poignant post this morning.
Journals are becoming so wonderfully anachronistic these blogging days, aren’t they? Rare and precious.
For twenty years I had written nothing bar poetry. I regarded myself as a poet and never imagined needing any other form of expression, however, after a three year long dry spell due to illness—I honestly thought my writing days were over—I sat down one day to write a something, an anything, because although I had nothing to say (so I thought) the desire to write had never left me. A few weeks later I counted up the words and realised I had written a novel. Unlike many first novels it was not autobiographical in the strictest sense but, in the same way that Beckett projected himself into the bleak future he envisaged for himself at the time he wrote Krapp’s Last Tape, I also imagined where a man like me might have ended up had he made even more wrong choices than I had, who had basically made all the wrong choices. They say you should imagine the worst things could get because the reality is never as bad as we imagine.
Catharsis comes from the Greek word meaning “cleansing” or “purging”. The scatological undertones are unavoidable but writing that first novel was like having, as my mother—a plain-speaking Lancashire lass—would have put it, a good clearing out. It’s how I have come to view all my writing, in fact I’ve said more than once that I could chuck out whatever I’ve written once it’s done because, for me, the job’s done; I’ve learned what I needed to learn about myself. I’m not alone in this. I saw an interview with the photographer Jay Maisel a couple of weeks ago in which he said this about his photographs: “The product is a by-product; the act of seeing is the moment of fun.” Okay I don’t write to have fun (not that there isn’t some pleasure to be derived from the writing process) but I do get his drift. I write so that I can stand apart from what I’ve written the better to determine its worth. That others can get something from what I’ve written or even make the work their own is a bonus but it’s not why I write; I’m not a storyteller or an entertainer and I could never produce a work of fiction knowing that all someone would do with it was wile away a few hours on a long flight or lounging on a foreign beach. All credit to those who can produce escapist fiction like that because I have no idea how they do it.
Fascinating, Jim. We all process things in our own ways, and it sounds like private novelizing might be yours.
Very interesting perspective, Jim! I think I am definitely writing for other people to read–to me a book isn’t quite alive until it’s shared–and it’s fascinating to consider all the motivations that drive what writers do. Cool!
Oh, my. This sounds so much like the ideas that seize me. I look forward to seeing how Nichole explores them.
Thank you, Donna! And I’d love to hear from you after you do.
This sounds like a fabulous book, Nichole. I will definitely have to read it!
Thanks, Kim!
Nichole, you just made me cry. Thank you for sharing the very personal thoughts that inspired you to write this novel.
I’m sometimes conscious of why I write. Other times I’m not. After the process is complete, however, I can almost always find the thread of the thing that has been simmering inside of me–the fear, the pride, the anguish, the love.
There is freedom in fiction to explore these things, and hopefully, the reader will find release from something inside of her through the novel.
I have no doubt that will come from your novel to your readers. I can’t wait to read it.
Ditto what Erika said, entirely.
Luckily, the whole thing wasn’t a cathartic process, and I love the exploration of novel writing as a whole…. But there are moments we draw from real life that are like that old opening-a-vein saying. When I wrote about a dog being put to sleep, I knew somewhat how that looked and felt because I’d been there for a cat. And a year after I finished the novel, I had to be there for our dog. I’m really looking forward to your novel HEMINGWAY’S GIRL, Erika.
Can’t wait to read the book, Nichole. Yes, I think we all write for catharsis. I was through a complete draft of the novel I am writing before I recognized the little boy in the story as me, with a struggle that mirrored my own as I grew up, even though our problems were completely different. That recognition has fueled my revisions ever since even though, as in your case, my novel is not my real story. Your emotional connection to your story is what makes a novel memorable and yours sounds like a classic. Thanks for the post!
All it takes is a germ of an experience to be able to extrapolate and blow it open, doesn’t it? Cheers to your writing!
Catharsis, mmm, no, I don’t think so (noting that I am a First Persian Gulf War veteran and was in DC on 9-11). I may do a short piece like an article, but not in my novels. While my experiences will naturally get into the book and be reshaped into what the story needs, I don’t write a topic to “recover” from it. I write a topic because it’s something I want to read and will be entertaining — granted, I also write action stories. That being said, I do have one of my Gulf War experiences in my book. BUT. It also took me 22 years to be able to gain enough distance that I could approach it and reshape it for a story. It’s also not part of the main storyline, but more of an element of the overall theme.
That sounds like some story, Linda. If it’s publicly available, I hope you put it here on Writer Unboxed.
Hi, Linda,
I think maybe I understand where you’re coming from.
I won a prize for a memoir piece about my 1st marriage to a man I affectionately call “Psychoteacher.” The 1st draft was a lark. My writing buddy Cynthia read it: “Your sarcastic humor is off-putting.” Me: “But my family WAS sarcastic!” Her: “Tough. Write the pain.”
2nd and 3rd drafts were hell. I told my husband, “If I ever decide to write a whole memoir, shoot me before I start.” Last 2 drafts were great. Gradually it became just another piece to shape and craft.
Was it cathartic? I don’t know. I’m proud of it, though.
My WIP is a novel that springs from the single most traumatic event of my life (not Psychoteacher–he was a sequel). But I’ve never thought of it as cathartic. My bias is that if the writer needs a book to be cathartic, it rarely becomes art. The tough demands of craft pull the work in another direction, where hewing to the event and its precise fallout would limit artistic flexibility.
I’m sure there are plenty of people who wouldn’t agree with me, and that’s fine!
Nichole, your post is so beautifully written that this alone spurs me to read Elizabeth’s story!
https://www.philadelphiastories.org/my-charlie-manson
is the link to the memoir piece.
I’ve been looking forward to reading this novel, and now even more so after reading this post. Thanks, Nichole, for sharing this very personal aspect of your book.
Thank you, Becca!
There is always some catharsis involved in writing, especially in a first novel. This was a beautifully written piece, and I can only imagine how powerful your novel must be with the emotional connection involved. I’ve heard quite a buzz about it, and I look forward to reading it.
Thanks Kerry, and I’d love to hear from you after you do!
Consider my gut officially wrenched.
Sad smile.
I am planning a trip, my first vacation in over eight years, with a stop at a particular restaurant in Las Vegas. Eight years ago I made a promise to my friend Kathy. Kathy and I were more like brother and sister than friends.
When I was first diagnosed with throat cancer eight years ago the third person I called was Kathy, even though we lived over 1,500 miles apart. The first was my wife and the second was my friend Chip who lives in the next town over.
Before I could tell Kathy that I had just been diagnosed with a stage four cancer she told me that she had just been diagnosed with non-Hodgekin’s lymphoma and was in treatment. Kathy and I went through cancer treatment together separated by an imaginary barrier of time and geography.
The treatment for both of us left us with no appetite and in my case, at least for a period of time, not being able to eat or drink anything at all. Kathy and I promised each other that when we were through with treatment we would meet in Las Vegas for a grand reunion at Mario Battali’s restaurant and share a wonderful meal.
I got better. Kathy didn’t. I managed to visit her in Oceanside, California while she was going through her second round of treatment. I am glad that I made that visit. I kept getting better and Kathy got better for a while but then really crashed. After I got home from that trip Kathy died.
For a time I regained my ability to eat and drink, but I couldn’t bear making the trip to Las Vegas by myself, it was just too painful. It seemed like some kind of betrayal to Kathy. Unfortunately, as time passed the effects of my own treatment caught up with me and now I am totally unable to eat or drink anything, though I’m not so good with rules and I occasionally indulge myself with a cup of coffee, a glass of wine, or a cold beer.
Gradually, I came to see that making this trip to Las Vegas was something that I had to do, not just for Kathy, but for me too. So we will be going to Mario Battali’s restaurant in Las Vegas and I will order a glass of wine for my wife, daughter, myself, and one for Kathy. We will toast Kathy. My wife and daughter will have supper. I need to keep this promise to Kathy and to myself.
Oh goodness, just when I stemmed the tears from Nicole’s post, I read your comment…
I didn’t know her, but I am certain your friend Kathy would be very happy about your plans.
My goodness is right. Extraordinary, Rocci.
Nichole, That sounds like a wonderful book.
Yes, I think fiction writers do walk around all the time with “what ifs.”
I hope that time and writing have healed some of the wounds and fear you experienced after your friend’s death.
I wonder when children develop the ability to write the “what ifs”? My kids are avid storytellers, and it’s fascinating to see when it moves beyond the What Is to the What Could Be.
Nicole, thanks for sharing what must have been a painful story. I suppose on some level writing is cathartic. The stories inside our heads that make it onto the page reflect our hopes, dreams, fears, and deepest thoughts. This was a great post. Thanks.
Thanks, CG. It was. But what’s interesting is that after a few weeks or months of writing it stopped being about the catharsis and became about something else altogether. I wonder if the creative process has to go broader that way in order to not just be personal, and to belong to others?
What a beautiful post and tribute, Nichole. I’ve love to read your book. It sounds magnificent.
Yes, writing has often been cathartic for me. I lost my father in a plane crash when I was 14, and when I was about 30 I finally wrote a very messy novel about it (changing names and specific events). It all came pouring out in about a week while my husband had taken our three sons on a trip, but I’ve never attempted to go back to it. It’s too personal and painful and raw – and melodramatic. (Hey, I was a newbie writer). But definitely I’ve honed those emotions and family dynamics in my published novels and I still find myself writing about those feelings through the relationships of my 12 year old characters with their parents in my stories. It’s interesting how it still comes out, even if I’m writing middle-grade novels with a touch of magical realism. ;-)
I’m sorry for your loss, Kimberley. But it is fascinating how all kinds of writing becomes training wheels for future writing, isn’t it?
I have been reading various books that respond to the 9/11 terrorist attacks and will look forward to reading yours as well. The construct of delving into a journal sounds interesting. Best to you with the novel!
Thank you! Did you read FALLING MAN and EXTREMELY LOUD? I was amazed and moved by those.
Thank you for explaining how you reinterpreted a real life situation into fiction. This sounds like a brilliant plot and one which will touch many hearts.
Thanks, Leanne. Hope so.
Thank you, everyone, for your thoughtful comments.
An unexpected side effect and benefit of the essay.
If your post is any indication of your writing I know I won’t want to miss reading your book.
I live far from my family home, and over the years since my mother’s death when we go for a visit I have found myself looking in little cubbies with the hope of finding a letter, leaving something of herself for me and my siblings to feel her again. I’ve come across things simply in her writing and even an old meaningless piece of paper touches me. The thought of reading a friends journals after they passed– it gives me the chills just thinking of it. My father has been recently diagnosed with bile duct cancer and when I went up to see him there next to him was a journal and a pen. I know he is writing to us when he has moments. I’ve already discussed with him putting a website together with all his poetry and photography, after.
I believe your book will touch many people. I look forward to reading it. Best of luck to you.
I’m sorry about your father’s diagnosis, Laura. How thoughtful and forward-thinking that you went right up with pen and paper….
I will definitely read this book, with a box of tissues next to me.
Usually, I am a “what if” kind of writer. I like to throw my characters together into a situation and see what they do with it.
After deciding to take a complete break from writing for a while, a few weeks ago, I found myself meditating by the pool. I watched feelings break the surface of my consciousness like bubbles in a mud pot. Betrayal. Loss. Bereavement. The temptation to give up. The desire to beat back despair and live. Soul-killing feelings that I have never had the courage to explore in my stories.
And then the characters started to emerge. Blurry and still nameless, but I already know they are strong enough to bear the emotions. Once I work it all out, the facts of their existence will be different from the facts of my life. The ending (whatever it turns out to be) will make sense for them even if it is not where I may be heading.
The names and events will be changed to protect the guilty, but the feelings are straight out of my own journals. This is the catharsis that I’ve needed, but avoided writing.
Time will tell if I am strong enough to write it now.
Good luck, Meredith!
This story interests me, and the premise is awesome. Regarding writing for catharsis, I think that is some of why I’m working on my memoir, although it didn’t start out that way. As I began to explore the feelings behind the events of my abuse, a catharsis of sorts began, and I realized I had deadened myself to some of the feelings of my past. So the memoir is helping that way. Have a blessed day.
HM at HVC dot RR dot COM
Wow. I hope it goes well, Heather.
Dear Nichole,
Your guest blog has touched me on so many levels.
First, to answer your question, I most certainly at times write for catharsis. Before I knew that there was a fiction writer in me, I would just write in my journal or through a poem. Now, I find I am taking these moments of catharsis and adding them to my fiction writing. These are some of our most powerful writings, I believe. A real touch of emotion.
Second of all, I am a new mom and I am just in awe at your dedication to writing while being a mother of three. I can barely find the time with one kid. Kudos to you!
Third, I am sorry about the loss of your friend, but I am also glad that you were able to work through those emotions and wish you all the best in your future!
Fourth, thank you for your final words about embracing something that we cannot bear.
Thanks, Jill. About writing with children: the truth is that it’s hard regardless of how many you have. When I began this novel I had three, and when I finished, I had (and have) five. Children are like the saying about goldfish growing to fit their bowl; they’ll collectively fill all our time, and there’s only X amount leftover. I found that to complete the novel, I had to give up nearly all my other hobbies and give the novel the X. It’s an obsession, for sure. But I tremendously rewarding one. Good luck with your writing! It sets a wonderful example for your children.
It is great to hear your story, and I am excited to read your book!
Good Luck!
Thank you!
beautiful. thoughtful. what a legacy you leave behind for your friend. I’m happy to be sharing your book on Booking with Manic on Monday. Thank you.
Oh, thank you! The blog world is a wonderful one for spreading the word, especially for people who don’t have the lifestyle to travel nonstop on tour. I appreciate it, Stephanie.
Nichole, I wish you the best on what sounds like a great debut novel. As soon as I read “debut” and “journals” I was in. Both of those hook me. Then I read the rest of your post, and it sounds amazing. What a tribute to a friend. I have written in journals all my life, so yes, that was totally cathartic. I don’t know what I would have done without them. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you, Christina. I love hearing that people still keep journals in the blogging world.
Interesting and thoughtful post, and your book sounds amazing! Wishing you all the best with it. :)
Thanks Shari! Loving the adventure so far.
This is a gorgeous, gorgeous post. Can’t wait to read your book, Nichole!
Wow, Nichole! This journey you hinted at in your post is many-layered.
As an empathetic/passionate reader, when I find a book that ‘speaks’ to me about the deeper things of life, I put myself inside the hero/heroine and learn.
My upcoming novel, TWANG, coming August 1 is about a girl with a childhood full of drinking and cheating and lying. She runs from it, to Nashville, and discovers that all those emotional landmines are great country songs.
Even better, she learns that to pour those hard memories out into art is cathartic for her.
I understand your need to write this book, to allow yourself to ‘go’ those painful places.
God bless,
Wow! This is an amazing post and I have now added this book to my wishlist. I’ve seen lots of great things about it already but having read this I am now very intrigued!
The first time I sat down to write fiction I found so much of myself pouring out. I wrote about emotions that are difficult to utter aloud, those that are bittersweet.
Your book obviously comes from a place of fear, sadness, and incredible love. I look forward to experiencing it.
i have planned, outlined, scheduled, and written things that are alright, and some not. but it seems the best stuff comes when i’m not planning it. like with most things in life, the best writing comes from our overflow.
I have heard such good things about this book from everyone!I enjoyed reading your post. I can’t wait to read the book!
Amazing post, Nichole. As usual, I’m bowled over by what you’ve just written. I did not know until this moment what actually spurred you to write this book – what a beautiful tribute to your friend.
As for the cathartic aspect of writing, I wrote a lot of angst filled poetry as a teenager – and penned a surprisingly deep and symbolic poem at the age of 10 about leaving childhood behind. (My poem-writing grandmother couldn’t believe I actually wrote it!) And when it came to writing about the penguin rescue, there were many times during the process when I was reduced to tears. However, it was more of a burning urge that would not fade that ultimately compelled me to put the story onto the page. In the end, I just could not NOT write the book.
But your last sentence in this post made me gasp in recognition. “We don’t know what we’re capable of until we embrace something we never thought we could do…” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought and said this same thing in regards to the penguin rescue experience. I never dreamed I was capable of handling something so monstrous is size and scope, and through that grueling experience, I learned what I was truly made of.
This I know to be true; When we are pushed beyond our perceived limits, we find a deep well of strength to draw from, and we discover that we are capable of handling far more than we ever knew. Our fundamental understanding of ourself changes, and we are never the same again.
Cannot wait to start your book….
Congratulations to Jill, who has just won a copy of Nichole’s debut, The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D! I’ll send you an email privately, Jill, to work out the details.