The Art (and the Importance) of Suffering
By Sarah Callender | May 2, 2024 |
My relationship with crows is best described as complicated-but-definitely-trending-positive. Last Thursday evening however, I was startled by a sudden, fervent, 5-alarm cacawphony. No matter, I told myself. They mean me no harm. They are not coming for me. They are simply playing games, noisy games like Taunt the Neighborhood Bald Eagle. Or, Taunt the Neighborhood Raccoon. Or, Taunt the Red-headed Postal Carrier, the One with Kind Eyes and Dog Treats.
But after ten minutes, the cawing had only grown louder, and when I tiptoed to the window to peek at the mayhem, I was amazed: close to one hundred frenzied, agitated crows had come to land on the oak tree just outside our house. Most of them were cawCAWing their hearts out.
Then I saw the reason for their distress: on the sidewalk under the oak tree lay a dead crow. Its body looked terrible, wings bent at weird angles.
Oh, I breathed. Oh dear.
A few crows hopped nervously, almost awkwardly, around their crumpled friend, but most hovered in the tree above the deceased, cawing with passion and despair. It hurt my heart as much as it hurt my ears. It seemed I was witnessing a crow’s funeral.
We Americans, generally, aren’t great mourners. We are embarrassed by wailing grief, by such unabashed, unrestrained sounds of despair, by emotion that cannot be shushed. But these beautiful, brilliant, crows did not tamp down their suffering. They did not silence their agony. They attended to their dead with beautiful, anguished suffering.
As darkness fell, and the cawing slowed then finally stopped, I realized I would have to take care of the dead crow. A pleasant realization this was not, and I won’t recount the details of my awkward method of transferring a dead crow into a series of garbage bags, but shortly, with the crow double-bagged and safely entombed in my garbage can, I went back inside, washed my hands, then returned to my laptop and Googled “crow funeral.”
I learned something interesting: while bird experts do consider this phenomenon a “crow funeral,” the mourning sounds that I attributed to grief and mourning, were more likely a very loud and lengthy conversation like this: “Hey! Get OVER HERE ASAP! Edgar is DEAD! Let’s determine WHAT HAPPENED to him! We need to get to the BOTTOM of this MYSTERY so we can avoid whatever it was that ended Edgar’s life! Edgar’s life AND death must serve as A CAUTIONARY TALE!”
Or something like that.
Further research did indeed confirm the funeral was less an invitation to express suffering, and more a way to discuss, research, and ultimately avoid the suffering their fallen friend had endured.
As someone who also prefers to avoid suffering, I understood the crows’ behavior. I really and truly do everything, within reason, to prevent the possibility of suffering.
Actually, wait … okay, sorry. Looking at what I just wrote, I see that’s not accurate. I don’t do everything within reason to prevent suffering. In fact, when I step back and look at my life, past and present, I see that I actually do quite a lot to invite suffering into my life. I choose opportunities where I will likely experience some kind of suffering.
Some examples:
- I watched the Netflix series, Ripley, a show full of unlikeable characters in which I was wound up in a constant state of anxiety and repulsion. Yet I couldn’t wait for the next episode.
- In my youth, after painful breakups, I tortured myself listening to songs about love and heartbreak. Most of them from Jewel’s Pieces of You album. Over and over and over.
- I chose to have children.
- I have a diagnosis of bipolar 2 disorder, a mental health issue that has offered me ample opportunities to suffer. Yet I wouldn’t trade my lemon-of-a-brain for another. I really wouldn’t.
- Sometimes I intentionally look at photos and websites that contain disgusting details and imagery of gross living things coming out of other living things.
- I am a writer. I choose to be a writer. And you do, too. We writers wouldn’t choose writing were we wary of suffering.
Of course, some of the greatest sources of suffering we would gladly avoid at all costs. In April I attended a Celebration of Life for one of my son’s classmates, a lovely, healthy, gentle, brilliant young man whose heart simply stopped in the middle of the night. The suffering his family has experienced since getting the terrible news is beyond measure. They would exchange this suffering for their son in a heartbeat. But because they cannot, they will abide. They will bear their suffering beautifully.
I left the celebration with a desperate urge to search, as the crows had, for something to explain this death. So I could avoid such overwhelming pain.
But that’s not how things work. And a life without suffering really isn’t much of a life. I know this, yet I still fear even the idea of suffering.
In his essay, “Why We Shouldn’t Be Afraid of Suffering,” Thich Nhat Hanh writes,
We should not be afraid of suffering. We should be afraid of only one thing, and that is not knowing how to deal with our suffering. Handling our suffering is an art. If we know how to suffer, we suffer much less, and we’re no longer afraid of being overwhelmed by the suffering inside.
How then do we learn how to deal with suffering? We cannot live like crows at a funeral: poking around in the suffering of others so we can know how to avoid pain. We must accept that we will experience suffering. We will suffer both alone and alongside others. We will suffer messily, awkwardly, needlessly, maybe even beautifully.
Handling our suffering really is an art, so it’s lucky that we are artists! And as artists, as sculptors of stories, our characters show readers how they might handle pain. From the suffering of the fictional characters who inhabit our stories, there is much for the reader–for the writer as well–to observe, learn and experience. When we witness and experience the suffering of fictional characters, we see myriad possible paths for how we might deal with, how we might even embrace, our suffering. We learn the art of suffering, and if we are lucky, we learn the art of suffering beautifully.
Think about your protagonist. In what ways–big or small–does your protagonist experience suffering? Is the suffering self imposed, or does it come from an external force? And what is the character’s response to the suffering? What does the character do to cope? What role does “suffering” play in the arc of the story? How does the form, the degree, the source of, or the response to the suffering shift through the story?
Will you share some examples, big or small, of your protagonist’s suffering?
Thank you, WU friends, for reading and for sharing with the community.
A Middle Grade novelist (and Middle School English teacher), Sarah Callender lives in Seattle with her family. Because Sarah dislikes cleaning anything that will just get messy again, she tidies the house and weeds the yard only when absolutely necessary. This allows her time to focus on her true–and somewhat fraught–passions: writing, Abe Lincoln, and Tony’s Chocolonely chocolate bars. Equally passionate about mental health advocacy, Sarah is a member of The Stability Network. Sarah’s first novel, LUCY IN BETWEEN, will be published by Margaret Ferguson Books/Holiday House in 2026.
[coffee]
Cope. That word leapt out at me. My MC in my WIP is a runaway bride, tortured by guilt for making The Worst Mistake Possible immediately before meeting and, within five days, marrying the love of her life. (It’s 1953.)
The runaway is her unconscious penance, which leads me to ask how much penance is enough to pay for TWMP? How much suffering does she need to undergo to feel that she can forgive herself? Answer: more than she…no, I…had planned. It’s a suspense novel and because of this post I now know that she is going to get shot, and not only that…
Thank you! Such a vivid post, thanks to the crows too. Bad stuff happens to characters in novels and how can that be authentically so without them suffering? Great topic and good prompts!
Benjamin, I am so curious about your MC! And I love the premise, as well as her conflict. Just reading your comment, I feel empathy for her. What are we to do with our guilt? When does it stop being productive? And I’m curious … does she feel regret mixed with her guilt?
I love (and don’t love) that you left me hanging. You must be a storyteller! I’ll look forward to turning the pages to see if and how she survives her guilt.
Thanks so much for these excellent and provocative details!
Hi Sarah:
I tend to think the core inner conflict of any human being (or character based on one) is between the pursuit of the promise of life and protection from the pain of life. If one too diligently avoids suffering, it limits the opportunities for taking the risks necessary to change and lead a fulfilling life. If one recklessly charges ahead in hopes of ever new and exciting experiences, it risks ignoring the warning signs one’s self-protective insticts might provide: I don’t trust that person, the costs outweigh the benefits, etc.
However, I’d add that a focus on suffering can metastasize into an embrace of victimhood, which retreats from agency and values what has happened to me over what I can do to make my life better.
All of which provides avenues into examining our characters more deeply. Thanks for the reminder.
David, thank you! I have been thinking about this idea of victimhood–especially metastasized victimhood–quite a lot recently; I have a loved one who has gotten herself so stuck in her victimhood, as well as memories of the wrongs done to her seventy+ years ago, that she makes her life smaller and smaller each year. It’s frustrating to watch from my spectator seat. There’s so much wasted potential. Thank you for your beautiful comment and presence here!
Wonderful post, Sarah. The crows are fascinating.
Thank you Liz, and yes the are! I didn’t even include the weirdest details about their funerals. Yikes o’ frighty! Read only if you are okay with disturbing things: https://www.audubon.org/news/think-crow-funerals-are-strange-wait-until-you-see-wake
:)
Oh! Such a great essay! Thank you, thank you. (I needed to read this today.)
Thank you, Amy, for taking the time to comment. Writing these posts is always selfish … I don’t always recognize this as I start drafting a post, but by the time I complete it, I see that I wrote what I need to remember. Or learn. Or accept. See how selfish and self-centered I am?
XO!
Wonderful post, in every way—from the power of the crows to the thoughtful questions at the end. Reading it has sharpened my awareness of a pattern among my protagonists that seems to have intensified with each novel—and emerged, now, as the center-of-gravity for my forthcoming book. Whoa! I hadn’t quite seem that before.
My (female) protagonists suffer because of their own impulsive acts. They know better, know what will ensue, yet are unable to restrain themselves. As a result, someone is harmed or something is damaged, lost. What’s done is done, yet my protagonist’s response of shame, remorse, the wish to undo, etc. ultimately leads to a wish to be good.
I suppose it sounds corny to write those words—”wish to be good”—yet the human striving for goodness has come to be (for me) the most important and maybe (for me) the only worthwhile thing to write about. Not directly, because my protagonists don’t start with that aim. But it emerges , or can emerge, from a certain kind of suffering … when we accept and strive to transform it.
So thank you again for your post!
Barbara, not corny at all…this desire to do good is a natural response when one is truly contrite.
I agree with Vijaya! There’s nothing corny about this. I love that you find “striving for goodness” to be at the heart of your stories. It’s refreshing and appealing. And I love the journey your characters experience as their aim shifts. Thinking about this idea–the wish to be good–resonates with me. I really do wish to be good, kind, selfless, humble, gentle, generous, and I always find a way to mess up. I wish I weren’t so human … we KNOW what we want, so why is it so hard to stay the course?
Thanks for this beautiful, honest comment! What a gift.
Hey Sarah — Although I don’t consider myself crow-like, and am not prone to taunting redheads or postal workers, I have written a huge extended tale of suffering and woe. Parts of it even resemble a crow funeral. Some of the suffering characters seem to be more likeable to readers than others, and I’ve noticed a tendency for some of those who like characters to grow agitated on their behalf. “Why doesn’t she/he just do ____?” these readers ask, filling in the blank with their version of suffering avoidance.
Initially such responses made me feel like I’d done something wrong, as if the setup wasn’t foolproof. Had I presented suffering that was avoidable? You’ve reminded me of something I’ve only begun to fully recognize. Such reactions (theirs and mine) were missing the point my subconscious has long sought to teach me. Of course it’s natural to seek to avoid suffering. But suffering is unavoidable. Still, folks will do most anything to avoid it, up to and including the agitated second-guessing of characters in books. Avoiding suffering is a choice to not face up to a major part of the human experience.
So thanks Sarah, thanks subconscious. Here’s to learning how to face suffering with grace, and to the fiction that aids us along our way to being better humans.
Yes, Vaughn! When we read fiction, we see these characters doing supremely stupid stuff, getting in their own way, harming their chance at success or happiness. It’s so easy for me to judge (forgetting that I do that very same stupid stuff). My 8th graders were just ranting about a character in the novel we are studying … bemoaning the selfish, stupid choices the character makes. It’s so easy for us to see others so clearly. And just as difficult to have that same clarity when we attempt to look at ourselves and our actions objectively.
I am reading Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning … I’m embarrassed to say I have never read it before, and I love what he says about beautiful suffering (and how he manages to live that out).
Grateful for you!
You’ve made me realize something this morning, Sarah, and that is each of my stories begins with my protagonists living with the long tail of pain responses that are psychologically unhealthy. Their inner journeys involve recognizing that and making healthier choices through more direct acknowledgment of whatever it is they lost. And that’s something the crows know—direct acknowledgment is healthy, and socializing loss (if you will) is a way to do that. Thank you, wise friend. I think, in a prior life, you must’ve been an owl. 🦉
Ha! In a prior life, I think I was a snail. Or a baked potato. Or maybe a sparkly unicorn with a rainbow mane.
I LOVE what you say here … about acknowledging and socializing the loss. I also love the phrase, “the long tail of pain responses …” I’m so glad you’re a writer. And a human. And a friend. xo!
Sarah, how serendipitous that just yesterday I listened to a lecture on Flannery’s take on suffering: https://cct.biola.edu/one-eye-squinted-flannery-oconnor-call-suffering/ It resonates deeply because I, too, live in pain. It coincided with our conversion so at least I can offer it up, unite it to the Cross of Christ. It’s not wasted. But there is another kind of suffering that is so deep I have no words for it. It’s knowing you have hurt the one you love…and although you’ve been forgiven, the sorrow remains, the consequences of sin remain. My characters, in these early stages, are walking wounded. I suspect it’s going to be an emotional journey to wholeness. Thank you for your reflections. Crows are fascinating–I remember reading about a young girl who’d leave treats for the crows that came to visit her backyard and they’d bring shiny gifts for her too.
That’s right, Vijaya: It’s not wasted.
Thank you for that beautiful reminder of truth. Thank you for sharing these details of your pain. Thank you for sharing the Flannery link. So many gifts in your sweet comment.
xo!
thanks for the heads-up and the link, Vijaya. What most most resonated with me, personally and as a writer, is the difference of suffering and choosing to suffer. The gift of grace, or its secular equivalent, is what allows a person not only to accept the inevitable suffering in life, but to open oneself up to avoidable suffering for the sake of someone else. As the late reggae singer bob Marley said, “The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just to find the ones worth suffering for.” (As a long-time Cubs fan, I know what he means.)
Hi, Sarah. This is such a wonderful and heartfelt post. My 25-year-old son died suddenly late last year of an undiagnosed heart ailment. I am still suffering with grief and I struggle with whether and how much I should write about it. There is so much I want to say to him and about him. Someday, I may channel my grief into my fiction writing, but that day is a long way from now. I am watching Ripley on Netflix and I am fascinated by it. Talk about micro tension. Every scene and every bit of dialogue is charged with tension. Andrew Scott is brilliant in a creepy sort of way. And the choice of filming in black and white and the use of light lend an eerie quality to the drama. Thanks again for this post and I hope you are doing well.
Feeling for you, Chris, and hoping there is some solace, somehow. He was lucky to have you as his dad.
As Don has said: Peter was very lucky, Chris, to have you for a father. Holding you in my thoughts, friend.
Chris, that has to be the heaviest of weights. I’m sorry for your loss.
Chris, I cannot even imagine your grief (I’ll be honest, I can’t go to that place even though I’ve sung Requiem Mass for two young people). I am so sorry. Prayers ascending for you and your family and for the repose of your son’s soul.
Sending you all good and healing wishes, Chris. May the good memories bring you comfort.
I’m so sorry, Chris.
Oh, Chris. I’m so sorry that you have had to experience such immeasurable loss.
The photo at the top of this post is a sculpture called “Melancholy,” but to me, “melancholy” doesn’t capture the depth of grief, loss, and suffering that this torso-less figure seems to be feeling.
at my friend’s son’s Celebration of Life service, she and her husband shared a letter they had written to their son. They told their son that they would never stop thinking about him, never stop loving him, never stop remembering him. I am sure the same is true for you. xox!
Sarah, thank you so much for your thoughtful reply. I love the idea of writing a letter to my son. There are so many things I never got to say to him. I think about him every day. Telling him I love him and won’t stop thinking about him would provide some comfort, at least to me. Thanks again! I have been strengthened by the outpouring of love and support from friends, including the Writer Unboxed community.
We, Chris, are strengthened by your presence here at WU.
And yes, I love the idea of writing a letter (or a collection of letters) to your son. It’s such a simple idea, but I’m telling you, it was one of the most beautiful things I have ever witnessed.
What is your son’s name?
xo!
I feel for your loss, Chris. My brother died in an auto accident. For the longest time, my heart was too full, too many emotions and memories barging through the door, trying to get out. It took years before they settled themselves and allowed me to write about them. The memories, and the writing, hurt, but they also heal.
Thank you, Sarah, for such an eye-opening post. I could write pages and pages about my suffering characters in the various novels I’ve written, but instead I’ll try to summarize my own encounter with suffering that happened less than a year ago because I learned a lot from it and I’m sure I’ll draw from that experience in future wrting.
I’m adopted, and never knew my birth family in all the 66 years I’ve been on this planet. Last year, my estranged niece found me through the 23andMe DNA registry. It was phenomenal to learn about people with whom I shared the same blood, and who never knew of my existence. My birthmother had kept ne a secret for over 66 years, and though she was still alive, her Alzheimer’s had robbed me of any chance to get to know her.
She died in December. I asked to attend her funeral, and my niece was extremely happy to have me fly to Wichita and meet my biological relatives, including a half sister and half brother. However, my new-found family felt the opposite. What was I to do? Despite the suffering I knew I’d endure by going, I chose to make the trip.
I realized I could be met with hostility and resentment, but I also knew I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t go. I’d miss out on the chance of a lifetime to actually see and touch and talk to these people who’d just been informed their mother, grandmother, and great grandmother had suffered the birth and relinquishment of a baby that resulted from an unplanned pregnancy with a stranger.
It was a recipe for disaster, but instead it was the most amazing experience of my life. As reluctant as they were to meet me, once they did, they welcomed me with hugs and tears of pain and forgiveness. Through me, they learned something new about the woman who’d given me life and they were grateful. I even got to see and touch my birthmother, whose body lay in state at the funeral home. I suffer even now as I relive this moment, but in a good way. My life has been enriched by the experience and I now have more family than I believed possible. I’ll never regret my decision.
What a beautiful, tender story to share here, Karen. I’ve always felt fiction can be made richer by leaning into the painful place rather than pulling back after only a glance. It’s good to know your real pain-leaning brought you emotional riches as well. I’m glad for you. Thank you for sharing, for showing us the power of suffering and acceptance in the real world.
Karen, thank you for your beautiful story. I can only imagine how hard it must’ve been to not be able to get to know your birth mother before she died. But now, you and your birth family have much to discover together. I wonder how many such reunions are occurring due to 23andMe.
Karen, I am teary reading this beautiful comment. Thank you for sharing. I was so worried there would be an unhappy ending … I love that there wasn’t. Aren’t we humans complex and amazing?!? I can only imagine the huge range of emotions you have experienced around these surprises, interactions, and events. So much bittersweetness. I am grateful for your willingness to share here … it’s a beautiful example.
Amazing essay and amazing responses! Gives me a whole other way to look at suffering. Am still drinking my morning coffee. Had woken from a bad dream and woke up depressed. And guilty about feeling depressed. But, now thinking that maybe I need to go through this feeling today…to move through it with curiosity not knowing how my day will change…I am especially moved by Karen’s being able to touch her birth mother’s body.
Yes, Betty. I feel the same after reading Karen’s comment. And yes, these comments are so rich and wise … and so helpful too. I never fail to be in awe of this community of word-lovers and lovers of humankind. Thank you for the reminder about going through a day with curiosity. That’s brilliant. xo!
Sarah, I need to reread your piece, but one thing I can offer… in my WIP the kidnapped child loves crows. Why, because of the tale of the crow and the pitcher, and how the crow must drop pebbles into the water to raise the level for drinking. LITTLE BY LITTLE DOES THE TRICK. This holds her up while she is living away from her family…the knowledge that she can raise that level and get home again.
Beth, that is beautiful. And I love that tale! I can visualize the picture book I had as a child … where the clever crow does the pebble trick. Those crows are so darn smart. :)
My protagonist is suffering because she lost her best friend 20 years ago, when the friend’s mother took her and fled after discovering her husband was abusing her. Although it’s been two decades since her loss, my protagonist hasn’t been able to deal with it. Instead, she’s shut everyone out. And, in the aftermath of losing her bestie, she’s convinced she was abandoned even though she knows her bf had no choice but to go with her mother.
I’m intrigued by how she’ll come out of her deep freeze, or if it’s even possible. It’s only recently I’ve begun to realize that I almost always write about characters coming to term with loss and grief.
Gosh, Debra. What a compelling story idea this is. I often think about the power of a “myth” … myths that exist within a family or a relationship. Myths can hold such power, and as a result, clinging to the unhealthy, unhelpful myths can take away our power. It sounds like this is the cause of her deep freeze.
And the older I get, the more I realize that loss is one of those universal experiences. There’s not a human on the planet who hasn’t lost something or someone at some point. And of course, where there is loss, there is grief.
Thank you, Debra, for sharing here. :)
So many touching comments here, regarding fictional lives and real lives. Loss can distance people from each other, but be a unifier as well. Sarah, thanks for a provocative post.
As for those gossipy crows, I’m sure that among those ones speculating on Edgar’s property values, his poor flight stylings, and how his glasses never fit, there was one who admired his brio, and who will write a eulogy that will stirringly immortalize his crowness and shut ’em all up.
I adore you and your funniness, Tom. Thank you for being here!
Life took away the career I worked for all my life – dumping me into a misunderstood and disbelieved Long-covid-like illness (still not resolved) 34 years ago.
I CHOSE to regift it to one of the main characters of a story ABOUT, among many other things, what it’s like to navigate chronic illness in a society that often considers it your fault – and have been working on that trilogy since 2000. The first two volumes came out in 2015 and 2022, and I’m determined to finish it (est. five more years).
The suffering is daily; sometimes I can turn it into art.
Wow, Alicia. Thank you for sharing your wisdom and strength. You are the opposite of “victim.” And I think that’s the key … making art out of suffering and regifting the pain.
Through your books, readers can and will see the beautiful residue of suffering.
Lovely as always. I always look forward to your posts and wind up thinking about them for days.
You’re so lovely, Liz. Thank you! xo!
I’m late to today’s post, but it has moved me, as the comments have too.
“We must accept that we will experience suffering.”
That is what my protagonist has to learn to do. She’s born a psychic and feels deeply the fate of others, including the suffering. But as a child, she’s still learning how to use the Gift-Curse as she calls it, guided only by her greedy mobster father. Of course she wants to avoid it, as we all do, choosing not to go there, into the darkness of her premonitions.
The events of 9/11, when she is only 7 years old, are pivotal to her story. Perhaps, if she had known how to better use her power, she could have prevented the mom of her friend, the dad of another, from dying that day. Her father uses her guilt to push her into getting better at fortune-telling, for his own gain.
Suffering and avoiding suffering is definitely a moving force in the story. And my protagonist must learn to accept it and herself, including her Gift-Curse.
Thank you for pointing that out to me today.
Oh, Ada. Thank you for sharing this! What a fabulous premise and conflict. I see so much potential for your protagonist’s character arc. I love imagining how she might tell kick her guilt (and perhaps her father) to the curb. What fun (and what heartbreak) in your story.
Thank you, Sarah for provoking me to think about this. I remind myself from time to time of something I wish I had heard earlier in life. My friend said, “In every life, some pain is inevitable; suffering, however, is optional.” I think she meant, in echo of what you pointed out in your wonderful post, suffering is one of the choices we make for dealing with pain. What it meant to me was, feel the pain, embrace it as appropriate, learn what can be learned from it, and move on. I still miss my deceased mother, but it doesn’t hurt any more, and I have the memories. I guess most of my characters don’t suffer much either, or maybe they do so silently.