In a way it is a very personal paper as she talks about how she dealt with her son being in a coma following an unprovoked attack. She talks candidly about how one of her coping mechanisms was for part of her brain, which she calls the 'recording device', to start taking notes of what was going on around her, '...observing the particular sounds and smells and colour...' And this was the part that resonated with me. I have had these moments where my 'recording device' has started, moments of desperation, grief, pain, fear, anger. It can be in the midst of fights, watching death visit, or watching those you love in so much pain (physical and mental) and you can't save them from it. You notice the small, seemingly insignificant details: a white feather, a globule of spittle, the fear in someone's eyes. All of which at a later date can bring to life a piece of writing. Because that's what we do when we are writers.
Jen repeats Graham Greene's maxim: 'There is a splinter of ice in the heart of a writer' (from his autobiography A Sort of Life, 1971). He says, as writers we watch and listen even if we are in the midst of it. There will always be a part of us that has stepped aside and is watching events unfold. As Jen says of her observations in hospital, 'This was something one day which I might need.' I can honestly say that there are two incidents that come to mind immediately where I can remember actually thinking, you must remember what this feels like. A version of one incident ended up in Disjointed. The other hasn't found its place - yet. Jen, quite rightly, points out that, as writers, we do it like a reflex and that she could not have 'not-done it'. It is something writers do, we eavesdrop, we watch and we take notes. 'The world is our data source, our archive...'
Judgement will always need to be made as to whether something should or should not be included. The incident that made it into Disjointed, for example, couldn't of got there without me discussing it with the relevant person. People were unlikely to recognise it, as it was a very personal moment, but there was always the risk. I needed to know they were happy with me including it. There are, as can be seen by this and Jen's article, ethics involved. Decisions to be made. I particularly like Jen's idea, which picks up on Diamonds thoughts, when she says, 'This is the work of a writer, and a writer writing ethically: seeing nonsense; imaginatively entering into it; making it have meaning.' Because, for me, this is what I do with all these notes and small details that are written on that splinter of ice in my heart - I give them meaning and use them to make stories for others.
How about you? Have you had the 'recording device' announce itself at inopportune moments?
There are so many people I would like to say this to at the moment
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The weird thing is my recording device is invisible to me. And then at the most surprising moments, it reveals itself and I find myself remembering something in acute detail (and I don't think one is ever dispassionate because the best memory is made of emotions). And Jen Webb may have felt like she had a splinter in her heart but sometimes seeing is all one can do. I do hope her son made a full recovery.
ReplyDeleteYes, he made a virtually full recovery but it took a long time. I think you are right Candy, most of the time it is invisible, it is just something we do automatically. The two events where I was actually conscious of it were both truly horrendous so I wonder if it is a coping mechanism, almost a diversionary tactic.
ReplyDeleteIt makes sense to me that recording these moments are coping mechanisms - they can enable us to give some sort of distance to the event. Perhaps little details are tucked away for later use so that they don't become overwhelming at the time of crisis. Really interesting post, Ness.
ReplyDeleteThanks Sue. I think you have a good point about it stopping us being overwhelmed during a crisis
ReplyDeleteOh yes, this post totally resonates - as does Sue's comment.
ReplyDeleteJust today lovely husband said to me, "Don't you ever stop recording, watching, seeing things through a writer's eyes?" I guess I don't, though I can't say I'm always aware that the recording device is running.
Is it ice - or a protective pane of glass? Which ever it may be, there certainly is an ethical issue we must consider.
ReplyDeleteThank you for this post, Nessa - it is right to reflect on these things.
These are important reflections. I've been thinking about this reading interviews and features on Rachel Cusk's latest book about her own divorce. Some people call her Narcissistic, but I know that I found her book about having a child incredibly helpful for me in my own struggles. It's important that people do record these moments, and honestly reflect them in their own writing. It both makes powerful stories, and also supports and reassures us all in our own trials and tribulations. Thanks for the post.
ReplyDeleteI think Nicky you are right as writers we don't ever stop watching but most of the time, as you say, you are not aware of it. Sometimes it only comes back to you when you are writing and some image suddenly appears that you have forgotten. But at others being conscious of the process has probably saved my sanity LOL
ReplyDeleteI like Graham Greene's idea of ice because it can melt, like in the Snow Queen, as Jen mentions. And yes Laura, as you know the subjects I often focus on are contentious, but I believe that sometimes the information has to be out there so that the reader can made decisions, experience it vicariously or, as you say console us. Stories are a good place for that.
ReplyDeleteThis is fascinating Ness. Thanks for raising the subject. I'm very intriged by the idea of an invisible recording voice and am wondering whether we develop this in childhood (or maybe later at time of need) as a reaction to a particular circumstance or event(s) then continue to use it, or do people who write come in more predisposed to doing it.
ReplyDeleteInteresting idea Bekki, I would like to know that too. What do other people think?
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