I am no longer reading my novels as fiction, but as
documents that hold clues to an early childhood trauma.
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| Diary entry showing my obsessive novel writing |
The image shows my diary entry of 27 September 1987. My novel writing has become obsessive. I had written:
"Spent all day doing nothing but typing pages, re-typing and typing again. There were 12 I had to copy, not counting the mistakes I had to correct and even to write. I had to lie to Mark (my then husband) to get here to do this. I told him I'd be tidying my flat, which I did. At the end of the day, Mark cried thinking there was something wrong."
I would continue to work on
my novel throughout the day and not see anyone. In future years, I would write
my other novels with the same fervor. Something was obviously wrong, for I was tapping into subconscious horrors during the writing, only the scenes were dressed up as fiction and I didn't realise.
Nadia
I am reading my final novel, Nadia, written a few years ago. A scene brings confusion. In the story, 2 protagonists share the backseat of a limo during a crash. One of them sustains a throat injury that causes him to choke. The other uses a broken bottle to puncture his windpipe in order to force air into his lungs. I naturally pause due to finding a broken bottle in the scene. I had thrown a bottle at Eve on the day of her accident.
I examine the scene closely, looking for further clues
about the day of Eve’s accident.
The woman who performs the throat puncture relives
unsettling memories of the care-home she used to work. In her mind, a creepy
doctor with stubble breathes innuendo into her ear. The woman, Nina, tries
to shake the horrible memory away but his vile innuendo keeps returning.
The Missing Piece of the Jigsaw
Instantly, I know the doctor I had written about was
strongly based upon my uncle, Mum’s half-brother Dan. I am confused. Why
have I put Uncle Dan there? He was not present when Eve cut her face.
Nina’s horrid flashback unfurls in the scene and I
grow more unsettled. I recall occasional references to Uncle Dan staying with
our family in 1968. I thought nothing of this, as I would have been only 3 and
assumed he had little to do with me. Dad occasionally related of Uncle Dan’s
escapades, travelling the world and working for the police. He had little to do
with us.
Or so I had thought.
I read on, increasingly disturbed at the next part, which I had
written myself. Sex references. Plenty of them. But this is nothing unusual in
‘dark fiction’ of the Kindle age. I believed I was simply putting myself ‘out
there’.
What I hadn’t noticed was the frequency of sex abuse, rape
and smothering within my novels. It was all over the place. I hadn’t notice
because I was too focused upon looking for broken glass and facial injuries –
things to do with Eve’s accident.
The next part is an abridged excerpt from my book Mirror Image Shattered.
“My final novel, Nadia,
describes Nina’s flashbacks as she tries to save a life in the crashed limo. Her
former boss, a Consultant I had based on Uncle Dan had taken a shine to this young,
naive trainee. But Consultant Uncle-Dan would take liberties in running a
finger over Nina’s body to illustrate incisions sites of the body.
My subconscious wanted to push things further with his inappropriate behavior, but I couldn’t bear the thought. Despite this, Consultant Uncle Dan’s slithery voice would enter Nina’s head as she blows into the empty pen casing on following instructions on how to save a life. It seemed I couldn’t avoid his grubby innuendo in the scene, deleting his words and reinstating them several times.”
My subconscious wanted to push things further with his inappropriate behavior, but I couldn’t bear the thought. Despite this, Consultant Uncle Dan’s slithery voice would enter Nina’s head as she blows into the empty pen casing on following instructions on how to save a life. It seemed I couldn’t avoid his grubby innuendo in the scene, deleting his words and reinstating them several times.”
The next scene of my novel would cause the unearthing
of a memory I had buried for almost 50 years.
My life is about to fall apart.
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