Writing fiction in the age of monsters
I had a new book published last year, in case you hadn’t noticed. My tenth work of historical fiction. For thirteen years before I signed my first publishing contract, seeing my writing in print was a dream I’d pursued with relentless fervor. I now make my living writing novels, something not many writers can claim, and yet recently I found myself desperately seeking my enthusiasm for a passion that until now, had never failed me.
I’ve never been the type of writer to indulge in ennui or prolonged writer’s block. Perhaps because I wrote my first four novels while still working a demanding day job, the few hours I had to spare for writing had to be filled; there simply wasn’t extra time for angst. And I’m not apathetic by nature, so the sudden feeling — it felt sudden to me, though in reality it must have been creeping up — that what I do for a living doesn’t matter anymore caught me off guard. At first, I thought this is it: my dreaded midlife crisis. It’s such a cliche, yet much as I’d rather not admit it, I’ve reached that certain age. Mid-50s, when you start to question who you are and where you’re going, and none of it looks very appealing. Nevertheless, I’ve been writing full time for nearly nine years, garnering bestselling acclaim, along with the inevitable highs and lows of being a professional writer in a digital age. I now have the extra time to write yet my discipline had remained almost martial: six hours of writing five days a week without fail, with evenings often devoted to revisions.
So, to not feel as if this milestone in my career was worth so much as a celebration sent me into a tail spin and prompted me to return to therapy. I have a family history of severe depression that seems to rear its ugly head in middle age and it’s been my recurring fear that I might fall prey to it.
To my surprise, what I discovered in therapy is that I could be suffering a form of PTSD brought on by the current climate (pun intended) in the world at large. Now, melodramatic as that sounds — and trust me, I know high drama — apparently, thousands of Americans (as in, the 48.2% who didn’t vote for the current occupant of the White House, one wonders?) have the same ailment, as my therapist pointed out. He assured me he’s seen a significant increase in people seeking counseling for crumbling relationships, in and out of the office, for pervasive low-grade depression, inappropriate anger, self-hurt, addiction, and a host of other assorted psychological nasties. He called it “PTSD in the Age of Trump.” Which should be the title of a book.
My new novel is about the Romanovs, specifically the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna, mother to Nicholas II, Russia’s last Tsar. She witnessed the decay and downfall of the 300-year-old Imperial dynasty. It’s not only a novel about one woman’s struggle to save her adopted nation and her family, but also a novel of how privilege and blind trust in power can corrupt the soul of a country. It’s about how when people under the heel of oppression have had enough, they will take matters into their own hands, leading to unforeseen consequences. It’s a cautionary tale of the past that should speak to us today.
Still, it’s difficult to equate the bygone splendor and terror of the Russian Imperial age with our complicated 21st century world, or even, perhaps, find any compassion for the beleaguered Romanovs, whom many believe either sat idle while their country crumbled or actively fomented the disintegration through their arrogant sense of entitlement. When I confided to my therapist that despite my success, I felt as if what I wrote was trivial entertainment in a world over-saturated by too much escapism, he suggested that perhaps I should look at it as my contribution to cultural awareness.
“ You don’t change the course of history,” he said, quoting Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of India, “by turning the faces of portraits to the wall.”
Setting aside the startling fact that my therapist cited an Indian activist who died in 1964 after having fought to liberate his country from centuries of colonialism, his quote stuck with me. Was what I write my attempt to turn those faded portraits toward the light, to restore life to those who lived before me and seek to understand how they coped, in the hope I may better understand myself and the world around me?
In this time of escalating intolerance, of rampant narcissism and yearning for Instagram perfection even as our gorgeous natural environment, our very planet, is under assault by forces that seem far beyond remedy; in a time where xenophobia, nationalism, and bigotry are gaining ground even as humanity’s population spirals into unsustainable numbers, decimating the habitats and survival of millions of species who share this planet with us . . . well, it’s hard to find much purpose in spinning tales of dead queens. In fiction itself. Because reality has become so much bigger, so much more overwhelming and frightening than fiction can ever be.
But after much soul searching, I understand that we all must seek a haven during this perilous, mortal journey we share. Mine is writing stories based in history, in the hope that someone, somewhere, will read them and be moved enough to recognize the parallels between the struggles of the past and our struggles of today. It might not be the activism I yearn for (were it up to me, I’d be patrolling Africa, arresting poachers and defending elephants), but it’s what I can do. Use my keyboard to deliver my contribution. Send my books out into a world where they may or may not make a difference.
The much beloved actress / writer Carrie Fisher once said, “Take your broken heart. Make into art.”
It seems that is what we all must do.
