Last night I met someone from a previous writing class for dinner for the first time. Instead of the usual lies about how well we were doing, we each told the truth. Her partner of 20 years is leaving and I am still adjusting to the loss of my stepson.

These truths made me think of how writing functions as rage therapy. On the page, I’m free to be as murderous, as depressed, as dramatic and as pitiful as my psyche needs to be. I can trust time and my editor eye to hone those distractions away as I progress through drafts until the kernel of truth about the trauma reveals itself. Perhaps I thought I was sad when I’m really relieved. Maybe I can throw away my thesaurus now, because bereft is the exact right word for this pain.

Trauma also gives us empathy for our characters. It’s no mistake that a character I’m writing now has lost her child. I can let her be tortured by my memories, while I’m free to live my life and forget for a while what I lost. She’s carrying that burden for me. And, if I choose, I can change her outcome. The delete key could give her back her daughter’s warm hug, silken hair and belly laugh. I could give her grandchildren and a happy old age instead of the regret.

But for now I need her to suffer with me and for me. It’s selfish, but I’m not sorry.

This post was originally written October 24, 2006 for the private blog of my writing group, Novel-ties.