How A Romance Novel Taught Me About Trauma

A story about sparkling

Angelfish. Darling. My precious little popsicle.

Unbearably exquisite angels of love and light.

These are all things that I’ve called you, the reader, in my stories (except that last one, I made it up just for this occasion).

My writing is interspersed with over-the-top endearments, all the italics, cause I write like I talk and I talk like this, and occasionally entertaining asides.

But here’s today’s question:

How do you know if your writing voice really reflects you? Who you actually are, under the dazzling smiles and humor and charm?

(I’m charming as hell. It’s honestly exhausting.)

I’m going to limit the endearments today. Try for fewer italics.

See if I can strip away the humor to write as the deeply, deeply tired woman I am.

I’m sitting in my house, on the living room couch. My husband is in the other room, playing computer games. And I’m still tense.

Not because of him, I hasten to add. In fact, if he knew the extent I perform, he would be so sad. He’s tried so hard to make this a safe space for me.

But even at age thirty-five, married, in my own home, about to start an awesome new job, the programming runs deep.

Smile. Sparkle. Cheerful and charming. You can be upset about school, that’s okay. You can stop smiling if you’re really sick, maybe. Always be helpful. Always anticipate what is needed. Watch your tone. Be happy. Never. Stop. Smiling.

I’m so tired.

I read a romance novel, once, that confused me. Because the heroine lived with her uncle and aunt, and her uncle was horrible. Abusive. Manipulative. Had complete power over her and her aunt (it was Victorian times). He was absolutely the villain of the story.

And there was this scene in the book. It was after the heroine married the hero (only partway through. She totally trapped him into marriage by engineering a scandalous encounter, but then the wrong guy showed up for it, and there was drama). Marriage was her only way to escape. So she got married, then went back to her aunt and uncle’s house to inform them of it and introduce them to her new husband.

And the second she walked up the steps to their door she started sparkling. She had the broadest smile, she was upbeat and cheerful, so affectionate, so happy to be there, so pleased to see her uncle.

And I didn’t understand.

Because…I did that.

I did exactly that. I knew every fraction of that smile, I knew the glitter that she threw into the air, I knew the charm and the happiness and the beaming cheerfulness.

And I didn’t understand.

Because her uncle was, in any estimation, horribly, horribly abusive. She sparkled to be safe. She performed like she was on a Broadway stage every day of her life, because her uncle was this horrible monster.

But…I did that. I performed like that. I did exactly what she was doing.

And I didn’t understand.

I understand now. And even understanding, even in my own home, even in the second half of my thirties (I’m turning 36 in a few months)…I still perform.

I’m still hypervigilant.

And when it’s needed…I still sparkle.

People read what I write. Strangers. People who don’t know me. But they have to like me. If they like me I’m safe.

So I sparkle through my keyboard. Angelfish. Darling. My precious little popsicle.

So this is me, letting the mask drop for a second.

Reaching out to you, as the sparkle dims.

Hey, you read this. Thank you.

I’m a little less tired now.