WHEN examining the concept of the “Trauma Narrative,” it’s evident that many literary works—spanning genres from horror to romance to dramatic fiction—adhere to a recognizable yet troubling pattern. At the center of these stories often lies a protagonist or antagonist ensnared by a singular, overpowering emotion that casts a shadow over their entire narrative impetus.
This overwhelming feeling is so consuming that it eclipses the opportunity to delve into the more nuanced facets of their character. Rather than being fully developed individuals, they frequently become little more than vessels for their traumatic experiences, which are deployed as mere plot devices to drive the story forward.
The narrative frequently takes on an exploitative tone, sensationalizing the character’s suffering rather than treating it with sensitivity. In doing so, the arc of a character’s pain becomes a spectacle, reduced to a string of symptoms that define their existence. This approach often results in characters that feel flat, unengaging, overly simplistic caricatures of human experience rather than vibrant beings with multifaceted emotions and complexities. Consequently, the richness of their stories is sacrificed, leaving readers with narratives that lack the depth and authenticity necessary for understanding and empathy. And no reader wants to feel frustrated by a lack of “pay-off” at the end of any story.
Unfortunately, I have experienced this sensation—too many times.
However, when employed with careful thought and genuine empathy, trauma narratives in fiction have the
remarkable ability to deepen readers’ understanding of a character’s complex motivations, which are frequently intertwined with their past experiences of trauma.
These narratives provide a window into the deeply human emotions and experiences that arise from adversity. Readers can connect with characters on a profound level as they witness the individual’s actions, thoughts, and feelings unfold against the backdrop of their struggles.
Furthermore, trauma narratives illuminate the inherent human quest to make sense of harrowing experiences. They capture how the “baggage” that comes from trauma can dramatically reshape a person’s worldview and even their very sense of self. In exploring this intricate journey, authors may choose to portray characters whose inner worlds are fragmented and tumultuous, illustrating their clash with a reality that feels both familiar and alien.
Such characters might find themselves ensnared in a repetitive cycle of behaviour, unable to break free from the grip of their past. They may also engage in an ongoing process of deconstruction and reconstruction, perpetually reshaping their identity as they grapple with their fractured psyche.
To convey these experiences effectively, writers may employ narrative techniques that mirror the complexities of the human mind. Multiple points of view and non-linear timelines can reflect the chaotic nature of trauma processing, allowing readers to navigate the labyrinth of a character’s thoughts and emotions. In this cerebral exploration, a character with a fragmented inner world might become vivid and real, caught in loops of problematic, even destructive behaviour, or continuously evolving through their choices and perceptions, providing a poignant depiction of the psychological toll trauma can exact.
Writers may also utilize fiction to confront and navigate their own inner demons: a form of textual therapeutic healing. Crafting a nonobjective narrative may proffer a profound resonance with readers, presenting complex characters who embody the conflicting reactions, beliefs, and emotions intrinsic to a real human experience.
Through this lens, authors may indirectly or fully consciously work through personal traumas, weaving their experiences and struggles into the fabric of their characters’ stories, creating a rich tapestry of relatable and human qualities that invite empathy and understanding.
The trope of personal growth and power through overcoming—even surviving—horrific adversity, especially with female and marginalized characters (race, culture, financial status, gender, sexual orientation etc.), is a highly contentious topic. But horrible things happen to people; vile acts do occur.
If we never choose to write vulnerable, at-risk and marginalized individuals as having suffered at the hands of society—more often than not, unscrupulous men—only to find themselves on the other side of that, healing if not healed, and empowered, albeit scarred, we do a disservice to narratives where “art imitates life.” Or maybe a more appropriate statement would be: Art becomes life therapy.
Like any sensitive topic, this facet of the Trauma Narrative can be misused. If it is utilized exploitatively and gratuitously, it can very much be seen as insensitive. Do we blame “bad” or “lazy” writing? I don’t know, but I think it’s something to continue the discussion on, not erase from story-telling.
In my queer thriller novels, Vindictive and Vindictive Too, along with my paranormal gay romance, The Night
Belongs To Lovers, I explore a myriad of complex themes of trauma as experienced by my characters. Each narrative intricately weaves the harrowing effects of various forms of suffering, such as the chilling shadows of physical and sexual abuse, abduction, the insidious nature of emotional torment, and the profound grief stemming from the loss of a parent or sibling.
The theme of excessive betrayal of trust also permeates these stories, intertwining with the other traumas to create a rich tapestry of emotional realism and character development. Through these explorations, I strove to shed light on the multifaceted impact of trauma on individuals and their relationships within compelling, entertaining, yet multi-dimensional narratives.
And if some of my characters who’ve suffered trauma get revenge for themselves, if that’s their chosen directive, then well— 🙂
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