Writer's Dilemma: Diagnosis

Fellow writers, what would you do? What do you think?


I have written two things that include oddities -- one an illness; the other a behavior. Some of the feedback I have received is that I should be telling (not good storycrafting) what the diagnosis is or explaining the behavior.

The illness is the story of a child who died and her father.  the story is set somewhat ambiguously in the 1940s, USA. The disease that the child died of was not even named until 1938, and that was in Canada.
Therefore, at the time of the story, there was no diagnosis.
None.
Treatment was of the symptoms as they arose.

The fact is, I didn't know myself what the disease was until I had finished writing the vignettes, and looked up the symptoms myself. Not quite a textbook case -- are they ever, really? -- but variations were within the norms for the condition.

In the story, the illness went undiagnosed, even after the death of the child.
Because there was, in that time period, no (or rare) formal diagnosis for it.

It was what it was, and so was the outcome. Those involved had to deal with the situation as it occurred, with no answers.

That was the story.

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The other situation was part of a novel, a character trait that was not consistent with the character's general development. An irregularity in verbalizing, even though the character had an enormous (for his age and the times) vocabulary with a good understanding of most words and the ability to guess accurately the meaning of unfamiliar words.

In the novel, the child's caretakers do notice and try to have this idiosyncrasy checked out. They mention at different times that this that or the other was done. A thorough physical, and the boy's hearing was tested, even though that seemed an unlikely cause since he could understand.
In the end, the adults decided it was just a quirk in the child's development and let it be, just keeping an eye on it as he ages.

It isn't really a BIG IMPORTANT detail, just, as I said, something of a character quirk.

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In both cases, or in either case, inserting today's knowledge in a yesterday's story doesn't seem right to me.
I also have not been able to figure out how I would do it, if I wanted to. (Which I don't.)


It speaks loudly and is a sad commentary that readers want everything put in a box, sorted, and labelled, don't you think? I wonder why it is this way. Does this approach really make anyone happier? Are children no longer allowed to be themselves, unique?

There are still undiagnosable conditions, especially in children.
There are still unexplainable idiosyncracies in childhood development.
There are still unique characters whose entire existence is outside the box.

What's most alarming is that these demands were made, not by everyday readers, but by other writers.
Make no mistake, these were demands. One critiquer was infuriated that I did not tell her and every other reader what was wrong with that boy. In her opinion, if I didn't explain it, I shouldn't write it that way.
And she had only read an excerpt. Even when I explained that the 'issue' was addressed in other parts of the book, she was still insistent that nothing undiagnosed, unexplained, or unlabelled could be in the story.

If out creative peoples are thinking and writing this way, what hope is there for the individualists in our world and the world to come?

Am I A Writer?

I always have been.

But recently, I find it more and more difficult to do the actual physical act of writing. Holding a pen can cause cramping, typing causes a different pain, but neither is that bad. Five years ago, those little aches and pains wouldn't have stopped me. Three years ago, there would have been no problem with the problems.
Some days just sitting at the desk is fatiguing.

I haven't blogged.
I haven't written letters. (Something I love to do; always have, always will. Or so I once thought.)
Signing Christmas cards and addressing envelopes fatigued me beyond reason.

But I write in my mind at all times.
I reword and rework the structure of sentences I am considering writing.
I reorganize the order of paragraphs in planned blog entries for maximum (or minimal) impact.
I choose words that describe specifically.
Active verbs, and passive exposition for effect.

It's just so hard to sit and do the actual work!

Have I gotten lazy?
Do I just not care?
Am I more ill (weak, tired, senile, dying) than I know?

I have always dealt with the grievances and annoyances and, yes, the joys, of an overwhelming life by putting it into words. By putting it into words and sharing those words with my world at large.

The words are still there, and most of my mental energy goes into the composition and selection of the words, but it seems, somehow, to stop there. The words are in my head, and occasionally they will come out my mouth. (Not often)
But that is as far as it goes.

So can I still call myself a writer? Even though I do not actually write?

I have become a composer of unsung, unshared thoughts, feelings, ideas, and ideals.

No longer a mother to children.
No longer a wife.
No longer an eager energetic all-hours employee.
No longer a writer?

What and who then am I, and how do I find myself again, with all my identities in shreds?

Too Many Good-byes

There are too many people dying.

Do more people die in January (or January and February)  than other months, or does it just seem that way because we don't have fair-weather distractions?

Phyllis Walls was killed in a head-on collision on what I think was a familiar road. New Year's Day. What a great start to the New Year for her family, and fore her friends, even the long-ago-and-far-away ones. How horrible it is to have someone just not be there anymore. How horrible and how hard,

There has been another death, too, in my husband's family. Kevin Mullins. The husband of Rex's niece Eva, has passed away, and the whole family mourns yet again. They brought in the New Year in the hospital, with this horrific outcome. There have been too many deaths in this family in the last three to six months, and there are always too many deaths in the world.

A writer friend is sitting in a hospital waiting for her father to die. He went for one thing, developed another, and it has gone downhill from there. 

People should at least die from what's wrong with them, if they must die. (As we all must.)

It always seems to be wrong people who are dying, too. 

I don't mean the drug addicts, or even mass murderers, because I can understand that they may need extra chances to get it right,

I mean people with horrid diseases, slowly dying from the inside out.

I mean people who will never have independent lives again, and if they were in their right minds, would they want to live the dependent lives they are being forced to?

I even include people who are quietly soul starving, who live futile, desperate lives. Who perhaps want to "go home" or maybe they would only like to rest, for a really really long time.

Why can't these people be taken with such suddenness? Why is it the people with busy full lives who just disappear from the day-to-day of their families, their friends, their loved ones?

Well, life and love are mysteries, or so they say. 

Unsolved Mysteries.

Unfair Mysteries.

And it is only the 9th of January. 

Suicide -- Nature or Nurture?

Does suicide run in families?
Why might suicide run in families?

 

Some observers think that there may be a more accepting attitude in families where this has happened.Or that it is more tolerated as being something of a family trait.
This is what scientists call the 'nurture' effect. (Actually, I doubt scientists call it that among themselves, but it's the general population understanding of what scientists call it. They probably refer to it ad "Environmental Effects of X on Y")


There may be something to this. If the inevitability is accepted,does that make it acceptable?
If a child grows up being told how much he is just like the charming, entertaining Uncle Waldo -- such a card! -- will he grow up to be another Uncle Waldo?
What if, after the show is over and the lights have gone down, Uncle Waldo couldn't live with his image or his heartbreak -- if Uncle Waldo committed suicide, will Uncle Waldo's relative then get a free pass to do the unthinkable?

It may help the surviving family to think so. There may be an easing of grief and guilt by blaming it on family history.
Family history may be to blame that symptoms went unacknowledged.. The reason why no help was sought, because the story is more lively than the backstory. Because the entertainment has more 'body' than the ending.

But how much of that is Nature. Depression is a physically caused illness that affects the mind. Depression runs in families. So far as I know, specific genes have not been found, but there have been indications of gene markers, whatever they are.

I liken the nature of the disease depression to the disease diabetes.
If your family has a history of late 30/ early 40s young adults sinking into coma a coma, is it acceptable to shrug and say, "Oh well, he's just like Uncle Waldo"?
Of course not.
When the coma happens, or the despair -- it's time to look for medical answers. They do exist.
In the case of the diabetic, it's easily diagnosed and usually easily treated.
Depression is not as easy, but there are treatments and therapies. Just as the diabetic needs to adjust dosages and behaviors, so does the depressed patient.


But if the diagnosis and treatments can't be adjusted quickly enough, in either case, the  sufferer will die as a function of his disease.
Not because he is just like Uncle Waldo, but because he suffered from the same (genetically influenced) disease.

I suppose, like most things, it is a combination of the two effects. Not nature vs nurture, but nature&nurture. Plus individuality.

What I would like to do is to urge anyone with suicide as a family trend, is to learn and be alert to the signs of this disease (or any related illness). Don't watch and worry -- that would be enough to make a sane person crazy -- but be aware.

It's not just the family history -- it's the family future.