The Battles in Writing about War
Earlier this year, I had a profound exchange with a fellow author of WWI fiction, Amanda Dykes (I reviewed her novel here).
I asked Amanda if she would mind me sharing our email conversation with my readers to glean some insight into the writing process, especially what it was like for me to recover from writing Anumpa Warrior: Choctaw Code Talkers of World War I.
She graciously agreed, so here is our conversation in full (with just how-do-you-do chatter removed for you)…
Hey Amanda,
I have wanted to email you for weeks now about Yours is the Night, so first, congratulations on your best cover award! So well deserved.
I was captivated by the story, the characters, the dreamlike realness of so many of the scenes. Also, there's something about tall WWI army captains that makes my heart pitter-patter.
But when I reached the battle scene, I had to pause, slow down, take it in a little at a time. And I immediately knew I wanted to ask about your experience in writing it, if I may.
First, a little bit of why. From 2016-2018, I worked on researching and writing a novel on the Choctaw Code Talkers of World War I. The book released October, 2018 - the 100th anniversary of when they performed their code talking during the Meuse-Argonne offensive.
But I didn't realize the toil the project took on my creativity until afterwards. I wrote virtually nothing in 2019. It wasn't until early 2020 that I felt myself truly reviving.
As a storyteller, you know the depths we plumb in living the characters' experiences. With dealing so close with war and battlefields, coupled with the heavy cultural and spiritual themes, I was plain exhausted at the end of 2018.
It took months before I could even look at the book cover and smile from my heart. I have since reached that place, and am still exploring the impact the project had on me as a creative.
All that to finally reach my question to you, if you're up for answering: What was it like for you to be on the battlefields with your characters, to experience the shelling, the life and instant death, the suffering and trauma? Do you feel it lingered heavily with you for awhile or was it something you were able to recover from with time and prayer fairly quick?
I'm so thankful for how the Lord pulled me back onto my creative feet, and I've written and published several books since then. But reading Yours is the Night had me back in France all over again (where I walked the actual battlefields, romped in and out of shell holes, visited erased villages, lifted a WWI machine gun at a museum, and carried so many voices and stories in my heart on that 10-day France research trip).
I hope this conveys my deep appreciation to you for bravely writing Yours is the Night, and honoring those courageous men and women. Well done.
Saluting you with my pen,
Sarah
Dear Sarah,
I loved hearing about your research trip, and it was so interesting to read about your own experiences after writing your book. This is such an interesting topic to explore-- the emotional toll that writing can take on us. Honestly, I believe your experience is very very likely a testament to the fact that you poured your heart and soul into writing those scenes. That you employed the gift of empathy deeply-- the mark of a selfless writer-- and that because of that, you felt for your characters and what they experienced, deeply. In a way, I imagine that what soldiers so often experienced (shell shock/PTSD) has the ability to touch our experiences to a smaller degree. I'm by no means saying that we as writers experience the same degree of what they experienced-- but rather that allowing our hearts and minds to enter that world as fully as possible, we may be tasting a fraction of their own long-lasting effects.
Which brings me to your question. You asked: What was it like for you to be on the battlefields with your characters, to experience the shelling, the life and instant death, the suffering and trauma? Do you feel it lingered heavily with you for awhile or was it something you were able to recover from with time and prayer fairly quick?
Reflecting back on that process, I would say that for me, researching it took even more of a toll than writing it. By the time I was writing it, I had immersed myself (as I'm sure you are familiar with from your own research!) in documentaries, photographs, journals, movies, accounts-- and felt sick with the sights and sounds and realities that they faced. At that point, it was up to me to pick and choose from all that I'd witnessed (albeit from decades later in history) to try to give my readers an honest glimpse, while also tempering it with carefully chosen allusions to replace gory detail, letting them fill in the purposeful blanks-- using enough detail to give tribute to the soldiers and what they faced, while also being mindful of the fact that my readership are largely people who don't come into a book looking for vivid battle scenes. I felt like a human wall sometimes-- on one side of me, the full reality of all I had learned and "witnessed", and it was my job at that particular point to look at it all-- every bit of it-- and lift out portions to place on the other side of me (the story scenes). The weight of being a human buffer, so to speak, was a heavy one as you describe, but like you, I don't know that I realized that until after the job was done.
I think the main thing that pulled me through was the thought that as difficult as it was to research, I still wasn't the one who actually lived it. And with that came the desire to honor, even more, the ones who had lived it. To press on and finish the story.
But afterward, and perhaps here is the answer to your question, I definitely wasn't ready to return on the page to the battlefield, and the next story I took on was extremely different. Different time in history, different venue (Venice), different tone-- and I think in a way, that was part of the recovery process from having given so much of myself to Yours is the Night. I don't know that we ever fully recover-- stories change us deeply as writers, don't they? But we heal, and hold fast to the lessons learned along the way, and the hope is that because of it all, perhaps we have something new to offer in future stories.
And I think that you are so right in that the heart of it is God's healing. His way of reaching for our hearts, and using the gift of time passed, of rest, of eventual new ideas, to allow our souls to revive. I've definitely known seasons of months at a time where I couldn't write a word. . . and sometimes wondered if that was the end. But He is a God of seasons, and the seasons of rest and reflection are just as purposeful as the seasons of production. We're so blessed to have a God we can look to for direction, a Good Shepherd with the heart of a Good Father.
It was a gift to read of your own experience, thank you so much for taking the time to share it! I think that as writers, we can very rarely get anywhere effective on page without compassion and empathy, and sometimes the cost is high. I'm so glad you are in a place now where you can look on your own book and smile from your heart. It really is a journey, this writing gig-- far deeper than perhaps we ever guessed when we got into it, eh?
I wanted to thank you, too, for the amazing video review you did of Yours is the Night! I'm hoping to share a link to it in an upcoming newsletter, and really respect the care you pour into your reviews.
Thank you again, Sarah, and happy writing to you!
Amanda
Hey Amanda,
THANK YOU for this heartening response. It wasn't like I asked the easiest question in the world!
Since then, though, I have started writing another WWI book, a nonfiction about one of the Choctaw Code Talkers, Otis W. Leader. As I'm returning to the battlefields in my research, I'm holding this conversation in my heart.
This was what I haven't been able to put into words about my experience:
"I'm by no means saying that we as writers experience the same degree of what they experienced-- but rather that allowing our hearts and minds to enter that world as fully as possible, we may be tasting a fraction of their own long-lasting effects."
You articulated that so well.
Yes, I feel we are indeed that human buffer for our readers. Lifting those portions and placing them on the other side of the wall is a heavy load, and I think it contributes to fatigue after a project like this. But, like you said, we only experienced the research, not the events, and that drove me to honor them all the more with knowing what they actually went through. I just wanted to wrap my heart around them and hold their stories tenderly when sharing the horror they endured.
I think that was part of my recovery, too, and why I can look back over that experience with a heart filled with joy and sorrow, pride and respect, and what brings tears to my eyes at our local Memorial Day service each year. Stories do change us, and when we co-create with the Father, they change us for the better. He is the Good Shepherd of our words and ideas. It's quite a calling He has called us to, but I am so grateful for it, and I know you are, too. It shows on every page of your stories.
Blessings and hugs to you,
Sarah
Hi Sarah!
How I loved your response!
Thank you so much for such an enlightening and encouraging conversation, and I wish you all the best as you continue in your beautiful writing!
With joy,
Amanda
