WRITING THROUGH THE PAIN OF A BREAKUP

GETTING OVER A BREAKUP IS HARD. BUT YOU'RE A WRITER, AND ALL THAT PAIN IS FICTION GOLD!

Write what you know. We’ve heard that writing proverb since the moment we began writing seriously. By now, we all know that that’s not necessarily so. We can learn the things we don’t know about through research, be it primary or secondary research. If we want to write a novel that’s set in 19^th Century Brooklyn and deals with the specifics of the Abolishment movement and what took place in that borough at the time, we can Google it or read books or watch documentaries to get enough information for us to “write what we know.” Because, and to state the obvious, we don’t know that much about much, no matter how educated we may be. That research is called secondary research. Primary research is when you have firsthand knowledge of something and put that knowledge to use by writing fiction that incorporates that knowledge. I recently parted with my partner of nearly two years. So, as a writer, my first thought was this: How can I use what I’m feeling and what she’s feeling to create art?

To put down into words the difficulty of suffering through the mental anguish we’re both experiencing? Side note: we parted amicably and still talk. Everything’s good. We’re just not a couple anymore. And that, for me, is new material. And that new material? It’s the excitement of what I write about, however painful it may be to me personally.

Novels, and fiction, are how we make sense of our lives. Joan Didion said, “I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means.” James Baldwin, civil rights activist and author of Go Tell it on the Mountain, Notes of a Native Son, Giovanni’s Room, and other works, said, “When you're writing, you're trying to find out something which you don't know.” And Anaïs Nin believed that “We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely.” And they’re all correct. We do, even if we’re not completely aware that that’s what we’re doing. Sure, we may be writing a thriller, but where do you get your characters’ motivations from? Their expressions? Their feelings? Like language, you can’t separate yourself from the words on the page. Not completely. And why would you? Your experiences have made you who you are. They’ve led you to the page (unless, of course, someone’s holding a gun to your head telling you to write!). So, we go with it. Sometimes we take it as far as we can. We pull our words and our feelings, our fears, our disappointments and traumas and happier times from that deep internal pool in our hearts that we normally bury behind a hard stoicism, behind self-deprecating humor, behind whatever. But don’t do that. At least not permanently. And if you don’t want to go there because it’s still too fresh, take notes. Trust me, you’ll want that information later on once you’re ready to sit down at your desk.

Writing Through the Pain of a Breakup

So, back to what I’ve learned from my breakup. (In all honesty, the words “break up” don’t sound right to me, because we didn’t break up as much as admitted we were, ultimately, on different paths). So, while I hated the term “conscious uncoupling” when I first heard Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin use it, the term and concept are now something I believe in wholeheartedly. Just as a primer, the concept of conscious uncoupling was pushed into the discourse of relationships by the psychotherapist Katherine Woodward Thomas. The goal of it is to minimize emotional trauma and preserve goodwill, as well as encourage people to process the grief and anger they’re feeling in a constructive manner so both parties can wish each other well and move forward without resentment so that, ultimately, a healthy future exists for everyone.

We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely

--Anaïs Nin

For me, everything I experience in life becomes, sooner or later, part of my fiction. While I try to avoid making the motivations of my characters, the actions they take, the dialects they use and so on distinct from the reality of my past, I’m not always successful. But I’ve learned to live with it. When I was writing one of my first novels, or attempting to, anyway (it was a "practice” novel), the person who first read it asked if the novel was about them. Which I found odd. I’d written the novel (and was still writing it) when that person came into my life. But they believed, for some reason, that they were one of the main characters. They weren’t. After that moment, I no longer cared if people believed or didn’t believe one of my characters, or some aspect of one of my characters, was based on them. People will see and think what they want. I have a T-shirt buried somewhere in one of my drawers that says something to the effect of “Don’t make me mad of you’ll end up in my novel,” and sometimes it’s true, and sometimes it isn’t. What I’m saying is, even if unconsciously, the people around you, the things they do, the joy or misery they provide you, shouldn’t be avoided, it should be embraced. Remember, we write to understand ourselves and our lives. So, go for it. You’ll be surprised by what you find sitting in that brain of yours wanting to get out onto the page.

So, here’s my advice when using the death of your loved one, or the pain of a breakup with your boyfriend or girlfriend or partner (or your conscious uncoupling), or the trauma of the divorce from that person you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with:

WRITE WITHOUT IMPOSING RULES ON YOURSELF

If you’re holding back, you aren’t going to get what you need on paper (or your computer) to form the basis of your most honest and powerful drafts. If you aren’t jotting down exactly what you’re feeling—the anger (or relief) of being dumped, the nerves of bringing up the fact that you no longer want to be in the relationship because you know it’s never going to be able to go the distance, the giant ball of anxiety in the pit of your stomach so large and persistent you think you’re going to have a heart attack, then you’re not giving it your all. You aren’t giving your fiction a chance, because you’re hiding from your emotions. You’re lying to yourself about the reality of what’s going on in your heart, in your mind, in the way your body is physically reacting to the hurt and bewilderment and guilt and whatever else it is your feeling that’ll give what you write the ability to reach (and touch) your readers in the most impactful way possible. And that? That’s not something you want to do.

So put it all down.

Ask yourself some questions:

1. How did I feel when I found out he cheated?

2. What did I want to do to him (or her) once I knew?

3. Did she leave because of something I did? Something I said?

4. Was there something missing in her life that I knew existed when we first got together but ignored?

5. Has she been lying about something that affects both of you? Debt? Drug use? Mental illness?

6. Did being a Trad wife go from this magical thing to being a prison I needed to escape?

7. Am I unfulfilled in some way? Is he?

8. Did she lose her job? Is that going to be a problem? How are you going to feel if she doesn’t want to go back to work?

9. Do you miss him? How does that make you feel?

10. Do you pick up the phone to call her but hang up before it goes through? What’s that do to you?

11. Do you keep things she got you?

12. Do you throw them away because you can’t stand to see him because it makes you cry?

Just write it all down. Don’t be afraid that you aren’t saying something exactly as you’re feeling it—that’s what rewriting is about. Can’t write full sentences? Jot down notes for later. Tears falling on the paper as you write with the pen she gave you? Great! Now jot down what it feels like and why you can’t control the tears from dampening your cheeks. It’s all pure gold for your fiction.

BE INTROSPECTIVE AND “SHOW DON’T TELL” AT THE SAME TIME

When you’re jotting down notes or writing a first draft, allow yourself to be free. Like we said up above, write without imposing rules on yourself, but also, once you dive into the actual fiction writing, show how what a character is feeling on the inside presents itself on the outside. If Ozzy is heartbroken seeing Cheryl walking hand-in-hand with his oldest friend Crazy Jay, have Ozzy, who’s already drunk, smash his bottle of Jack against the windshield of the brand new Mercedes parked in front of Alice’s Café. We know how he feels without anyone saying a word. And now we’ll have more trouble: the Mercedes is owned by Monticello’s police chief. Who, as it happens, is Crazy Jay’s uncle. Yep. More trouble.

When I’m upset, and remember, fiction is about trouble, I write everything down. Or, actually, I use speech to text and put it all into my notes app on my iPhone. From there I’ll eventually copy and paste my notes into an email, send it to myself, and drop those notes into whatever fiction I’m working on if the notes are for that project. If not, I’ll save them in a word doc or in the doc of the novel that they’re for, and I’ll return to them later. But I’ll capture them. Always, always jot down the things that touch you, that make you sad, that give you insight into how your characters are feeling, why they confront their ex’s new lover, why they maybe don’t care at all, why they immediately jump into a new relationship to forget the one that just broke their heart. Everything in your life that touches you is material for your fiction. Treat it as such. But don’t get sentimental. Show Don’t Tell. Remember, readers like pain; they don’t like sappy. At least most readers don’t.

Here’s a nugget from my conscious uncoupling: Lou Malnati’s pizza is for breakups. That’s what my ex told me while we were texting each other. I told her I was depressed, that I was going to stay busy. Pressure washing the fence. Taking the dog on long walks. Cleaning the house from floor to ceiling—sweeping, mopping, Windexing the windows, vacuuming, wiping the dust off of every plant, table, bookshelf and dresser. Working out. Reading. Writing. Basically doing everything and anything to keep my mind off the breakup. Or the conscious uncoupling. Time, we know, will heal all. Working through the pain of separating from someone you liked or loved or were infatuated with is something you should capture. Writing through the pain of a breakup is also one of the way, and, if you're a writer, one of the best ways to express yourself and to let your emotions out into the open where you can better deal with them. So, pull out your pen. Make your characters feel the things you felt. The things your ex felt. Make them think and say things that are endearing or logical or outright cruel. But make it real for your reader, no matter what you do.

Cully Perlman is an editor of novels and nonfiction. He is also the author of a novel, The Losses.

Have something that needs editing? Send him an email at Cully@novelmasterclass.com 

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