Writing a book in 365 days – 308

Day 308

Writing exercise

By the time I learned what she was saying, it was too late.

It was difficult to remember when the first signs of our relationship, if it could be called that, had started to disintegrate.

Thinking about it, there was no clear point, just a series of random events that most people would simply write off as ‘well, it just wasn’t going to work’.

Which was odd because until that indefinable moment in time, it had.

Perhaps it was the impossible odds.

Perhaps it was the way we met.

Perhaps the randomness wasn’t random at all.

Because when you switched perspectives and took the view that the whole thing had been a set-up from start to finish, it all made sense.

In a very disturbing way.

The insistent knocking on my door was not the best start to the day.  It had been a late night, and little too much to eat and drink and in a semi intoxicated state, it was hard to resist the temptation of letting Marianne stay.

Protocol dictated that it could not happen.

It was a long story, but having the secrets I had, even with the impregnable safe, no one was allowed to stay beyond a certain hour of the night.

Any other night when I didn’t have classified documents, not a problem.

I groaned, rolled over, and then it started again.

I climbed out and shook off the drowsiness, and headed for the door.  A look at the screen showed it was Marianne back, and agitated.

It was a state I’d never seen her in before.

Warning bells on the back of my head were going off.  Training told me that this could be a problem and that she had been compromised simply by being associated with me.

Some people knew who I really was, what my work was, and if that was the case, this was a level one problem

I put the code into my phone and sent it.

Just in case.

Then I opened the door.  “Marianne.”

“Phillip.  I need to see you?”

“You saw me last night and early this morning.  I’m neither up nor presentable.”

“Seriously?”

“We have had this discussion.  There are times when I am on call and I cannot have other people in the place.”

I had given her the standards spiel on the nature of my work and the confidentiality that surrounded it, and she had always understood.

Except this was beginning to be one of those instances of her subtly changing.

“Confidential information.  Yes.  But you are not in conversation with anyone.”

“I could be at any minute.  I can’t be seen shooing you out.  I would be severely reprimanded, even fired if it came to that.  Can it wait another hour or two?  I’m sorry.  I have to follow protocol.”

“Even at the possible expense of your relationships with others?”

I’d explained this too.  There was no choice, no matter what I felt.  I’d made a commitment.

“At this point in time, unfortunately, yes.”

I didn’t want to go down this path, but it seemed like the culmination of drifting apart.

She shrugged.  “I’m sorry then.”

I felt rather than heard a movement behind me, and then nothing. 

When I woke head hurt. 

Very badly.

While the details were fuzzy, I knew I had been hit from behind, that Marianne had diverted my attention while an accomplice had gained entry to my flat from the rear.

It was the building’s one weak spot.

Now I was in a dark space, smelling of damp and age, and I was lying on a bed of stacked newspapers, unbound.  Neither did I have a gag, so it was somewhere no one would ever hear me yell for help.

It didn’t stop me, but all there was in response was an echo.

If my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, then they could be working or not.  There was always light coming from somewhere, but not right at the moment.

That being the case, I had no idea how big the room was or whether anyone else was in it with me.  Or who it was that had put me, other than one unassailable fact; Marianne had helped them.

One fact of what could be many that I had overlooked, something that all people in the first throes of a relationship tended to do, unless of course you were suspicious of everyone and everything.

I should have been, but I naively wanted to believe in her.  Echoing in my head were those fateful words, If it’s too good to be true, it generally isn’t.

I cast my mind back to when I first met Marianne and realised it was too good to be true.  The chances of us being in the same place at the same time…

And then, cursing myself for being a creature of habit, for ignoring basic rules, and I had only myself to blame.

Was anything we had real?

“I’m sorry.” 

Marianne’s words ran over and over in my head.

Why would she say that?  It was certainly in a contrite tone, like she had meant it, which was odd if she was part of the kidnap team.

I opened my eyes and found that there was a crack in the ceiling where light was trying to get through, and that it was turning the inky blackness into an opaque blur.

There were no distinguishable objects, but it whiled away the time trying to identify them.  A sofa, a table, a chair, and what looked like a person, though it could be a mannequin.

It could be anything.

Until it moved slightly, or was that just my imagination?

Until there was a groan, and the figure rolled sideways and looked up. 

Marianne.

Perhaps it was wrong.

“I’m sorry.  I tried to warn you.  You obviously didn’t get the subtext.”

Of course, it had been in the back of my mind, amongst all the other jumbled and mixed messages I’d received and ignored.  She had tried to warn me in some peculiar manner that took too long for me to understand.

“Not that clever, I’m afraid.  It’s the bane of people who are clever in their field of study and totally stupid when it comes to people.”

“Maybe, maybe not.  Did you send the level one protocol?”

Who was she?  How did she know about that?

“Yes.  Pounding on the door like that, and ignoring my request…”

“Good.  It won’t be long now.”

“What?”

“Rest.  No more talking.”

Who was this person?  How did she know so much about me and or anything to do with me?  I thought everything about me and the project I was working on was top secret.

I had questions, but she seemed insistent.

I dozed off, waking to the sound of three explosions, or perhaps something else.  There were muffled voices overhead, indistinct.

Marianne had moved slightly, hearing them too.

Them silence.

A few minutes later, there was the sound of a key in a lock, then the careful turning of the door know, followed by two people covered head to foot bursting in and ready to shoot anything that moved.

One checked the room now flooded in light, then said, “Clear.”

Two paramedics came in, one to me, the other to Marianne.  She had been bound, the ties were cut, and she was dragged to her feet, and the first two in the room took her away.  I managed to sit up and answer a few questions.  Fuzzy but not disoriented.  There had been time for the drugs to wear off.

Then my boss came in, a scowl on her face, but then she always had a scowl.

The paramedic reported, “Drugged but no physical harm.”

“Good.  Give us the room.”

He nodded, packed the kit bag and left.

She glared at me.  “Caught the people trying to crack your safe.  Caught the kidnappers.  Still haven’t got who organised it, but he or she knows we’re onto them now.”

“You knew?”

“We had an inkling, nothing positive until Marianne was approached.”

“She is one of your people?”

“Someone we could trust, yes.  Left to your own devices, you would have been a prime honey trap target.  And it was a two birds with one stone operation.  You get a girlfriend, and we find who’s been leaking information in the department.  Getting a branch of a foreign intelligence group was a bonus.”

I felt like I was the biggest prize idiot on the planet.

She must have seen my look of bitter disappointment.

“Don’t worry.  She likes you, Phillip, though I can’t imagine why.  I’ve assigned her as your bodyguard for the duration of the project.  Just a heads up, she is an excellent shot, and our top agent in field interrogations.  I would try not to piss her off.  You’re lucky I’m not sending you back to training.  Now, off you go.”

She was waiting for me at the front door.

“Don’t look so downcast.  You could have got my sister.  I’m the nice one.”

I just shook my head.  Why hadn’t I taken that six-month assignment in Antarctica?

©  Charles Heath  2025

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 20

The Third Son of a Duke

A day of research…

So the first thing that was on my mind:  could the children of the rich or titled aristocracy still purchase a commission in the army or navy?

That, it seems, was taken away in the late 1800s, and they had to go to Sandhurst and join the rest of the hopefuls to get a commission or spend the time at the naval academy to become an officer.

So, our protagonist and his brothers had to go to Sandhurst after their exclusive boarding school.

More study is required to make sure I’ve got their backgrounds correct.

The duke is attached to the Admiralty, but he cannot and would not advance his son unless the boy had done the hard yards.  Sailing on the Mediterranean in a private yacht doesn’t quite reach the standards required of a naval officer.

So, once we’ve established his eligibility for a commission, if not, at what rank and where he might fit will be determined

Then there’s Egypt, the camp, the training, and the assignment to a theatre of war.  His preference would be in France, where his brother had been.

He also has no interest in not being at the front, but we will look at who was, and who was not, and why.  Certainly, Generals rarely came to the front-line trenches.

I’ve been looking at the manning of the trenches, learning there were three, and the men rotated, the second for resting, the third for supplies.

We need to know about how the artillery worked in aiding the front-line men.

We need to know the frequency of thrusts, inside and outside the larger-scale attacks, and when.

We need to know where the German lines were, the nature and size of no man’s land and the difficulties of getting across it.

It’s not the physical descriptions we will be relating, but the feelings of those participating, what they see, what happens to them, and how they recover when they are still alive at the end of just another day at the office.  What they think, especially if they will see their loved ones or family again.

I want to sit in that trench waiting for the whistle, I want to go over the top, hear the bullets whizzing past, the thwack when it finds a target, the machine gun fire, and whether it’s exhilaration running towards the enemy, or utter despair at the futility of it.

2315 words, for a total of 33280 words.

Writing about writing a book – Research

Day 25 – Research involving the protagonist’s friend – a man who can disassociate from the past, but cannot, for the time being, bring himself back into the real world except when there is a job that interests him (not all that often)

The Exile in Suburbia: Deconstructing the Phenomenological Transformation of the Senseless War Veteran

Abstract

This paper examines the complex psychological and behavioural transformation of the so-called “normal man” who experiences a “senseless war,” tracing his journey from conventional societal integration to profound post-war dissociation and isolation. Utilising frameworks of Moral Injury (MI), Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD), and theories of functional survivability under extreme stress, this analysis details how the protagonist’s evolving awareness of the war’s meaninglessness precipitates a shift towards anti-authoritarianism, localised heroism, and a paradoxical cycle of valour and punishment. The paper posits that the necessary adaptations required for survival in the combat theatre—namely, functional disconnection—render the veteran incapable of reintegrating into the sterile predictability of suburban life, ultimately leading to disassociation and social hermitage.


1. Introduction: Defining Normalcy and the War Crucible

The figure of the returning veteran, particularly one scarred by conflicts perceived as strategically or morally ambiguous, serves as a critical case study in the interaction between individual psyche and state violence. The initial state of the protagonist—the “normal man”—represents a foundation of unchallenged social conformity, ready to accept the state-sanctioned narrative of the conflict. This normalcy acts as a tabula rasa upon which the trauma of war is inscribed.

This paper addresses the central question: How does an individual, subjected to the cognitive dissonance of participating in a morally bankrupt conflict, navigate extreme behavioural shifts (anti-authority, heroism, criminality), maintain functional capacity despite internal fragmentation, and ultimately fail to re-establish a foothold in civilian society?

This analysis proceeds through four phases: (1) The shattering of the initial narrative; (2) The functional paradox of wartime behaviour (heroism and defiance); (3) The mechanisms of sustained function; and (4) The failure of reintegration and subsequent dissociation. The core thesis is that the moral clarity and anti-institutional identity forged in the senseless war become antithetical to the shallow morality and conformity required for suburban existence, forcing the veteran into isolated exile.

2. The Shattering Narrative: From Conformity to Moral Injury

2.1. The Erosion of Initial Belief

The transition from a conflict perceived as necessary to one recognised as “senseless” is the critical inciting incident for the protagonist’s shift. Initially, the man is supported by the prevailing ideologies of duty, honour, and national interest. As the reality of the war unfolds—characterized by arbitrary violence, unclear objectives, and high costs for negligible gains—the foundational military narrative collapses.

This collapse initiates Moral Injury (MI), a concept extending beyond PTSD, defined by Shay (1994) as the violation of core moral beliefs by oneself or others in positions of legitimate authority. The protagonist witnesses or is forced to participate in acts that violate his deepest ethical standards, often under the direct order of the hierarchy he is supposed to respect.

2.2. The Emergence of Anti-Authority

The systemic realisation of the war’s senselessness directly implicates the military command structure as incompetent or malicious. The protagonist’s initial acceptance of authority transforms into deep-seated mistrust and outright rejection. This anti-authority stance is not merely insubordination; it is a profound moral judgment.

The soldier realises that survival and ethical action often require bypassing or actively resisting the institutional chain of command. This rejection serves as a psychological defence mechanism, creating an internal locus of control and moral clarity separate from the confusing and often criminal official mission. This anti-authoritarian identity becomes pathognomonic of his wartime experience.

3. The Paradox of Functional Disconnection: Heroism and the Stockade

3.1. Localised Heroism and Survival

Paradoxically, the individual’s profound disconnection from the large institutional mission often fuels intense, localised loyalty. Heroism in the senseless war is rarely motivated by national strategic goals; it is driven by the immediate, visceral need to protect the small unit (the “band of brothers”).

These acts of bravery, defined by extraordinary courage in the face of imminent danger (“incredible odds”), are sudden eruptions of moral action. There are instances where the protagonist’s self-efficacy and moral imperative align perfectly with the localised need for survival, temporarily overcoming the pervasive feeling of meaninglessness.

3.2. The Vicious Cycle: Valour, Defiance, and Punishment

The protagonist is trapped in a cognitive dissonance loop created by the institution:

  1. Valour: The soldier acts heroically, often defying orders to save lives or complete a necessary mission locally.
  2. Defiance: His heroism often involves clear insubordination or violation of regulation (driven by anti-authority).
  3. Punishment: The same institution that benefits from his skill immediately penalises him for his independence and defiance (e.g., “one minute in the stockade the next”).

This cycle reinforces the veteran’s identity as an outsider and validates his anti-authority belief. The stockade is not just punishment; it is institutional confirmation that the military values blind obedience over moral action or effectiveness. The individual learns that the only reliable moral compass is his internal system, further isolating him from the command structure.

3.3. Mechanisms of Sustained Function

Despite profound psychological fragmentation, the protagonist “still function[s] at a certain level.” This sustained capacity is explained by several survival mechanisms (Grossman, 1995):

  • Compartmentalisation: The ability to mentally wall off the emotional and moral horror of the war while executing complex tasks (e.g., combat maneuvers).
  • Dissociative Adaptation: Minor dissociation during key stress periods allows the body to act autonomously, often referred to as “autopilot.”
  • Hyper-Vigilance: An intense, focus-driven awareness that ironically enhances combat performance but is destructive in peacetime.

These adaptations, crucial for physical survival, come at the cost of unified psychological integrity. The soldier survives by functionally disconnecting the self that acts from the self that feels.

4. The Exile in Suburbia: Dissociation and Alienation

4.1. The Incompatibility of Worlds

Returning home places the veteran in the “suburban setting,” a space characterised by material comfort, routine, and a pervasive societal pressure to perform “normalcy.” This environment is the psychological antithesis of the war zone.

The war-forged identity—defined by urgency, moral extremity, quick judgments, and anti-authoritarianism—is utterly incompatible with the expectations of quiet compliance and banal consumerism inherent to the suburb. He is fluent in the language of survival but mute in the language of small talk and routine.

4.2. Disassociation and Hermitage

The failure of reintegration manifests primarily as disassociation. The veteran has experienced a profound shattering of the ego, exacerbated by the required compartmentalisation during the war. Back home, where the extreme stimuli are absent, the mind struggles to unify the memories and the current environment.

Dissociation functions as a means of self-preservation:

  • Emotional Numbing: The veteran restricts emotional engagement to avoid the overwhelming anxiety triggered by the banal nature of civilian life, which feels insignificant or ridiculous compared to the stakes of war.
  • Depersonalization: He may feel detached from his own body or actions, observing his life from a distance.
  • Isolation (Hermitage): The decision to become “almost a hermit” is a logical extension of his disassociation. He seeks to minimize external stimuli and interaction because the required emotional work to fake normalcy is too taxing. He withdraws to the only space where his authentic, morally injured self can exist without constant performance—a private, silent exile within his own home.

4.3. Existential Alienation

Beyond clinical dissociation, the veteran suffers from acute Existential Alienation. His realisation of the war’s meaninglessness stripped him of easy answers about human purpose and morality. He returns to a society that has retained its comfortable illusions, talking about trivial matters while he carries the burden of undeniable truths about human cruelty and bureaucratic indifference.

The suburban setting, therefore, does not offer peaceful refuge; it becomes a constant reminder of the profound gulf between his lived experience and the sanitised reality of home. His refusal to participate in the suburban performance is a silent, but profound, act of anti-authority against the collective delusion of peaceful Western life.

5. Conclusion

The journey of the “normal man” through a senseless war is a compelling illustration of psychological disintegration under extreme moral and physical duress. His eventual transformation into an anti-authoritarian hero, fluctuating between valour and punishment, is not random but a coherent moral response to institutional failure. The survival mechanisms developed—functional disconnection and profound compartmentalisation—ultimately doom his attempt at civilian life.

The final state of the veteran, the disassociative hermit in suburbia, is the tragic outcome of a man who achieved a terrifying moral clarity in chaos, yet finds that clarity disqualifying in peace. His isolation is not a sign of failure but a determined refusal to sacrifice the painful truths he earned for the hollow comfort of societal reintegration. Further research is necessary to explore effective therapeutic interventions that address Moral Injury and facilitate the reintegration of the wartime identity into a stable civilian self.

Writing a book in 365 days – 307

Day 307

What can be explained is not poetry

The Unexplainable Truth: Why Yeats Said ‘What Can Be Explained Is Not Poetry’

W.B. Yeats, the towering figure of Irish literature and a Nobel laureate, often seemed to speak in riddles that contained profound universal truths. One such truth, delivered not from a stage but in a quiet moment with his son, Michael, cuts directly to the soul of creativity:

“What can be explained is not poetry.”

This deceptively simple statement is not merely a critique of literary analysis; it is a philosophy of art, a defence of mystery, and a guide for how we must approach the most cherished parts of our existence.

If poetry is built from words—the very tools of explanation—how can the final product simultaneously resist understanding? The answer lies in the fundamental difference between information and resonance.


1. The Reductionist Trap: Explanation as Destruction

When Yeats dismisses explanation, he is pushing back against the modern impulse to dissect, categorise, and summarise. Explanation seeks clarity, certainty, and a definitive endpoint. It wants to give you the meaning in a neat bullet point.

But for the poet, this act of definition is fatal.

Think of a poem like Yeats’s own “The Second Coming.” If you were asked to explain it, you might say: “It is about the breakdown of societal order, historical cycles, and the fear of a looming, savage future.” This is factually correct. But by the time you have finished this explanation, the poem itself—the terrifying rhythm, the shocking image of the “blood-dimmed tide,” the sheer visceral dread of the “rough beast, its hour come round at last”—has completely evaporated.

The Elements That Resist Explanation:

  • Rhythm and Sound: Poetry operates on the level of music. You can explain the notes on a score, but you cannot explain the feeling of the music’s vibration in your chest.
  • Ambiguity: A great poem holds multiple, often contradictory, truths simultaneously. Explanation forces a choice, killing the rich tension that gives the poem its power.
  • The Ineffable: Poetry deals in the realm of the subconscious, the spiritual, and the deeply felt human condition—areas that words can only point toward, never fully capture.

As the great poet Archibald MacLeish wrote, “A poem should not mean / But be.” If you can swap a poem for a paragraph of summarised meaning without losing anything vital, it was never truly poetry to begin with.


2. The Domain of True Art: Mystery and Aura

If explanation is the enemy, what elevates language into poetry? It is the successful creation of Aura—that inexplicable shimmer of authenticity and power surrounding a work of art.

Poetry, painting, and music—when successful—establish an immediate, emotional connection that bypasses the logical mind. They don’t give us facts; they provide us with an experience of being human.

A true poem resonates because it touches a nerve we didn’t know existed. It uses familiar words in unfamiliar arrangements that create a shock of recognition: Ah, yes, I have felt that thing, though I lacked the words for it.

This resonance cannot be taught, explained, or quantified. It is a mystery that the poet labors to create, and a mystery the reader must consent to receive. The poem’s job is to compel you to stop asking why and simply start feeling.

Art as a Sacred Language

For Yeats, an artist and a mystic, poetry was a sacred endeavour that tapped into universal symbols and mythic memory. This is why his poems are so dense with swans, spirals, gyres, and masks. These are not symbols to be easily decoded; they are portals meant to shift the reader’s consciousness.

To demand an explanation of a spiritual experience is to completely misunderstand the nature of the sacred. Yeats viewed poetry in the same light.


3. Beyond the Poem: Embracing the Unexplained Life

Yeats’s dictum is not just a lesson for the classroom; it is a profound commentary on how we live. The things we value most highly in life are often the things that defy bullet points and clear definitions.

If we can fully explain something, we often lose our sense of wonder for it. The minute we treat life as a logical equation, we forfeit the magic.

Love, Grief, and Beauty

Consider the deepest human experiences:

  1. Love: Can you truly explain why you love a particular person? You can list their qualities (kindness, intelligence), but those are merely the ingredients. The love itself—the specific, irrational, overwhelming devotion—is the chemical reaction that cannot be explained. If it could, it would be a transaction, not love.
  2. Beauty: Why is a specific sunset breathtaking? You can explain the atmospheric condition, the refraction of light, and the Rayleigh scattering effect. But none of that science touches the awe you feel when watching the sky turn orange.
  3. Grief: Grief is not a set of stages to be rationally completed; it is a primal force that washes over you. No explanation can contain the depth of loss.

These are the poetic aspects of life. They are what make living rich, maddening, and profoundly meaningful. They require us to accept ambiguity and to tolerate the fact that the most important truths lie just beyond the reach of language.


The Call to Wonder

Yeats’s quiet lesson to his son remains a powerful challenge to us today: In an age where every phenomenon is instantly broken down by algorithms and summarised in 280 characters, are we losing our capacity for wonder?

If we insist on explaining everything, we risk reducing the rich tapestry of existence to a dry instruction manual.

True poetry—in literature and in life—requires us to put down the defining pencil, step away from the summary, and simply stand in the presence of the powerful, beautiful, bewildering thing that is.

The challenge of the reader, the lover, and the appreciative human being is to honour the mystery that remains when all the explanations have failed.

What truths in your life have you accepted as unexplainable? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

Writing a book in 365 days – 307

Day 307

What can be explained is not poetry

The Unexplainable Truth: Why Yeats Said ‘What Can Be Explained Is Not Poetry’

W.B. Yeats, the towering figure of Irish literature and a Nobel laureate, often seemed to speak in riddles that contained profound universal truths. One such truth, delivered not from a stage but in a quiet moment with his son, Michael, cuts directly to the soul of creativity:

“What can be explained is not poetry.”

This deceptively simple statement is not merely a critique of literary analysis; it is a philosophy of art, a defence of mystery, and a guide for how we must approach the most cherished parts of our existence.

If poetry is built from words—the very tools of explanation—how can the final product simultaneously resist understanding? The answer lies in the fundamental difference between information and resonance.


1. The Reductionist Trap: Explanation as Destruction

When Yeats dismisses explanation, he is pushing back against the modern impulse to dissect, categorise, and summarise. Explanation seeks clarity, certainty, and a definitive endpoint. It wants to give you the meaning in a neat bullet point.

But for the poet, this act of definition is fatal.

Think of a poem like Yeats’s own “The Second Coming.” If you were asked to explain it, you might say: “It is about the breakdown of societal order, historical cycles, and the fear of a looming, savage future.” This is factually correct. But by the time you have finished this explanation, the poem itself—the terrifying rhythm, the shocking image of the “blood-dimmed tide,” the sheer visceral dread of the “rough beast, its hour come round at last”—has completely evaporated.

The Elements That Resist Explanation:

  • Rhythm and Sound: Poetry operates on the level of music. You can explain the notes on a score, but you cannot explain the feeling of the music’s vibration in your chest.
  • Ambiguity: A great poem holds multiple, often contradictory, truths simultaneously. Explanation forces a choice, killing the rich tension that gives the poem its power.
  • The Ineffable: Poetry deals in the realm of the subconscious, the spiritual, and the deeply felt human condition—areas that words can only point toward, never fully capture.

As the great poet Archibald MacLeish wrote, “A poem should not mean / But be.” If you can swap a poem for a paragraph of summarised meaning without losing anything vital, it was never truly poetry to begin with.


2. The Domain of True Art: Mystery and Aura

If explanation is the enemy, what elevates language into poetry? It is the successful creation of Aura—that inexplicable shimmer of authenticity and power surrounding a work of art.

Poetry, painting, and music—when successful—establish an immediate, emotional connection that bypasses the logical mind. They don’t give us facts; they provide us with an experience of being human.

A true poem resonates because it touches a nerve we didn’t know existed. It uses familiar words in unfamiliar arrangements that create a shock of recognition: Ah, yes, I have felt that thing, though I lacked the words for it.

This resonance cannot be taught, explained, or quantified. It is a mystery that the poet labors to create, and a mystery the reader must consent to receive. The poem’s job is to compel you to stop asking why and simply start feeling.

Art as a Sacred Language

For Yeats, an artist and a mystic, poetry was a sacred endeavour that tapped into universal symbols and mythic memory. This is why his poems are so dense with swans, spirals, gyres, and masks. These are not symbols to be easily decoded; they are portals meant to shift the reader’s consciousness.

To demand an explanation of a spiritual experience is to completely misunderstand the nature of the sacred. Yeats viewed poetry in the same light.


3. Beyond the Poem: Embracing the Unexplained Life

Yeats’s dictum is not just a lesson for the classroom; it is a profound commentary on how we live. The things we value most highly in life are often the things that defy bullet points and clear definitions.

If we can fully explain something, we often lose our sense of wonder for it. The minute we treat life as a logical equation, we forfeit the magic.

Love, Grief, and Beauty

Consider the deepest human experiences:

  1. Love: Can you truly explain why you love a particular person? You can list their qualities (kindness, intelligence), but those are merely the ingredients. The love itself—the specific, irrational, overwhelming devotion—is the chemical reaction that cannot be explained. If it could, it would be a transaction, not love.
  2. Beauty: Why is a specific sunset breathtaking? You can explain the atmospheric condition, the refraction of light, and the Rayleigh scattering effect. But none of that science touches the awe you feel when watching the sky turn orange.
  3. Grief: Grief is not a set of stages to be rationally completed; it is a primal force that washes over you. No explanation can contain the depth of loss.

These are the poetic aspects of life. They are what make living rich, maddening, and profoundly meaningful. They require us to accept ambiguity and to tolerate the fact that the most important truths lie just beyond the reach of language.


The Call to Wonder

Yeats’s quiet lesson to his son remains a powerful challenge to us today: In an age where every phenomenon is instantly broken down by algorithms and summarised in 280 characters, are we losing our capacity for wonder?

If we insist on explaining everything, we risk reducing the rich tapestry of existence to a dry instruction manual.

True poetry—in literature and in life—requires us to put down the defining pencil, step away from the summary, and simply stand in the presence of the powerful, beautiful, bewildering thing that is.

The challenge of the reader, the lover, and the appreciative human being is to honour the mystery that remains when all the explanations have failed.

What truths in your life have you accepted as unexplainable? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 19

The Third Son of a Duke

Unless we come from small towns, how much can we know about the big cities, and living in the outer suburbs?

In my day, living in the city, the inner suburbs cost too much, which is why families found themselves on the fringe of the city.

Of course, the differences between Australia and England are stark, and it has taken a lot of reading to get up to speed.

Just when our protagonist is leaving Australia to go back home.

I wondered if I might put him on a ship that was sunk by the Germans, but the Orontes made it back in one piece.

Various diaries have information about the voyage home, and particularly from Colombo, then Aden to take on coal, then back through the Red Sea, Suez, and the canal.

There are points along the way where the guns from the Dardanelles can be heard.  There is a stop at Alexandria for the service personnel we ll to disembark.

Our chap is considering not going home but disembarking in Port Said and making his way to Cairo, where he will find out how to enlist in the British army, which has training camps in Egypt.

Then there’s that desire to see Louise and surprise her.

I’m thinking a letter will be awaiting delivery to our protagonist from his father in Aden.  In it will be instructions.

What will those instructions be?

1880 words, for a total of 30965 words.

Writing about writing a book – Research

Day 25 – Digging deeper into the psyche of both the protagonist and his friend, both seemingly casualties of the war, one disassociative, the other having buried relevant memories that are connected to his current circumstances.

We’ll start with the protagonist, and how he got to this point, and this research I should have done a while back, and had to a certain extent, but this now clarifies, at least in my min,d why he is this way now

The Unburial of Nightmares: Neurobiological Catastrophe, Iatrogenic Retrieval, and the Crisis of Post-Dissociative Stability

Abstract

This paper explores a specific, highly acute mechanism of traumatic memory retrieval: the sudden unearthing of deeply buried, dissociated memories (often termed “repressed memories”) triggered by the synergistic shock of severe physical trauma (e.g., a gunshot wound) and the administration of potent psychoactive analgesics. While the strict concept of Freudian repression remains contested, modern trauma theory utilises the framework of Dissociative Amnesia to explain the compartmentalisation of traumatic data. This extreme retrieval event, characterised by sudden memory flooding, collapses decades of psychological defence, plunging the individual into an acute crisis of identity and reality. The central focus of this analysis is the subsequent psychological effort required—the processes of containment, integration, and therapeutic intervention—necessary for the individual to navigate this catastrophic cognitive shift and regain psychological stability, or “sanity.” We argue that stability is achieved not through re-repression, but through structured, trauma-informed integration that scaffolds the shattered self.


1. Introduction: The Cartography of Buried Memory

The nature of extreme traumatic memory—whether it is actively repressed, poorly encoded, or passively forgotten—has been a central, often contentious, topic in psychology, law, and neuroscience for decades (Loftus & Ketcham, 1994; Van der Kolk, 2014). While forensic debates caution against the spontaneous recovery of “false memories,” clinical literature consistently supports the existence of Dissociative Amnesia (DSM-5), where memories of severe, life-threatening experiences are segmented, unintegrated, and inaccessible to conscious recall due to overwhelming emotional load.

This paper addresses a critical scenario: the sudden, non-volitional retrieval of such dark, previously compartmentalised material. We hypothesise a specific trigger pathway:

  1. Severe Physical Trauma: The overwhelming stressor (e.g., being shot) floods the system with catecholamines, shattering existing coping mechanisms.
  2. Iatrogenic Catalyst: The administration of strong psychoactive drugs (e.g., dissociative anesthetics or potent opioids) alters the neurobiological state, disrupting the usual filtering mechanisms of the prefrontal cortex (PFC), thereby granting access to state-dependent memory fragments.

The resulting memory retrieval is not gradual introspection but a catastrophic memory flood, instantly replacing the current reality with the original trauma. The subsequent challenge is monumental: how can the individual maintain psychological integrity when the foundational structure of their self-narrative collapses?


2. Theoretical Foundations: Dissociation, Encoding, and State-Dependent Retrieval

2.1 The Repression-Dissociation Continuum

The traditional Freudian concept of “repression” implies an active, unconscious defence mechanism pushing unacceptable material out of awareness. In modern trauma psychology, dissociation provides a more precise neurobiological explanation. Dissociation, as described by Pierre Janet and later expanded upon by figures like Bessel van der Kolk (2014), involves the fragmentation of the traumatic experience. Instead of being stored as a coherent autobiographical narrative, the memory is stored as raw sensory fragments (images, smells, somatic sensations) in the primitive brain structures (amygdala). These fragments remain separate from the conscious self-system, resulting in amnesia.

2.2 Neurobiology of Traumatic Encoding

When trauma occurs, the high levels of stress hormones (cortisol, adrenaline) inhibit the hippocampus, the brain structure crucial for dating and contextualising memory. The amygdala, responsible for emotional salience and fear responses, remains highly active. This imbalance ensures the memory is encoded powerfully but fragmentarily—a raw sensory footprint lacking narrative context (LeDoux, 2000). The PFC, the executive control centre responsible for memory retrieval, actively suppresses these fragments to maintain daily functioning. This suppression is the neurobiological “burial.”

2.3 State-Dependent Memory and Pharmacological Triggers

Memories are often tied to the physiological and psychological state in which they were encoded. State-dependent memory suggests that retrieval is easiest when the retrieval state matches the encoding state. The acute trauma-analgesia scenario creates a perfect storm for accessing deep trauma:

  1. High Arousal/Pain State: The initial trauma (getting shot) mimics the extreme stress and life threat of the original trauma, lowering the threshold for retrieval.
  2. Pharmacological Alteration: Drugs, particularly powerful synthetic opioids (e.g., Fentanyl, Morphine) or dissociative anesthetics (e.g., Ketamine), drastically alter consciousness and inhibit the PFC’s filtering function. Ketamine, for instance, acts on NMDA receptors, fundamentally altering sensory and cognitive processing, often leading to profound, non-ordinary states of consciousness where psychological defences are temporarily deactivated (Krystal et al., 1994). This unique, highly altered state acts like a master key, bypassing the long-established neurological firewall and instantly accessing the fragmented traumatic material.

3. The Catastrophic Retrieval: Acute Memory Flooding

When the repressed material is accessed under these extreme conditions, the experience is described clinically as a memory flood or abreaction—a sudden, overwhelming confrontation with the past, entirely divorced from the protective therapeutic setting.

3.1 Collapse of the Self-Structure

The primary consequence of memory flooding is the immediate and profound destabilisation of the individual’s constructed identity. The personality framework may have been built entirely around the absence of this memory. The sudden introduction of dark, overwhelming data challenges the core schemas of safety, self-worth, and reality. The individual experiences acute symptoms of depersonalization (feeling detached from oneself) and derealization (feeling detached from reality), often coupled with flashbacks characterised by full sensorium immersion, believing they are reliving the original horror (Van der Kolk, 2014).

3.2 The Trauma of Retrieval

The retrieval itself becomes a secondary trauma. The individual is simultaneously experiencing:

  1. The acute physical pain and life threat of the present (the gunshot wound).
  2. The terror, pain, and helplessness of the original, long-ago event.
  3. The dissociative confusion is induced by the powerful analgesics.

This confluence creates an acute psychological crisis far exceeding the typical presentation of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), often manifesting as acute, protracted, psychotic-like states or severe fugue episodes. The memory is so dark—so overwhelming in its implications—that the immediate, unconscious imperative is often psychological obliteration or a return to global amnesia.


4. Pathways to Psychological Stability: Navigating the Crisis

The challenge of maintaining “sanity” post-flooding is not one of mere adjustment, but of rebuilding the personality structure from the ground up while simultaneously managing an existential crisis. Stability is achieved through rigorous containment, psychoeducation, and gradual integration.

4.1 Immediate Containment and Stabilisation

In the acute phase (hospital recovery), the priority is stabilisation and grounding, not processing. The individual must be protected from the desire to re-repress or self-harm.

  • Pharmacological Management: Careful titration of analgesics and withdrawal from dissociative agents is critical. Anxiolytics and short-term atypical antipsychotics may be used temporarily to manage acute hyperarousal, paranoia, and fragmented thinking caused by the memory flood.
  • Psychoeducation: The individual must be quickly educated on the neurobiology of trauma and dissociation. Understanding that the memory is an event from the past, rather than a current reality, helps manage the profound sense of fragmentation and shame.
  • Safety and Boundaries: Establishing a secure, predictable environment (both physically and relationally) counteracts the catastrophic loss of control inherent in both the current trauma and the original repressed event.

4.2 Therapeutic Integration: The Necessity of Scaffolding

Psychological recovery requires abandoning the previous life structure built on denial and moving toward integration, a process that is often nonlinear and agonising.

A. Phase-Oriented Treatment

Effective treatment follows Judith Herman’s three-stage model (1992):

  1. Safety and Stabilisation: Focusing on emotional regulation, grounding techniques, and managing daily life before delving into the trauma content.
  2. Remembrance and Mourning: Gradually processing the fragmented memories in a controlled, therapeutic environment (often using techniques like Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing – EMDR or Cognitive Processing Therapy – CPT). This requires confronting the memory without becoming overwhelmed.
  3. Reconnection: Re-engaging with life, finding meaning, and establishing a new, coherent biographical narrative that incorporates the dark event.

B. The Role of Dialectical Behaviour Therapy (DBT)

For individuals experiencing extreme emotional dysregulation and dissociation post-flooding, DBT skills—specifically mindfulness, emotional regulation, and distress tolerance—are invaluable tools for preventing a relapse into severe destabilisation. These techniques provide the concrete, present-focused skills necessary to contain the constant threat of fragmentation posed by the unearthed memories.

4.3 Resilience and Meaning-Making

Ultimately, “sanity” post-trauma is defined by psychological resilience—the ability to adapt positively to adverse circumstances. For memories so dark they “should have been left there,” the individual must engage in a profound shift toward meaning-making. This often involves:

  • Post-Traumatic Growth (PTG): Finding ways to use the survival of the original event and the subsequent unearthing as a source of strength, greater appreciation for life, or a renewed sense of purpose (Tedeschi & Calhoun, 1996).
  • Separation of Self and Event: Recognising that while the terrible event happened to them, it does not define who they are. This requires moving from the victim role to the survivor role, acknowledging the profound suffering without allowing the trauma narrative to consume the present identity.

5. Conclusion

The forced retrieval of deeply dissociated memories via acute trauma and pharmacological intervention represents a complex neurobiological catastrophe. The resulting memory flood instantly dismantles the individual’s long-standing defences, forcing a confrontation with overwhelming darkness. Maintaining psychological stability in this landscape requires rigorous, phase-oriented trauma therapy centred on containment, psychoeducation, and the gradual integration of the fragmented self.

The individual keeps sane not by successfully burying the memories again, but by utilising therapeutic scaffolding to build a new self-structure robust enough to hold the horrific reality of the past without collapsing in the present. The journey from fragmentation to integration is long and fraught, but it is the dedicated effort to synthesise the formerly unspeakable into a coherent life narrative that defines true psychological resilience and survival.

What I learned about writing – 306/306

Running the beta reader gauntlet – what to change and what not to…

The Beta Feedback Gauntlet: Taming Your Ego and Choosing Your Critics

You’ve done it. You reached The End.

After months (or years) in the writing cave, fueled by caffeine and sheer willpower, you finally sent your prized manuscript out into the wild. You waited for the champagne feeling to settle, and then—the emails started trickling back in.

This is the moment every writer both craves and dreads. Feedback is the necessary acid bath that turns a rough stone into a polished gem. But when you open those documents filled with tracked changes and margins plastered with notes like “Confusing,” “Pacing slow,” or “Didn’t connect with this character,” the defenses snap into place.

Suddenly, the voice in your head screams: “My work is a masterpiece! What do these amateurs know?”

Welcome to the Beta Feedback Gauntlet—the ultimate test of a writer’s maturity. The challenge isn’t just getting feedback; it’s discerning whose voices to heed and how to shake that reflexive, stubborn refusal to listen.


1. Confronting the Masterpiece Delusion

The belief that your just-finished draft is perfect is natural. It’s a necessary psychological mechanism that allows you to finish the book in the first place. But that mindset is lethal in the revision stage.

If you are struggling with the feeling that your betas “just don’t get it,” remind yourself of this fundamental truth: You are too close to the work to see it objectively.

Your beta readers are your first genuine audience. They are experiencing the story for the first time, free from the context of the 80 notebooks, the frantic deleted scenes, and the emotional labour you poured into every sentence.

When you feel that throe of superiority, take a breath and reframe the goal: I am not looking for validation; I am looking for clarity.


2. The Hierarchy of Heeding: Who to Listen To

Once you’ve accepted that revisions are necessary, the strategic challenge remains: How do you prioritise conflicting advice? Not all feedback is created equal.

The key to navigating the notes is understanding the difference between A diagnosis (what is broken) and A prescription (how to fix it). Always trust the diagnosis, but treat the prescription as merely a suggestion.

A. The Weight of Recurring Advice

If one beta reader tells you your opening scene is slow, that’s interesting. If three beta readers tell you the opening scene is slow, you have a problem with the opening scene.

This is the golden rule of feedback: Recurring notes always signal a systemic issue.

It doesn’t matter if you disagree with the specific language used (e.g., one says “the protagonist is whiny,” another says “I didn’t root for her”), the underlying diagnosis is the same: the protagonist’s presentation or motives are failing to land with the reader.

Action Item: Use a spreadsheet or a separate document to track recurring comments. If a point is raised by 30% or more of your readers, it must be addressed, regardless of your personal feelings.

B. The Shock of the Single Insight

While recurring comments are supreme, don’t dismiss the powerful, precise note that only one beta provides. This usually applies to:

  1. Genre Expectations: If one reader who specialises in your genre (e.g., a huge fan of dark fantasy) tells you that the magic system doesn’t make sense, heed them. They speak for a crucial segment of your market.
  2. Structural Integrity: Sometimes, one sharp-eyed reader catches a massive plot hole or a continuity error that everyone else missed because they were swept up in the story. This single note can save the entire manuscript.

If a single comment causes your stomach to clench and you immediately think, “Oh, they found the weak spot I tried to hide,” that note is often more valuable than twenty comments on typos.

C. Listening to the ‘Wrong’ Reader

One of the greatest mistakes a writer makes is only giving their work to other writers. While writer betas are useful for craft notes, you also need readers who are simply fans of the genre.

The non-writer reader is crucial because they don’t analyse; they read. They tell you when they got bored, when they stopped caring, or when a scene made them cry. They represent the market. If they struggled with the pacing, the pacing is probably the real problem, even if your writer friends told you the structure was brilliant.


3. Shaking the ‘I Refuse to Listen’ Attitude

That defensive, “I refuse to listen” attitude is a form of procrastination disguised as artistic integrity. To move past it, you need practical strategies for detachment.

1. Institute a 48-Hour Freeze

Never read feedback and start acting on it immediately. Your brain needs time to process the emotional shock. When the notes come in, read them quickly, close the document, and walk away. Go work out, cook dinner, or watch a bad movie.

The goal is to let the emotional heat dissipate so that when you sit down 48 hours later, you can approach the feedback as a detective solving a puzzle, not a defendant on trial.

2. Focus on the Effect, Not the Suggestion

When a beta reader gives a prescription—saying something like, “You should make the villain a woman instead of a man”—don’t focus on their suggested fix. Focus on the implied diagnosis.

  • Beta says: “I didn’t care about the villain’s motivation.”
  • The Problem: The motivation is weak.
  • Your Solution: Brainstorm five new motivations. Maybe one is a female character, but maybe another is a male character with a deeper backstory. You solve the problem without implementing the suggestion.

3. Seek the Root Cause

Often, a dozen different pieces of feedback point back to one central flaw.

  • Notes: “Dialogue is clunky,” “Pacing slows in the middle,” “I didn’t understand why they went to the abandoned factory,” “The stakes felt low.”
  • Root Cause: The protagonist lacks a clear, compelling goal that drives the entire second act.

When you find that single, vital root cause, the other twelve symptoms (clunky dialogue, weak pacing) often heal themselves once the main structural adjustment is made.


Feedback Is Fuel

Receiving beta feedback feels like a verdict, but it is actually a gift. It is the roadmap to the best possible version of your book.

Your job as a successful, professional writer is not to defend your work, but to elevate it. That means putting your ego aside and strategically choosing which voices to heed. Trust the patterns, focus on the reader’s experience, and remember: Every great masterpiece started as a messy draft that stubbornly resisted the first round of changes.

What I learned about writing – 306/306

Running the beta reader gauntlet – what to change and what not to…

The Beta Feedback Gauntlet: Taming Your Ego and Choosing Your Critics

You’ve done it. You reached The End.

After months (or years) in the writing cave, fueled by caffeine and sheer willpower, you finally sent your prized manuscript out into the wild. You waited for the champagne feeling to settle, and then—the emails started trickling back in.

This is the moment every writer both craves and dreads. Feedback is the necessary acid bath that turns a rough stone into a polished gem. But when you open those documents filled with tracked changes and margins plastered with notes like “Confusing,” “Pacing slow,” or “Didn’t connect with this character,” the defenses snap into place.

Suddenly, the voice in your head screams: “My work is a masterpiece! What do these amateurs know?”

Welcome to the Beta Feedback Gauntlet—the ultimate test of a writer’s maturity. The challenge isn’t just getting feedback; it’s discerning whose voices to heed and how to shake that reflexive, stubborn refusal to listen.


1. Confronting the Masterpiece Delusion

The belief that your just-finished draft is perfect is natural. It’s a necessary psychological mechanism that allows you to finish the book in the first place. But that mindset is lethal in the revision stage.

If you are struggling with the feeling that your betas “just don’t get it,” remind yourself of this fundamental truth: You are too close to the work to see it objectively.

Your beta readers are your first genuine audience. They are experiencing the story for the first time, free from the context of the 80 notebooks, the frantic deleted scenes, and the emotional labour you poured into every sentence.

When you feel that throe of superiority, take a breath and reframe the goal: I am not looking for validation; I am looking for clarity.


2. The Hierarchy of Heeding: Who to Listen To

Once you’ve accepted that revisions are necessary, the strategic challenge remains: How do you prioritise conflicting advice? Not all feedback is created equal.

The key to navigating the notes is understanding the difference between A diagnosis (what is broken) and A prescription (how to fix it). Always trust the diagnosis, but treat the prescription as merely a suggestion.

A. The Weight of Recurring Advice

If one beta reader tells you your opening scene is slow, that’s interesting. If three beta readers tell you the opening scene is slow, you have a problem with the opening scene.

This is the golden rule of feedback: Recurring notes always signal a systemic issue.

It doesn’t matter if you disagree with the specific language used (e.g., one says “the protagonist is whiny,” another says “I didn’t root for her”), the underlying diagnosis is the same: the protagonist’s presentation or motives are failing to land with the reader.

Action Item: Use a spreadsheet or a separate document to track recurring comments. If a point is raised by 30% or more of your readers, it must be addressed, regardless of your personal feelings.

B. The Shock of the Single Insight

While recurring comments are supreme, don’t dismiss the powerful, precise note that only one beta provides. This usually applies to:

  1. Genre Expectations: If one reader who specialises in your genre (e.g., a huge fan of dark fantasy) tells you that the magic system doesn’t make sense, heed them. They speak for a crucial segment of your market.
  2. Structural Integrity: Sometimes, one sharp-eyed reader catches a massive plot hole or a continuity error that everyone else missed because they were swept up in the story. This single note can save the entire manuscript.

If a single comment causes your stomach to clench and you immediately think, “Oh, they found the weak spot I tried to hide,” that note is often more valuable than twenty comments on typos.

C. Listening to the ‘Wrong’ Reader

One of the greatest mistakes a writer makes is only giving their work to other writers. While writer betas are useful for craft notes, you also need readers who are simply fans of the genre.

The non-writer reader is crucial because they don’t analyse; they read. They tell you when they got bored, when they stopped caring, or when a scene made them cry. They represent the market. If they struggled with the pacing, the pacing is probably the real problem, even if your writer friends told you the structure was brilliant.


3. Shaking the ‘I Refuse to Listen’ Attitude

That defensive, “I refuse to listen” attitude is a form of procrastination disguised as artistic integrity. To move past it, you need practical strategies for detachment.

1. Institute a 48-Hour Freeze

Never read feedback and start acting on it immediately. Your brain needs time to process the emotional shock. When the notes come in, read them quickly, close the document, and walk away. Go work out, cook dinner, or watch a bad movie.

The goal is to let the emotional heat dissipate so that when you sit down 48 hours later, you can approach the feedback as a detective solving a puzzle, not a defendant on trial.

2. Focus on the Effect, Not the Suggestion

When a beta reader gives a prescription—saying something like, “You should make the villain a woman instead of a man”—don’t focus on their suggested fix. Focus on the implied diagnosis.

  • Beta says: “I didn’t care about the villain’s motivation.”
  • The Problem: The motivation is weak.
  • Your Solution: Brainstorm five new motivations. Maybe one is a female character, but maybe another is a male character with a deeper backstory. You solve the problem without implementing the suggestion.

3. Seek the Root Cause

Often, a dozen different pieces of feedback point back to one central flaw.

  • Notes: “Dialogue is clunky,” “Pacing slows in the middle,” “I didn’t understand why they went to the abandoned factory,” “The stakes felt low.”
  • Root Cause: The protagonist lacks a clear, compelling goal that drives the entire second act.

When you find that single, vital root cause, the other twelve symptoms (clunky dialogue, weak pacing) often heal themselves once the main structural adjustment is made.


Feedback Is Fuel

Receiving beta feedback feels like a verdict, but it is actually a gift. It is the roadmap to the best possible version of your book.

Your job as a successful, professional writer is not to defend your work, but to elevate it. That means putting your ego aside and strategically choosing which voices to heed. Trust the patterns, focus on the reader’s experience, and remember: Every great masterpiece started as a messy draft that stubbornly resisted the first round of changes.