We are our own stories

Read a couple of interesting journal articles this week, both from Literature and Medicine Journal.

The first, The Narrative Shape of Traumatic Experience by Jane Robinett, looked at how two writers dealt with their traumatic experiences of war through their novels, and in particular, looking at the particular narrative structures they used to achieve this.

I picked up this article because Robinett starts it by writing about work by trauma theorists "...who insist on the fundamental 'inaccessiblity of trauma.'". These theorists are supported by neurobiolgists such as Bessel Van der Kolk, whom, Robinett writes, "...holds that because people who undergo psychological trauma suffer 'speechless terror...the experience cannot be organized on a linguistic level' and thus becomes not only inaccessible but also unrepresentable." Robinett's article challenges this view by analysing two novels about the experiences of war: All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque and The Sorrow of War by Bao Ninh. Both authors saw active service: Remarque served in the German army in WWI and Ninh served in the North Vietnamese army in the Vietnam war.

Through her analysis of each of the novels, Robinett finds similarities in the use of narrative structure and language that she believes illustrate an effective expression of trauma in linguistic form. Some of the techniques she describe as particularly effective in conveying the horror of war and the narrators' experiences of trauma include jarring shifts in tense and in point of view; plain and flat language; and silences. For example, she quotes sections from both authors' books and comments:

"...neither narrator comments or elaborates on the events. Instead, silence surrounds these fragmentary narratives, isolating them within the larger narrative...They occur almost casually, with the flatness that psychological trauma produces in its constrictive forms. The language and syntax are unvaryingly straightforward..."

Robinett describes several other instances of how each author uses narrative structure and technique to successfully portray the horror of war. This is of interest to me as a writer, in that I can look at the techniques used and see how I might modify them for my own writing. As a researcher, I found Robinett's article interesting both from the perspective of how the trauma theorists have used a neurobiologist's work to support their own theories and from the manner in which she challenges the trauma theorists' views through the analysis of the two war novels.

The second article I read was Evolution, Human Enhancement and the Narrative Self by Neil Scheurich. Scheurich writes about evolutionary psychology theory and the ethical concerns it raises for some; narrative as a way to cope with consciousness; medical and psychological enhancements as threats to human identity; and transhumanism. Which is a helluva lot for one article. Although there isn't one particular thing in the article that directly relates to my own research, I nevertheless found everything he wrote interesting. But if I had to pick one quote from the article that sums up what he is on about, I think this is it:

"Language and narrative are thus the means by which determined biology gives rise to ambiguity, uncertainty and the only kind of self-reflective freedom that could make sense to us."

Which he summed up in his conclusion by stating "...after all, narrative itself is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy."

Any link between Robinett's and Scheurich's articles is probably tenuous at best. But what I take away from both of them is that we are our own stories, and that they way we choose to tell them helps us to define who we are, and in finding some kind of definition or shape for ourselves, we find a way through life that helps us deal with whatever it is we've been given in this life: brain, genes, environments and experiences. And that this holds true for ourselves as humans, and, as writers, for the way we choose to tell our stories through characters. Which, in a roundabout way, comes back to neuroconstructivism in that it is all about context dependence: who we think we are shapes the stories we tell about ourselves; and the stories we tell about ourselves shapes who we think we are.

At least, I think so...

Ideas are everywhere

Reading Alan Weisman’s The World Without Us gives a whole new perspective to my obsession with the brain and how it works. Reading that you’re likely to be replaced by a toothed worm is a bit confronting. But also reading possible different outcomes about how the plant and animal life is likely to regenerate itself also has you thinking that perhaps the Earth would be better off – more beautiful, more fascinating – without us.

Weisman lays out a range of scenarios of how nature would move in if humans suddenly disappeared, dealing with everything from architecture to toxic waste. He talks to experts in their fields and looks at case studies around the world, including the Korean demilitarised zone and the archaeological site of the ruins of the Mayan civilisation, to imagine a world without humans. What plant life would thrive? How would forests recover? How would animals adapt and evolve without the threat (or protection) of humans?

It may be a long way from neuroscience but in terms of my research, Weisman’s book is an invaluable resource for ideas about how to construct the physical world of my novel, which is set in an abandoned resort in remote far north Queensland, and to look at the science that might be re/misinterpreted by a group who hold the core belief that the Earth is better off without humans.

Weisman’s book is a useful companion to The Revenge of Gaia, where the author James Lovelock expands on his theory that the Earth works as a single living, breathing organism, one that we humans have made chronically (although not yet fatally) ill. The Revenge of Gaia is a little more hard going in terms of readability (and in terms of its hypothesis that we're pretty much all screwed) but again offers fascinating insights and facts that can be fed into my neurons and if the right bits fire up, hopefully come out with an interesting insight that will add detail to my manuscript.

Where do you get your ideas seems to be one of the most commonly asked questions of writers. And when you read some writers’ work you have to wonder how they came up with the amazing stuff they did. But it still seems to me to be a strange question to ask. Ideas are everywhere.

Shaun Tan, talking about his book The Arrival, said that the idea for his immigrants being set loose in their new homes in balloons came from seeing how coral spawn by releasing eggs that float off into the water like hot air balloons soaring up into the sky. I love the way he made that connection between watching how the coral release their eggs off to an unknown destination and how immigrants coming to a new land are often sent off to places they know nothing about. That's the beauty of ideas in action.


News stories, particularly science based news, teems with ideas just waiting for a writer to come along, pick them out and give them new life. But if science isn’t your thing then go for history, war, crime, sport, music or art (generally the weirder the better). Getting ideas shouldn’t be a problem. It’s choosing the right idea, and how to put it together with other, seemingly disparate ideas to come up with something unique (just as Tan did) that’s the hard part. But if you are a writer who’s stuck coming up with something, give Weisman’s book a go. Depending on how things go with us humans it might have enough ideas in there to last the rest of modern civilisation.

The fruitless search for creativity in the brain

My supervisor has been gently hinting that perhaps I should stop talking about my non-existent manuscript so much and actually start writing it. So this week I took myself up to the beautiful Sunshine Coast hinterland village of Montville to get started. I was staying in accommodation a few kilometres out of town, situated at the end of a long and isolated driveway, surrounded by the bush and beautiful views and not much else. It was the perfect place to write - no internet connection meant no distractions. (Its isolation also made it a perfect place to set a horror/thriller, but that's for another story).

And guess what - it worked. I started to write a draft of the story that I will eventually submit as part of my Phd in a few years time. But it didn't come out at all like I thought it would.

I set myself up on the front deck, got comfortable with my views of the hinterland reaching out towards the ocean, and started with some writing exercises (I did number 11 & 12). In the writing exercises I used characters from the story I'm writing for my manuscript. Although up until this point I hadn't written very much of the manuscript (maybe 1000 words) I had done lots of writing about stuff that may or may not eventually end up in the manuscript, so I've got a pretty good handle on my main characters.

The writing exercises immediately jump started my brain. Whether this was because of my location, the exercises I chose, the fact that I had given myself this time just to write and do nothing else or a combination of these things, the words started to flow easily and I gained some new insights into my characters as well as some interesting stuff that may find its way into one of the manuscript drafts at some point.

The exercises took about 45 minutes. Then, it was time to start on the manuscript itself. The first thing I noticed was that the 'voice in my head that tells me what to write' (yes I have one but I'm pretty sure I'm not insane) was being harassed by my inner critic/editor. The 'voice' was telling me one thing; the critic/editor was trying to tell me something else. It took a bit of shutting up. But after I'd started writing what the 'voice' said the critic/editor started to fade.

One of the reasons it was a bit difficult to listen to this particular voice was that it wasn't the one I was expecting. But it was the one that showed up so I had to shut up, listen and write. It doesn't always happen this way. Sometimes there is no 'voice' at all and I have to stumble along and do the best I can. Sometimes I'll be writing for a while before it shows up. Sometimes it's hard to hear and sometimes it's as clear and strong. But up at Montville I got lucky and it hung around for pretty much the whole time I was there.

In her book The Mystery of the Cleaning Lady: a writer looks at creativity and neuroscience, Sue Woolf writes that there is "...an underlying assumption that all that's needed for creativity, or the study of creativity, is a knowledge of the brain's circuitry. That had always seemed to me too simplistic to reflect the enormous complexity of creating."

When I'm doing my research into neuroscience, I enjoy learning about how the brain works (or how neuroscientists are learning about what they think makes the brain work the way it does). The complexity of the brain's structure, the way it develops and grows, the factors that influence its development (both within the brain itself and stimuli external to the brain) are a source of endless fascination for me. I'm big on internal logic within a story and if a character behaves in a particular way I want to know why. Why is a character weak or good or a pushover or a bully or insensitive or blind to what is going on around them? What makes a character do what they do? For me, neuroscience and neuropscychology open up a whole world of possibilities in terms of character creation. But I never, ever think about this when I'm writing creatively. The purpose of creative writing, for me, is to just shut up and listen to the voice in my head that's telling the story. I let my neurons (or whatever) just do their thing.

When I came back from my short break and did a bit more work on my manuscript at home, the 'voice' was a lot weaker. This morning, although I wrote a fair bit, it didn't really turn up at all (but I kept writing anyway and not all of it was crap... I think). Writing was not as easy as it was up at Montville - I was back at home with the distractions of the internet and my daughter and the dog and the dishes and day to day 'life' and all of it quickly intruded in on my writing.

Montville was, in some ways, a 'false environment', as false as sticking a creative person into an fMRI and tracking their brain while they're being 'creative' to see what areas of the brain start firing. While there are no doubt some common elements in the creative process for artistic works, I believe a person's creative processes are as unique to them as their brains. Just as a human brain is a reflection of an individual's genes, body, environment and early experiences, so must our creativity be.  That is, the creative choices I make in my writing are in some ways already set because of who I am.

I think most writers can improve their creative processes by reflecting on them within a neuroscientificneuroscientists could stimulate a particular part of a brain and make a person instantly more creative.  But I think creativity is much more than the sum of our neurons, so I don't see it ever happening.

Besides, I'd rather holiday in Montville than have an electrode shoved in my brain.

Consciousness and Kevin Brooks' 'Being'

 The tv series Being Human looks at the struggles of a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost to create meaningful human lives in spite of their non-humaness.
 
Being, a young adult novel by Kevin Brooks, tackles a similar theme.The teenaged male protagonist, Robert, enters hospital for a routine endoscopy. He wakes, his body paralysed by anaesthesia, to find doctors cutting him open. The endoscopy has revealed that in place of human organs, beneath Robert's skin and bones is concealed a hard plastic shell containing materials that are definitely non-human. A man dressed in a dark suit and armed with a gun is barking instructions at the surgeon, another armed man guards the door.

The anaesthetic wears off and Robert escapes the hospital with some surgical supplies, a weapon and the tape from his endoscopy. He takes refuge in a motel, cuts himself open again and looks at what is inside him. Repulsed and shocked by what he sees, he neither understands nor recognises the alien parts inside his body. Viewing the tape of his endoscopy over and over again doesn't give him any more information.

This is an action-suspense novel with a twist. While Robert faces off against armed secret service agents, joins forces with a counterfeiter and escapes to Spain, he tries to understand what he is. He was fostered from birth, has few memories of his childhood and knows only that he has always healed faster than most people. He eats, drinks and shits. He thinks and feels guilt, love, embarrassment, fear, shame and sadness (although he can't cry). Isn't that enough to make him human, he asks?

What was I?
What could I be?
Where did I come from?
Was I born? Was I created?
Was I flesh and blood?
Or not?
And, if not, so what?
If I couldn't tell the difference, what difference did it make? What's the difference between complicated meat and complicated metal? What is a life? What makes a life?
History? Time? Memories? Senses? How do you see things? What do you see? How do you hear things? How do you feel? How do you do anything? How do you breathe? How do you grow? How do you think?
I wondered if I was going mad.

These questions about what it is to be human are threaded throughout the narrative. Robert struggles with what he is and what he might be. He does not know why secret service agents want him; he has no clue whether they know what he is either. In exile with the counterfeiter who becomes his girlfriend, he struggles with the truth and honesty of their relationship as they build a life together in a small village in Spain. How can he honestly explain to her what he is when he doesn't understand it himself? Isn't his lived life proof enough that he is human, or do the mysteries of the technology concealed inside his body condemn him to always being 'other'.

It would be interesting if Brooks had approached this topic from another angle, and had the protagonist Robert undergo a brain scan rather than an endoscopy. But although Brooks doesn't directly tackle the brain and its role in making us human, he does raise interesting questions about the brain/mind/body split, and what it is that makes us who we are, through Robert's internal and external struggles.

Being is a great example of a young adult novel that threads some big questions through a well-plotted, action-packed narrative. It can be read on the surface level as an action/suspense novel or the reader can choose to reflect on the nature of consciousness and humanity, trying to work out some of the 'big questions' along with the protagonist. Although the ending is not as satisfying as the rest of the novel, it leaves the way open for more questions about the mysterious Robert (and, possibly, a sequel).

What is a neuronovel anyway?

In late 2009, in a response to Jonah Lehrer's blogpost on the neuronovel, Marco Roth wrote:

"...contemporary novelists unnecessarily restrict themselves when they focus on questions of genetic or neurological causes for human behavior....I do think neuronovels and their authors have forsaken the world, too quickly, and the existing state of neuroscience does not help them to regain it." 

Roth and Lehrer were discussing the neuronovel in terms of adult fiction (including Saturday, Ian McEwans retelling of Mrs Dalloway). Lehrer had criticised Roth's view of the neuronovel, writing that the dialogue between contemporary science and contemporary art is part of an attempt to grapple with the implications of scientific theory. Roth, in response to Lehrer's criticism, wrote that he didn't have a problem with writers learning and borrowing from science to describe effects and generate metaphors, but he saw a problem "...when these borrowings are intended as both realism and metaphor at the same time."

Gary Johnson, in his article Consciousness as Content: Neuronarratives and the Redemption of Fiction defines the neuronarrative as "works of fiction that incorporate advances in cognitive studies as a prominent theme, that compel novelists to struggle with consciousness as “content” and to reassess the value of narrative fiction." The key point in Johnson's definition, for me, is the writer's struggle with "consciousness as 'content'". And in this he gives a definition that I think encompasses both Roth's and Lehrer's views: that the neuronovel draws on scientific theories but is not confined by the science, rather, it has the potential to amplify it.

For me, there is no doubt that a focus on the science at the expense of creativity is likely to make any piece of fiction bland reading. And although I've told my supervisor on several occasions that I won't be looking at consciousness in my thesis, it's a topic that seems to come up again and again in my research. I could be researching the wrong things, of course. But as much as I'm interested in the science of how the brain works - for a person who failed year 10 science I've developed an unlikely hankering for reading about the intricacies of neurons - I see the science as a starting point.

The things that science discovers about the brain fascinate me, but what fascinates me more is what my mind can do with these pieces of information. How can I twist them and turn them inside out? Stretch them and loop them and curve the facts inside and around themselves to become something other, something my own? The way my brain/mind/consciousness does this - the process it uses - are of little consequence to me right now. But in terms of neuroconstructivism - in which the person I have developed into is the result of context dependence; of my brain cells existing inside my brain, inside my body, in my particular environment and with my specific experiences - the choices I make as a writer are necessarily limited by who I have become, aren't they?

Why, for example, would I rather run naked through the middle of the city in peak hour than try to write (or read) romantic fiction or historical fiction or any of a dozen other genres that millions of others love but do absolutely nothing for me? Why are there other genres I enjoy reading but could never see myself writing? Can my preferences as a reader and writer be fully explained by one or more branches of neuroscience? Maybe. But would this knowledge improve my writing? Possibly, or possibly not.

I don't know what drives me to research neuroscience and neuropsychology. I just know that I want to. Having an understanding of the science won't make me a better writer. But it might open up new ideas that wouldn't be available to me without that knowledge. The struggle to incorporate those ideas into a successful young adult novel is sure to stretch my brain/mind in a myriad of different ways. But how those ideas develop from my own consciousness, and how I explore my characters' neural development and have them express that through their consciousness ...well that's a whole other story.

The upside of post-viral fatigue

The last few weeks I've been plagued with post-viral fatigue. It's frustrating and boring and it sucks. But if there's any advantage to being forced to do nothing it's that it gives you time to think. Lying in bed, not being able to read or use your laptop or watch tv gives your mind free time to enter a world of your own making. Before you know it, the ideas start forming. New ideas and old ones you've rejected that come back in new clothes with new solutions. A quiet time, a quiet space where nothing else is going on is exactly what my mind needs to not only allow ideas to come to the surface but to take notice of them, absorb them, let them sink in and swim around a little.

Not having enough time to just sit and think is a major problem when you're working full-time and studying part-time. It's an even bigger problem when you're meant to be writing a manuscript. And it's the major conflict of my life, one I run into over and over again. Some may describe it as my 'life lesson'. I'm not going to dwell here on the psychological implications of having to be sick so I can get some time to pay attention to my creative side - no therapist's couch is needed to work out something that bleedingly obvious. But it's a continual source of frustration for me, nonetheless.

In the absence of a rich and generous benefactor, the solution is to stop time wasting activities. But we seem so geared towards always having to be doing something. And even when we know it's madness, we continue to do it. Scanning facebook and twitter for the latest interesting link because we can't bear to miss out on something (btw, people who follow thousands of people - why?). Always being plugged into something. British neuroscientist Baroness Susan Greenfield says our obsession with being online 24/7 is rewiring our brains, not necessarily in a good way. I'm not a huge Greenfield fan but for me there's no doubt that being obsessed with always wanting to know the latest and the newest and the most interesting is distracting and can be death to ideas and creativity. Of course there are the times when something I find online inspires a new idea (like the meat house) or generates a new line of thought or enquiry. But it takes vigilance and discipline to find that balance between exploring and discovering and just wasting time.

Maybe this time I've learnt my lesson. Maybe this time I will stick to my schedule and not try to squeeze in extra things here and there that not only exhaust me physically but take time away from thinking. After all, what is Phd study for, if not to allow myself the time to think. 

Picking the pieces out of my brain

If I didn't know better, I'd think some bizarre being has visited me in the dead of night and performed a quick and nasty frontal lobotomy with a rusty ice pick. I know I've been doing research and reading for the past 2 weeks but when I try to summarise it, all the bits of information scuttle off and hide somewhere in the recesses of my sulci (or is that gyri?). But anyway, here goes.

Fiction
In the last couple of weeks I've been ripping through some great YA fiction. First up was Cory Doctorow's latest For the Win. I really enjoyed it but it was an odd book, combining the gaming world with unionism, violence, communism, a touch of neuroscience and lectures on the basics of economics as it plays out in both the real and virtual worlds. It had a wide cast of characters placed across the globe, from hard core gangster bosses to rich nerds to a pirate radio host inciting factory girls to unite for the common cause of the worker. Not what you'd usually expect from YA fiction but, apart from the occasional lapse into didactism, this was a great story. Fast-paced, well plotted, lots of action, it's a story that keeps humming along. I haven't read many reviews of it so I'm not sure how it's faring yet with the target audience. It'll be interesting to see, as in some respects Doctorow has achieved something similar to what I'd like to do, in combining topics you wouldn't necessarily consider 'young adult' into a fast-paced narrative.

Suzanne Collin's Catching Fire, the second in her Hunger Games trilogy, is one that has no shortage of glowing reviews from fans. I haven't read book one yet but found no problem getting right into this second installment. Although the basic plot was one that's been done before in the sci-fi genre over the years, Collins' characters make the narrative vivid and exciting. The created world is believable, the plot reasonably simple while maintaining strong interest with some great twists and turns (I loved the big 'wedding dress' reveal) but it is the characters that really pull you in. The fear, dread and confusion the narrator, Katniss, feels is palpable all the way through. She is stuck in a no-win situation but pushes through each and every thing that is thrown at her. A real gutsy heroine (unlike some other wussy female protagonists around at the moment), and a character to inspire.

Research
I've got through most of the first volume of Neuroconstructivism and think I have it pretty much under control. I've also skimmed through a few articles reveiwing Maraschel et al's work, most seem to be overall positive (though I did have a giggle at one that said he was annoyed that the authors hadn't cited other researchers in the field and then said he was one). So, it's accepted as a valid (if not perfect) framework and it'll do just fine by me. Next I'm tackling Fundamentals of Human Neuropsychology. It covers everything I could ever possibly want or need to know on the subject, but, seeing as I'm a fiction writer and not a neuropsychologist, just a skim over the good bits will do. But I have enjoyed the first chapter which covers a bit of the history of the brain and how it's been perceived and studied over the centuries. One thing stood out - people have made huge mistakes and crazy assumptions about the workings of the human brain. And although technology such as fMRIs are making the study of the brain much easier in some ways, it seems the more that science uncovers, the more problems about the brain there are to solve.
No wonder so many find it so fascinating.