If it doesn't kill you... it makes you a stronger writer? by Emma Woodcock

As authors we often put our characters into dangerous or frightening situations. We try to imagine how it would feel, and how they would react. We draw on what experiences we have. But unless your life is a lot more exciting than mine, such experiences are pretty thin on the ground. I suspect that sometimes when we think we are drawing on experiences we are actually drawing on our memories of other stories.

I’m coming to realise that on the rare occasions I do find myself in a pickle, it seldom feels the way I might expect.

A mishap last week saw me stuck in a peat bog, alone, in a remote area of the Peak District. And when I say 'stuck' I mean, up to my bum in porridgey mud and unable to pull one of my legs free (you can read the whole sorry tale here). As if that wasn't bad enough, I had no idea how deep the bog went, and I was still sinking...

If I was writing this scene in fiction, and trying to imagine myself in the situation, I expect there would be a lot of internal monologue; a lot of self goading, marshalling of strength, split-second contemplations of all the ways it could play out, and what the consequences would be. There might be tears, either during or after the event.

What actually happened is that I became absolutely focused and purposeful. I don't recall thinking a single thing. I don't mean I was in a blind, stupid panic. I just mean, I acted instinctively. I saw no options about my actions, and nothing else was important. So there was nothing to think about.

I did two things: I screamed for help (and felt no embarrassment at doing so), and I began to dig at the sucking mud around my trapped leg.

The screaming went completely unnoticed, as I'd expected. But it was worth a try. The digging eventually allowed me to pull myself free.

As soon as I was safely back on dry land the more expected behaviour kicked in – swearing, trembling and brain-dead staring at nothing for minutes at a time.

This has led me to consider my meagre personal stock of dangerous or frightening experiences.

As a child I was obsessed with horror films. They scared the crap out of me, but I *had* to watch them - I recall on one occasion pretending to go to bed, but sneaking back into the living room and hiding behind the sofa to stay up watching Hammer House of Horror.

I was consequently quite a nervy child. I was scared of the dark. I saw monsters in shadowy corners. I expected axe-wielding maniacs to leap out from my wardrobe. Even when I got older these fears didn't go away (After our GCSEs some school friends and I went away on a trip, staying in a remote camping barn in Wales with NO ADULT SUPERVISION! Somehow I ended up with the much coveted bed beside the boy everyone fancied. But on my other side was the dark, open stairwell. The other girls were astonished that I voluntarily gave up my prime spot, opting to swap for a bed in the corner of the room. They seemed nonplussed by my explanation that I'd be the first one 'got' by anything slinking up the stairs).

So how do you think I reacted on a different occasion at home when I woke in the middle of the night, a storm raging outside, hearing a banging sound from the empty bedroom above mine? When I leapt to switch on the light, and found the electricity was out?

If you'd asked me beforehand I'd have had no doubt that I would run blubbering and screaming from the room – straight to mum and dad.

But that's not what I did. Being of a slightly gothic tendency at the time, I had candles and matches to hand, so I quickly mustered some flickering, shadow-enhancing light. I climbed the curved staircase to the empty bedroom – which btw, my mum was decorating at the time, so all the furniture was in unfamiliar positions and covered in pale dust sheets.

Yes, I was scared. Yes, my heart was hammering. But I also knew really that ghosts are nonsense. I knew there must be a rational explanation. So I walked through the shrouded furniture until I discovered the source of the noise – the window had come unlatched and was slamming repeatedly against its frame. Mystery solved. Emma not such a wuss as she thought.

And what about the time our dog fell in the canal, and the sides were too steep for him to climb out? He began to swim desperately around, failing to find a place he could get out, and visibly tiring. Everyone stood around, shouting encouragement to the dog, but not really knowing what to do. The water wasn't that deep, but the bottom looked soft and sludgy. Luckily there was an old girder lying across the mud, propped against various bits of tree and other debris. I climbed down onto this and tried to reach across to the now panicky dog. I couldn't balance, so ordered my dad, “Hold me steady!” Which he did, and I was then able to reach the dog, and lift him out.

Under ordinary circumstances I wouldn't dream of snapping orders at my dad. But I have come to realise that there is a very different mindset which comes on in times of danger: absolutely focused and ruthless, with no respect of social nicety.

I don't often find myself in dangerous situation, and I'm glad of it. But examining the way I've behaved at such times has led me to realise that character is a lot more complex and mutable than you might necessarily think; that in a crisis, anything can happen. An anxious, dithery girl can take charge and do what needs doing. The people you might expect to know what to do, don't always.

I like the possibilities that presents.

My advice? Next time you experience some traumatic mishap, write about it. Examine your feelings and actions. Were they what you would have expected? If the experience didn't kill you, it might just make you a stronger writer.

Further to this thread, you might also enjoy these thoughts on the psychology of the rescued.

Emma Woodcock will be a regular contributor on The Unofficial 'Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere' blog