There is a distinction between a person who experiences pain, and a person who feels pain in a manner that gives the reader an emotional connection to them.
Not in terms of logical causality or cause-and-effect. Fiction is not a court trial. However, there is a distinction in terms of the reader's ability to recognize (or understand) the burden felt by a character. At some point, the reader should feel the burden that exists because of a particular type of mind.
Real psychology can provide psychological fiction with an “anchor” to help define these burdens.
In the absence of such an anchor, a story about trauma would likely present itself as a series of dramatic events. A story about obsession could present itself simply as eccentric behavior. Dissociation would result in confusion among both the reader and the author, who lacks genuine knowledge of the subject matter. This occurs in an unintentional (and therefore disorganized), rather than an intentional (as with a well-crafted unreliable narrator) manner. The author’s character drifts. The reader views from afar and fails to believe what he or she is witnessing.
I conduct research while writing to ensure that the psychology of a character will eventually develop into believable fiction. In order for the psychology of a character to develop into fiction, it must first be real to me. When I am creating a particular mental state, or a particular form of grieving, or a disorder, or a psychological response to trauma or loss, I am doing this to establish an authentic origin for the feelings I intend for my characters to experience. My research varies. I love watching psychologists explain specific phenomena. I follow documentaries or serials that are based on true stories, when I am able. I also listen to people who have experienced direct trauma or loss, or people who have lived next to someone experiencing trauma or loss. The viewpoint of a relative or companion to someone suffering is one I find especially useful — they see everything at a distance from inside and outside the condition. This is precisely where a narrator needs to be situated.
Psychological fiction must, however, know when to part company from its roots in psychology. Psychology clarifies. It classifies, diagnoses, causes. Its primary concern is establishing clarity, so that whatever phenomenon is being addressed can be identified, treated, named, and fit into an organisational structure that allows the individual to manage it.
Fiction, on the other hand, is not a treatment plan. As soon as a character is completely explained by his or her diagnosis, and identifiable actions and reactions can be traced back to that diagnosis and the criteria established for it, something fundamental disappears. Mystery. The impossibility of reducing a human being to her or his pathology. The knowledge that despite our best attempts to create frameworks that govern us all, there will always be that which cannot be classified or governed.
Both fictional and actual humans consist of much more than their respective diagnoses.
This is the fine line I continue to work at as I write. I draw upon research related to psychology to lend authenticity and legitimacy to my characters’ experiences, providing a base in reality for readers to relate to. Yet I cease to offer complete explanations. I permit my characters to transcend their own psychologies. I allow space for behaviours that research cannot explain satisfactorily. I allow for interpretations that are insufficiently developed. I allow for an internal existence that remains fundamentally opaque.
The greatest truth regarding an unstable — or any — mind is not that it may ultimately be understood completely; it is that it cannot be understood completely, and that this represents a common condition for all of us, to varying degrees. Fiction that dismisses this reality results in a case study. Fiction that recognises this potential creates literature.
The mystery surrounding an unstable — or any — mind should endure for as long as it is necessary for the narrative of the story. Not as a deception, and certainly not out of a desire to withhold information for its own sake. Certain elements of human experience — both real and fictional — are only incompletely intelligible. One of the most honest things writers can do is demonstrate this incomplete intelligibility with specificity, rather than fill in the blank with false clarity.
Studying psychology has shown me what empty places look like; writing fiction has demonstrated to me how to maintain them intact.