The Pain Jar by KC Finn

KC Finn

duvet, and a duffle bag with everything else that she owned in the world bursting from its seams. I guess she wasn’t the kind of person I would have talked to if I could talk, but she talked to me, and I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t tell her to get lost or move along, or that she stank of fish guts, like the other kids at my school would have. And once I’d let her talk to me for a few weeks, I didn’t want to tell her to go anymore. She was the only one who could see the pain I was always in: trapped every day by my own silence.

‘Keep your pain in a jar, Sweet One.’

She always called me Sweet One, for my lack of a name in our one-sided conversations.

‘People have been doing it for centuries. Messages in glass bottles. Witch bottles. Spells. Cries for help. It’s all the same thing.’

There were so many questions I wanted to ask Edith about the stories she told me. Like the legends of the witch bottles, and the poor people who used them to try to ward off evil. My jar kept me sane, at least, and I guessed that was a similar thing. But as I looked at it, sitting there on the cafeteria table, I noticed that the jar was getting full. It had been a whole term at school since Edith handed the dirty old jar to me, and told me to fill it up with my pain. I wanted to ask her what I was supposed to do with it when it was chock full of my voice and my feelings.

But I never had the chance. Lost in memories, I’d forgotten to keep watch for trouble. A sudden arm swooped in from behind me, and I watched with a silent, open mouth as my jar was lifted clean into the air. I leapt from my seat and spun, trying to reach for it, but the hands were too fast. The figure who had it had already launched himself onto the next table, standing with both arms raised to the huge, echoing ceiling. His grin was wide and toothy as he shook my papers, my feelings, my soul, between his stupid meaty paws.

‘Is this the thing you meant, Mina?’

He was speaking to another figure behind me, and I spun again to find her as she answered.

‘Yeah, Kush. The weirdo’s writing stuff about us. I know it.’ It was the ponytail girl again, back for a second helping.

And I knew the boy they called Kush all too well. He’d pushed me over in the hallway plenty of times, and slammed into my bag so that I’d dropped all my books just as the bell rung to go into class. He pulled my seat out from under me once, and I landed so hard I had to see a doctor. Kush was in my jar thirty times over.

‘Well it’s time we put a stop to all this.’ Kush’s eyes glittered over my precious capsule. ‘Permanently.’

He unscrewed the jar, and for one horrible moment I thought he was going to start reading stuff out. I banged my fists hard on the table and tried to reach for his legs, but Mina snatched me back and gripped my arm so tight that her nails dug in. Kush looked down, a brow quirked.

‘Go ahead, weirdo. Scream. Cry out. Tell me to stop and I will.’

The other kids laughed. They laughed and laughed because they weren’t like me. They could make any word or sound they wanted. Any one of them could have told him to stop, but no protests came. They were all in on my suffering. I struggled hard against Mina’s nails as Kush took a lighter from his pocket and clicked its flame into being. He dipped it into the jar, onto the topmost paper, and the whole thing caught fire. Slow, black curls of burning embers mixed with bright orange flames as the jar began to sizzle.

It was glowing and too hot to hold within seconds. As Kush set it down, he stumbled on the table, struggling to stay on his feet. He rubbed at his neck, and then his legs, and then his hands came back to find his throat. Eyes wide and bulging, he let out a colossal wheeze, spluttering into the rising plume of smoke. Kush’s face was as red as the trays in the cafeteria, and he clasped his voice box as he took in bigger and bigger gasps. He lunged forward and crashed off the table to my feet.

Mina let me go. She was the next to fall, her face bright and clammy. She clawed at herself like a girl gone mad, shaking her head. But she couldn’t cough or cry. When she opened her mouth, she made no sound at all. I looked at the burning jar, and then beyond it, to the kids who were dropping left, right and centre in the huge space around me. They had lost their voices too, just as I had wished. Everyone here had teased me at some point, and now everyone in my pain jar had what was coming to them. They were burning for it.

There came a tapping sound, echoing over the eerie silence of bodies falling and writhing. For one crazy moment, I thought it was the glass of the pain jar, but when I glanced out through the smoke, I saw a hand pressed to the cafeteria windowpane. Edith’s bony face peered in, but she wasn’t dressed in rags or carrying her duffel bag anymore. Her hair was wild and blazing with life, as jet black as the soot forming at the foot of the fire in my jar. She gave me a grin, and I saw the same flames burning in her eyes.

And I understood then, what I was supposed to do with that jar. I let it burn. Because nobody in that room had used their voice to stop the fire. Nobody there had understood the pain they’d caused me, until now. They weren’t like me. And now, they never would be.

RUNNER-UP AND SHORTLISTED

Runner-up in the DarkTales Short Story Competition was

Karen Ovér, Astoria, New York, whose story is published on

www.writers-online.co.uk

Also shortlisted were: Dominic Bell, Hull; Caroline Boobis, Seghill, Northumberland; Vannessa Bullock, Earby, Lancashire; Michael Callaghan, Glasgow; Guy Carter, London E17; Russell Day, Wallington, Northumberland; Tony Domaille, Thornbury, South Gloucestershire; Julie Hancock, Hazlemere, Buckinghamshire; Emma Lord, Swindon, Wiltshire;

Jeanette Lowe, Sheffield, SouthYorkshire; AJ Reid, Heswall, Wirral; Amanda Webster, Lytham St Anne’s, Lancashire

In Alexander Chee’s essay, How to Unlearn Everything, he suggests that the question of writing about ‘other’ people, ‘has become one of those fights with no seeming end’. However, he also suggests many writers are not asking for advice, they’re asking if it’s okay to find a way to continue as they have. ‘They don’t want an answer; they want permission.’

Yet it is a debate that has seen authors abandoning novels left and right, for fear of being condemned. Earlier this year, Jeanine Cummins was lambasted for being a white author telling a Mexican immigrant’s story in her much-hyped American

Dirt; her tweets of barbed-wire themed table decorations and manicures attracted even more derision. More recently, David Walliams suffered a 20-Tweet take down by Jack Monroe, who accused him of ‘targeting the working class’ in his children’s books, and when a tweet by care-experienced Cambridge graduate, Kasmira Kincaid went viral, she followed up with an article for The Sunday

Times which questioned who should have the right to write the ubiquitous orphan story.

One of the complaints levelled at Cummins was that white writers can find mainstream success when writing about marginal subjects far more easily than those marginal subjects can, even though the latter must be writing far more authentically about their own cultures and lives. The problem is compounded by the fact that unless a ‘voice’

or narrative structure fits what, for decades, has remained narrow in definition, they’re often neither understood nor seen to be of ‘quality’. NB: see Booker Prize winner, Marlon James’s 78 rejections for his first novel, John Crow’s Devil…

In light of movements like Black Lives Matter, things are finally changing – in ways one can only hope are fundamental and permanent. Although, as the 2020 Rethink Report highlights, while the practice of comparing books to predict audiences and sales still exists, this ‘privileges books that repeat certain patterns and established authors, making it harder for “new voices’’.’

Chee suggests that you ask yourself three important questions before stepping outside your lane: why do you want to write from this characters’ point of view; do you read writers from this community currently; why do you want to tell this story? On Twitter, Nikesh Shukla advised writers simply to: ‘Do it well. That’s all. Just do it well’.

It’s a concept taken up by Uju Asika: ‘I think the #ownvoices trend is great, but it should be about inclusivity and authenticity, not exclusivity. Writing should be borderless.’ Great advice – and a relief to anyone who is worried that as writers we surely have to write ‘the other’. For without it, literature simply could not exist.

A question posted in the Writers for Diversity Facebook group recently, asking how to describe skin colour in ways that aren’t offensive, generated 103 comments within hours. Not using food comparisons was a popular answer, but still cause for debate.

With so much being debated right now, we ask four prominent authors and agents for their thoughts.

Helen Hoang is a best-selling American romance novelist. Aged 34 she was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum. inspiring her novel, and its endearing protagonist, Stella.

The book was welcomed by readers with autism; many of whom, The Washington Post reported, had never seen themselves so accurately or compassionately depicted, particularly in a sexual way. I wonder if that is why – unusually for a romance novel – she doesn’t shy away from describing the sex in detail?

‘I have heard of agents saying it’s disrespectful and offensive to write about autistic people having sex. Hopefully this is becoming an antiquated opinion. My own journey toward diagnosis was pivotal in the development of Stella and I kept her experiences close to mine. I don’t know if I might care more than a non-autistic author about getting it right, but to me it is extremely important. However, my third novel will probably be my last “autism” one. As a writer I want to reach people with the stories I create, not the one I live. Furthermore, I’d like to see some of the other, extremely talented, autistic voices enter this space.

‘When it comes to writing outside your lane, I’m not a person who responds well when people tell me what I can and can’t do, so I try not to do that to others. I will say that I’d like authors to do a damn good job of it, because once your book is in the world, it’s impossible to take back. Also, I think that motivations and intentions are important. Is it an issue/condition close to your heart, or are you jumping on a trend? Perhaps I’m too idealistic, but I hope for authors to write with love.

‘In my latest novel, The Heart Principle, the heroine is Chinese American. This portrayal won’t be #ownvoices, which has caused me great anxiety; wondering if I’ve the right to write her – even though my grandfather was Shanghainese. In an attempt to connect to this part of myself, I enrolled in a total immersion Mandarin programme at Tsinghua University in Beijing. And the book won’t be published without sensitivity reads and the necessary revisions.

‘I do think authors can make their stories personal without writing #ownvoices. We share a common humanity after all. Even if you’re writing inside your lane, you struggle with issues of accurate representation. In fact, through interactions with fellow AOC, I’ve come to believe that it might be harder: because of higher expectations, increased scrutiny and feelings of responsibility. The last thing I want to do is harm my own people! I lose sleep over this, and the few times readers have voiced disappointment it’s crushed me. Now I second, third, fourth guess everything, often just deleting completely because I’m afraid to speak. I live in fear of cancel culture. It’s why I quit Twitter. I don’t believe anyone is so much of an expert in any area that they can do no wrong. And yet that’s what seems to be expected these days, yes? Perfection!’

Tracy Chevalier is the author of ten novels, including the multimillion selling, Born in Washington, she’s lived in the UK since 1984.

‘When I choose a historical subject, the advantage is that nobody has lived through that time

so the field is open to me. Still, with every novel

I do a deep dive into everyday life. Writing in a contemporary setting I’d know a lot of the details – right down to what people’s lampshades are like.

But with my current novel, set in the 15th century, I’ve had to do enough research to build a world my readers can believe in. That’s the crucial element of authenticity: to be confident in the time-period and psychology of the people.

‘I use secondary material, so always keep in mind that history is recorded through certain narrow lenses. I tend to focus on every-day people, particularly women; although there’s a lack of primary material as most weren’t educated enough to leave any documentation. But I’m also aware that I have my own lens. What I write reveals what I’m interested in and I’ll always write slightly from my point of view. It’s important to remember that people in 15th-century Venice would have thought differently from 21st-century me.

‘In terms of the characters I focus on, lately I’ve been thinking a lot about this and realised that there aren’t any POC in my books; other than

The Last Runaway, which was about enslaved people but told from a white perspective. Five centuries ago, Venice was extremely international, and, famously, there’s a Black gondolier in a painting by Carpaccio who I’m now incorporating into my story. But it’s tricky. I don’t want him to be the benign sidekick; nor should Black characters always bring with them the grief of their existence – although my gondolier would have been enslaved. I definitely want to love and respect him, and just have to figure how that plays out on the page. The more time I spend with my characters, the more they take on a three-dimensional life. And sometimes that means making them do bad things too, because they all need to be well-rounded.

‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable, however, writing with a Black person as my main protagonist.

I’m not sure I’d do a good enough job, nor entirely get away from writing from my whiteprivileged point of view. When I was writing

New Boy (a reinterpretation of Othello), reading Angie Thomas’s The Hate U Give crystallised my thoughts. I saw that I could never have written it: her voice, the way she looked at everything. I’m a professional and could do the research and make a pretty good job of it, but I could never do it the way Angie did. Nor should I want to.

‘I believe that, 99% of the time, people write about what they know; so I’m delighted that the publishing gates are finally opening up, and voices of every kind can rightfully take up their own slots. This is crucial in the debate, because each year there are still only limited slots for specific stories. And I don’t want to be the established white writer taking up a slot for a book that could be written more authentically in a different voice. Therefore, I can’t categorically say that everyone has the right to write everyone else’s story. Because even when writers aim to do it with love, respect and lots of research, the issue’s far more complicated.’

Monisha Rajesh is a British Indian journalist and travel writer, the author of She grew up in Norfolk before first travelling across India, then the world, by rail.

‘I hesitate to admit this, but I never used to read travel writing. I just couldn’t relate to anything the majority of (white, male, middle-class) writers wrote about. It must be so great to be able to wander into a train carriage and go to sleep – but it isn’t something I’ve ever felt particularly comfortable doing as a brown woman, travelling alone.

‘Perhaps in my first book I was more opinionated than necessary and I’ve now learnt to really listen and observe; for it means you’ll understand a place much quicker. I also now include a lot of dialogue. I found it made my writing cleaner when I just let people speak for themselves, as well as allowing my readers to make their own interpretations.

‘I don’t read a lot about countries before I visit; just enough to understand what I’ll see. I want to avoid colouring my vision by looking at places through somebody else’s lens. For instance, with Japan I did already have that tainted stereotypical view of how other-worldly and alien it is – Geishas wandering the streets – but after three weeks I came away thinking that’s really not what Japan’s about.

‘I read more; digested everything; then put what I felt about the country into my book. I also asked some Japanese people to read the chapters – something I did with as many of them as I could. So at least three people read it – not just for fact checking but to make sure I hadn’t done anything wildly offensive – while the Tibetan chapter was read by a professor at Oxford, and a Tibetan refugee.

‘Even if you’ve visited a country yourself, everyone should have their work sensitivity read, I believe. There’s no harm in doing it, but you could potentially cause harm by not doing it – which just seems mad. I’m always just really mindful that I’ve read so much that I find hugely offensive, and never want to be one of those people who goes to

a country, stereotypes everybody, writes something they think is really clever but actually is just falling into all the traps.

‘I find that with so many books or travel articles about India, within the first couple of lines I’ll chuck it to one side, thinking, oh God, not this again. My friend and I call it Indian travel bingowriting. Within the first paragraph you’ll invariably get at least four of the following: cows, saris, the heat, the assault of the senses, the piles of spices by the side of the road, traffic jams and honking.

‘There’s this constant yearning for the authentic – the exoticising of a place that you’ve completely imagined before you’ve arrived. Tim Hannigan talked recently about how we’re all unconsciously biased. How the stereotypes we’ve always read about become so much a part of our psyche that we start telling people it’s what we’ve also seen. Good writing is about unlearning all of that; stepping into a country with completely fresh eyes – which is really hard to do, but so worthwhile, for your writing will be so much more authentic and original as a result.’

Nelle Andrew is a leading literary agent, with a client list that includes Sara Collins, Jing Jing Lee, Pandora Sykes and Elizabeth Day.

‘Personally, I feel quite conflicted by all these debates. What I would say, when it comes to writing about other backgrounds and cultures, is that you cannot be a tourist; you have to be a native. That doesn’t necessarily mean you can only talk about backgrounds you were born to – because of course people from across the racial spectrum don’t wish to be erased from literature because other writers are afraid to include them. But it does mean fully immersing yourself in those worlds in the same way an anthropologist would. What you can’t have is an inauthentic voice. It has to be sincere and true.

‘And if you don’t have the time or energy to do that, then don’t do it. I guess the question I would ask an author is, why do you feel that this story has to be told in this particular way? Are you the best person to tell it? If you can’t answer those questions satisfactorily, then you need to step away.

‘Equally, I think that writers have to do what they feel comfortable with, and I don’t think there should be rules. I think this is equally restrictive. For instance, on the skin issue I often call my skin tone as caramel. Where does it stop, when you start policing similes and metaphors to that extent? As long as it’s not pejorative – that’s my criteria. Otherwise you stifle creativity.

‘But do avoid tropes, for both major and minor characters. I think the idea of: let’s shove in a random cultural trope – like my character’s French so I’m going to have them holding a baguette and wearing a beret – if that’s the only way you signify it, it’s crude and a bit lazy.

Putting a Black woman in a headscarf at night? Yes, we wear them, but why do we? It’s like when Chimananda Ngozi Adichie did that massive passage about hair in Americana. I read it and was like, yeah, that’s what it’s like to be Black. Sitting in a hairdresser’s for hours on end, getting your locks and twists done, having the edges burnt to shit because you’re putting relaxer on. That’s the reality of dealing with textured hair in western society; all the things you need to do to tame your otherness; or not tame it, depending on what you subscribe to. And I felt like it was a really emboldening and empowering passage, because I’d never seen it done in mainstream literature before. But if it had been treated in a slightly crass, off-hand, tropey way then it would have been diminishing. It’s all about the manner in which something is done, and its execution – not the actual thing that’s being written about.

‘Can anyone write about anything? No. Sometimes it’s just beyond your talent wheelhouse. But should you be able to try is a different question. Do try, but get sensitivity readers if you need to, and be honest with yourself about whether or not you have succeeded.

‘Ultimately, there isn’t one rule or one guide, and I think authors, agents and publishers are all in a difficult position. Fundamentally, it’s just about trying to do the right thing.’