Sensitivities

The hamster died yesterday. The previous night I watched as she crawled up the bright green ladder in her cage, her body convulsing with every step and her back legs sliding from left to right. She seemed determined to reach the ledge at the top of her cage where she would usually stare at the room, awaiting a friendly hand to take her to freedom. This time I took her cold, shivering body off the ledge and placed her into her house hoping she would go to sleep. No such luck as it seemed, despite the pain, she would not be shut away so, still convulsing, she left her house. She tried to drink from her bottle but, seemingly having gone blind overnight, she could not find the nozzle so shuffled around the cage trying to find the ladder again. This perplexing turn of events repeated itself throughout the evening.

Now I realise I'm writing about a hamster. I'm not even writing about a cat or dog however I confess I was bordering on hysterical. I called Comedy Boy in floods of tears. He promptly offered to come home. Of course I said no, it was stupid, this was just a hamster. She wasn't even my hamster. She was Magnet's, who was thankfully away at a friend's.

When Comedy Boy finally arrived home, in the early hours of the morning, I awoke, promptly burst into tears and begged him to take her to the vet. Sighing he took the morning off work and, well, the rest is hamster history.

This episode got me too thinking about how overly sensitive I am especially where I think the animal or person is vulnerable and reliant on the kindness of others. It brought back the memory of the novels, stories, films and documentaries that have caused me to blub like a baby. For instance I watched, We Are Together, a documentary about the South African children of the Agape choir, some months ago. There was a story thread about a teenage boy with AIDS. He had no parents so his sister cared for him as he deteriorated. There was one scene in which his sister gave him medicine as he lay in their hut perilously close to death. After administering the medicine she went outside (she stayed outside most of the time as if scared of the nearing presence of death) however he called her back and asked her to hold his hand. He was scared, he was dieing and he didn't want to be alone. She held his hand. Soon afterwards he died.

I cried for hours after watching the documentary. Rationally of course I realised that crying was of no practical help to anyone, least of all the millions of Africans who had died of AIDS, yet those thoughts did not dry the tears.

Magnet watched the same documentary at school and, although they edited the film, she watched the same scene and did not shed a tear. None of the children did. Either we've collectively raised children with hearts deadened by endless computer games and commercialism or I am so sensitive that I am more of a cry baby than a bunch of 11 year olds.

When talking with Comedy Boy about that documentary and other narratives that elicited strong responses in me he pointed out there is a clear over-arching theme: that of a persecuted or vulnerable child. Indeed Pans Labyrinth had me crying, for two days.

I wonder about this as I continue with my novel for children. As I write I think of the protagonist as if he is real. I speculate about how Magnet would react to the situations I put my young characters in. I remember reading an interview with J.K. Rowling in which she said she howled as she wrote the last Harry Potter book in which *SPOILER* one of the Weasley twins, Fred, was killed. I understand how fictional characters can cause such emotion in both reader and writer so really I should understand that my distress for a hamster is not out of the ordinary.

I guess it should have been obvious that I would write for children however I never planned it that way. I started my novel when I took Writing For Children as part of my Masters course and I only did that because I wanted to learn about every area of creative writing. I never thought I would want to finish the short story I started in that class much less turn it into a complete novel. Obviously I didn’t know myself as well as I thought because, towards the end of last year, the pull to research and write became overwhelming, thus my novel was born.