WIP Monogamy
July 25, 2025
Staying True to Your WIP (Even When It Feels Like a Dumpster Fire)
I’m going to start with a truth bomb. A big, sparkly one. Ready?
I am a survivor of trauma.
I’m not going to get into the details—because, well, that’s exactly what this blog post is about. But I will say this: it’s not just a distant piece of my past, sealed up in a therapy box somewhere. It’s woven into my bones, my heartbeat, and yes… my writing. It’s why I care so freaking much about how trauma is portrayed in fiction. It’s why I write the stories I write.
Because frankly? There’s a whole lot of garbage out there.
I’m talking about the kind of stories that zero in on the event of trauma with the gleeful intensity of a slow-motion train crash. Authors who describe every horrific detail in high-def, who center the violence instead of the aftermath, who turn pain into titillation and recovery into a footnote.
It’s called trauma porn. And I want no part of it.
Instead, I’m here to talk about something else entirely: trauma-informed healing. And why I believe—no, insist—that it deserves the spotlight. Not the pain. Not the shock. Not the clickbait-worthy scene that makes a reader gasp. But the healing.
Let me explain.
When I write, my characters go through some serious shit. Let’s not sugarcoat it. I write about trauma—often deep, layered, complex trauma—and sometimes that trauma happens on the page. But here’s the key difference: I write it with purpose.
I do not sensationalize. I do not get graphic just to shock or titillate. And I definitely do not include sexual trauma just to give a character “depth” or provide some lazy motivation for their arc.
I write trauma because it’s real. Because it leaves scars. Because people—like you, like me—live with those scars every single day. And those people deserve stories that reflect their experience with dignity, nuance, and hope.
When trauma happens in my books, I write just enough to set the emotional stage. I let the reader feel the weight without needing to see every frame. I tiptoe around the details, because trust me, your imagination will do the heavy lifting. Especially if I’ve painted a clear picture of what the trauma does to my character.
And that’s the magic trick right there.
It’s not about the trauma. It’s about the impact.
Let me be perfectly clear: the most harrowing part of trauma isn’t always the moment it happens. It’s everything that follows.
It’s the spiral afterward. The self-doubt. The fear of what this means for your future. The shame that sneaks in, even when you know you didn’t do anything wrong. The fractured sense of self-worth. The raw, aching vulnerability that makes even a kind touch feel like sandpaper.
That is what I focus on when I write trauma.
I don’t need to show every second of what happened to devastate the reader. I show the shivering hands, the broken sleep, the way a once-beloved scent now turns the stomach. I show the survivor questioning if they’ll ever feel safe again—if they’ll ever feel whole again.
And most importantly, I show them healing. Slowly. Messily. Realistically.
Because that’s where the real story begins.
Let’s get one thing straight: nobody heals from trauma in a single sex scene. Nope. Not even if the love interest has abs of steel and a magical dong that whispers affirmations.
I mean, that sounds lovely, but real life doesn’t work that way.
So, I refuse to write characters who magically recover the moment their love interest touches them. I won’t write the survivor who has one tender night and suddenly wants to boink like bunnies 24/7 because “true love heals all wounds.”
Can true love support healing? Absolutely. Can a patient, compassionate partner be a lifeline through the process? Oh, hell yes. But healing itself? That takes time. That takes work. That takes a willingness to sit in the uncomfortable, messy, awkward in-between spaces where no one knows the right thing to say and the wounds still feel too fresh to touch.
I write that.
I write characters who flinch. Who pull away. Who try, and then stop. Who feel guilty for not being “ready” even though they owe no one their body. Who want to be touched and also want to crawl out of their skin at the same time.
And I write partners who respect those reactions.
Even when they don’t fully understand them.
Here’s another one that gets under my skin: the White Knight™.
You know the type. The love interest who swoops in after the trauma and makes everything better. Their affection is so pure and their smolder so intense that the survivor is basically “cured” within a chapter. By the epilogue, they’re blissed out in suburban domesticity like nothing ever happened.
Um. No.
A good partner doesn’t fix the survivor. A good partner walks beside them as they learn how to fix themselves. They support. They listen. They screw up sometimes—because, hello, they’re human—but they own it. They don’t make the survivor’s trauma about their own guilt or need for redemption.
They don’t say, “I’m such a monster for getting frustrated.”
They say, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t okay. What can I do to help now?”
And then? They actually do it. No fanfare. No self-pity. Just love, effort, and consistency.
That, to me, is the most romantic thing in the world.
Another thing I try to reflect in my writing? That trauma changes people. It doesn’t mean they’re broken, but it does mean they might not be the same person they were before.
And that’s okay.
In fact, it’s beautiful.
Sometimes healing doesn’t look like “going back to who I used to be.” Sometimes it looks like discovering a new version of yourself who is braver, softer, wiser, fiercer. A version who knows their limits, their worth, and their non-negotiables. A version who might flinch at things they once enjoyed. A version who says “no” to things they used to say “yes” to.
The right partner doesn’t grieve that change—they honor it.
I write characters who are allowed to change. Who don’t feel pressured to “snap back” to their pre-trauma selves. Who are loved as they are, not as they were. Because honestly? That kind of love is rare. And precious. And necessary.
Writing trauma-informed healing isn’t easy. It requires care. Intention. Humility. It means checking your own biases, confronting your own wounds, and being willing to get it wrong—and then do better.
It means writing characters who might lash out. Who might retreat. Who don’t always respond the way you’d expect.
It means resisting the urge to fast-forward to the happily ever after.
But for me, it’s worth it. Every single time.
Because when I write these stories, I’m not just healing my characters. I’m healing something in myself. And maybe, just maybe, I’m giving someone out there a sense of recognition they didn’t even know they were missing.
So, to my fellow writers out there: please don’t write trauma just to shock. Don’t write survivors just to give your hero someone to rescue. Don’t reduce something sacred and brutal and deeply human to a plot device.
Instead, write with reverence.
Write the spiral.
Write the healing.
Write the partner who sits beside the broken pieces without trying to glue them back together too soon.
Write the survivor who finds their own strength, on their own timeline, in their own way.
And if you’re a reader who’s been through it—who knows the taste of fear, the weight of shame, the fight to reclaim your own skin—know this: I see you.
And I write for you.
Until next time,
Keep chasing those plot bunnies.
And remember: the most powerful stories aren’t the ones that show trauma.
They’re the ones that honor it.
Staying True to Your WIP (Even When It Feels Like a Dumpster Fire)
Why Writing a Messy, Unpolished Draft Is the Best Thing You Can Do for Your Story