Writing about war

When people ask me what my book is about, I tell them it is a love story that takes place in Washington, D.C. Because that is, in essence, all it was for quite some time. When pushed further, I might add that it is about Afghanistan. But until recently, none of the novel took place there. I had written 110,000 words of not-Afghanistan. So how could the book be about Afghanistan?

To tell the truth, I always wanted the book to be all about Afghanistan, but I decided to write it as a love story because I thought it would bring the reality of the war to the readers in a more tangible and human way. But for the book to deal with Afghanistan, I'd have had to do some actual research on the reality of our military efforts there. Writing about love and Washington D.C. was so much simpler.

I put off my research on the "going to war" portion of this book for many reasons. First and foremost, I knew it would be difficult to try to understand war from the perspective of the war fighter. No matter how much time I've put into studying counterinsurgency operations, or studying Afghanistan and the region surrounding it, I have never been to war. Writing about something I had never done seemed like a daunting task.

I also knew another huge obstacle to that research would be my deep desire to be in the military. Some background is necessary here, so please forgive my blast to the past. As a child, our home was full of F-14 memorabilia, from model fighter jets and photos to a handful of fighter pilot helmets and even a full F-14 canopy. They were all over, the sacred and magical relics of my dad's life as an F-14 RIO. As if that weren't enough of any influence, I was always surrounded by the men who went to the Naval Academy with my dad. At least once a month, one or dozens of Marines and aviators flooded our home and drank scotch and beer in close clusters in our kitchen. I grew up calling a number of those men my "uncles," even though they were of no real relation. I loved them all. They exuded a sense of indomitable life everywhere they went, and talked with zest - and deliciously salty language - about flight maneuvers, Naval Academy pranks, and war stories. Most of all, I loved them because they never cut me out of their conversations because I was young or, as I grew older, because I was a woman. They included me and let me listen with slack-jawed admiration to all of their awesome stories, and when I was older, they talked with me at length about my opinions about the world. To this day, so much of what I admire in men stems from the things I saw and appreciated in my father's friends.

Though I was never bitten by the Naval Academy bug myself, I still loved the military in college. I knew I could never join based on myriad skeletal issues and other impediments, but that didn't keep me from being interested. By junior year, I spent my evenings reading books about fighter pilots and searching videos of jets pulling all kinds of crazy maneuvers. (This one used to make me wish like hell I'd been born with better vision.) It was a sickness. I wanted to be someone who flew, but when I came face-to-face with reality, I eventually set my sights on something different: Afghanistan. That obsession quickly became equally ridiculous. I spent my days at my internship printing and reading every available war-time military manual and all the articles and CRS reports about military and civilian operations in Afghanistan. When I returned home, I spent my nights filling in the gaps from the day before, becoming nothing short of an acronym-spouting machine. (At my interview for the job I eventually received, the HR woman burst out laughing as I, a meek-looking young blonde, pulled out an endless series of military acronyms to explain my understanding of the changes in Afghanistan when McChrystal came on.) I got as close to Afghanistan as I could get with that job, but even that was disappointing. I never got to go into country, which meant I never understood the realities from the ground. Every day of sitting in my cubicle being a know-it-all was like a slap in the face. When I left that job last year, I thought it was over. I made myself stop reading about Afghanistan in the news. I tried to stop watching the movies that came out. And then, I started writing this damn book.

For a time, I was going to write a book about Afghanistan without mentioning the country at all. If you're thinking that's crazy, then I agree with you. I told friends at least a dozen times in the last six months that I couldn't write about Afghanistan because I hadn't been there and didn't know it. But what I really meant was that I couldn't do it because it was going to break my heart.

I have spent the last week trying to truly delve into the world of an infantry Marine in Sangin, Afghanistan. All that research has brought on full force those old feelings of wanting to belong to the elite crew of those who serve.  Even more difficult has been the research I've tried to do on the men who have lost their limbs and lives fighting in Sangin. With that, I have utterly exhausted myself. The sadness has come so close that I've had to look up from my computer at the tan walls of the living room to remember that I am in my house in Michigan; that there are brussels sprouts roasting in my oven and I did not know the men whose faces are flashing across the screen. The tears come especially when I realize that someone knew them, and feels that loss harder than I ever could.

Sometimes I find myself wondering if maybe this was a terrible idea, after all. Writing about the war is difficult. All the loss and sorrow get too close for comfort, even though I've never had the opportunity to see them firsthand. Or maybe especially because of that. I'll never know which of those it is.

What I do know is that those who gave everything in Iraq and Afghanistan deserve to be remembered. I'd like to do my part by putting their struggles and sacrifices into this book, but I still wonder if someone who has never seen what they did can do them even a miniscule bit of justice.