Amnesia

mr_bumpIn Book Three, Lucy suffers from Amnesia.

Obviously, I can’t tell you how it happens – well,  spoilers sweetie! But it’s violent and traumatic and not (directly) the result of travelling through the distortion.

I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to find it as fascinating as I have, and I’ve had to be very disciplined not to dive in too deeply, because I’m not writing a book about trauma I’m writing fiction. So:  for the purposes of my research, I’m ignoring  amnesia caused by psychological  trauma and concentrating on what happens as a a result of physical injury.

In this case there are two types of memory loss: retrograde amnesia, forgetting things that happened before the accident which has caused the amnesia, and anterograde amnesia (where the past is crystal clear but things happening now cannot be remembered).

 

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Anterograde amnesia was not what I was looking for. Lucy is is danger because for once her encyclopedic knowledge of history cannot help her. Therefore, she has a kind of  retrograde amnesia known as post trumatic amnesia. You see Lucy’s memory loss is only temporary, unlike those who have retrograde amnesia who may have partial recall or gradual recall but rarely is the full loss restored.

Obviously, Lucy can’t lose her memory for ever, so what triggers its return?

Hollywood would have us believe a second blow to the head will bring the memories back; sometimes repeating a similar action – restores the memory of the prior event – a bit like deja vu, only in reverse.   Like putting the final set of pieces back in the jigsaw that is the brain.

 

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At the moment, I don’t know if I want Lucy’s memory to return over time, or suddenly, which is holding up writing book three.

All I do know is that it has to return before she is murdered.

 

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Weekend Theme: Secret Watcher

Something from our Lucy… posted on my other blog, because it fitted the challenge

More than a Cat

From the Diary of Lucy Pevensea Von Schmidt – Time Traveller –

November the 8th 1949

I’m dressed up to the nines in a white evening dress I can’t begin to describe – except to say Greta Garbo would look better in it than I do. It’s backless and strapless and held up with will power. We’re at the party,  in an ante-room waiting to be met by the guest of honour. I’m by far the youngest here. But I’m not the most nervous.

Everyone I look at is nervous. Soldiers of various rank and stature; eye each other up. Women with far more poise than I will ever have twist their fans and stare around them, at the array of famous faces. Infamous faces, to my mind, ruthless murderers and their ladies dressed in their finery  – taking full advantage of this disruption to the timelines. I’m not nervous…

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