In her 2021 essay The Case Against the Trauma Plot, New Yorker critic Parul Sehgal examines the debate surrounding Hanya Yanagihara’s novel A Little Life. Describing its protagonist, Jude—who endures relentless brutality—as a “walking chalk outline,” Sehgal argues that trauma narratives often rely on the assumption that “evoke the wound, and we will believe that a body, a person, has borne it.” But is it really so simple to convey the impact of an assault or violation that reshapes one’s very sense of self? And what does it mean to “bear” a wound when society’s interest in personal suffering can be so fleeting and selective?

In her new book, Trauma Plot: A Life, writer Jamie Hood engages with Sehgal’s essay, A Little Life, and the process of self-reckoning after profound grief, while exploring her own experiences of multiple sexual assaults through an experimental style. By carving out space for herself as a trans woman artist navigating the aftermath of rape, Hood offers a model that may empower future survivors to define their own experiences on their terms.

Vogue recently spoke with Hood about the differences between writing Trauma Plot and her 2020 debut, How to Be a Good Girl: A Miscellany; the limitations of the “justice” narrative often tied to sexual assault; and the emotional and physical toll of revisiting trauma for the sake of art.

Vogue: How did the writing process for Trauma Plot compare to your reissued debut, How to Be a Good Girl?

Jamie Hood: They were completely different. Trauma Plot actually began before Good Girl—I started writing it in 2015 and 2016, initially as a poetry collection. Good Girl was a commission from Grieveland, and it came together in a strange, almost accidental way. The pandemic hit right as I began, so I had endless time and mental space to write it quickly. At first, I thought Good Girl might be a detour from Trauma Plot, or even replace it in my work, but it ended up being something else entirely—more about navigating femininity and desire while the world was locked in isolation.

The form of Trauma Plot kept evolving, which is why it took me ten years to finish. I drifted away from poetry during the process, though I’d like to return to it someday. Writing a full-length book was a new challenge—the first draft was 102,000 words, and I cut it down to around 80,000. It felt overwhelming compared to Good Girl, which had a raw, unedited energy. That book was improvised in a way Trauma Plot couldn’t be; this one demanded precision, and it took far longer than I expected.

Vogue: What led you to use multiple perspectives in Trauma Plot?

Hood: One issue I wrestled with was how rape fractures your sense of self. It’s a subjectivizing experience—you’re torn from your own personhood. For me, writing about it in a traditional first-person memoir format felt dishonest, because I didn’t experience it as a continuous narrative. I felt shattered, so I needed a fragmented, experimental approach.

When I sold the book in 2023, the plan was to alternate between memoir, poetry, and literary criticism. But as I wrote, the structure kept shifting—I was figuring it out as I went.I initially thought I’d write the entire book in the first person, but I ended up removing all the poetic elements. I realized I was using literary criticism as a way to avoid confronting what had actually happened to me—to avoid examining it, articulating it, and speaking about it clearly. Once I stripped those two things away, all that remained was the simple truth: I was writing a memoir.

Last year, Torrey Peters and I had dinner, and she said something like, “I feel like you write about transness and also don’t write about transness at all.” It’s funny because I’d been thinking about how trans memoirs and sexual assault memoirs often follow a pattern—there’s a breaking point, then a transformation. But my experience didn’t feel that stark or recognizable. There wasn’t some long buildup to a crisis, after which I rebuilt myself. My girlhood always felt true to me, and I was facing sexual violence before I even understood my own sexuality. In a way, sexual violence was my sexuality.

The typical rape memoir structure goes like this: I was living a normal life, then this horrible thing shattered me, I descended into darkness, and eventually emerged stronger. But for me, sexual violence was formative from the start—something I struggled to face honestly.

How did you take care of yourself while writing this book?

One of the strangest things about promoting this book is how intellectually people want to approach it—almost everyone does. When I spoke with Rayne Fisher-Quann, she focused on the body, which was refreshing. But so many others treat it as just an exercise in storytelling. Of course, writing a book is an intellectual and artistic endeavor, but these things also happened to my actual body.

As for how I prepared myself during the writing process—it wasn’t simple. I started therapy, which was crucial. After being uninsured for nearly a decade, I finally got coverage in 2022 and got on waitlists for therapy and surgery consultations. By October 2023, when I was deep into writing, I finally got off the waitlist and began weekly sessions. I don’t think I could’ve written the book without serious therapy.

The book’s fourth chapter is where I reckon with these experiences—both in the text and in therapy. The two became intertwined. I hadn’t planned to include therapy sessions in the book, but some parts, especially the rape scenes, felt unbearable to write. At first, I wasn’t sure what I’d include, but eventually, I knew I had to confront readers with the reality of what happened. I didn’t want to soften it for them—or for myself.

Writing those sections was grueling. During the most intense periods, I’d spend eight to ten hours a day in bed, writing and editing. When the subject is the worst things that ever happened to you, it takes a physical toll. I felt like I was in a surreal haze. To cope, I stuck to routines that have helped me manage depression and trauma for years—daily yoga, for example, kept me grounded.I ride my bike most days and spend quality time with my dog. I also see this book as a kind of flaneur’s journey—there’s a lot about walking in it, and I take daily walks with my dog, Olive. These routines helped me navigate the hardest moments.

Does the idea of “justice” after sexual assault hold any meaning for you now, or does the term feel like it overshadows personal experiences?

Honestly, the concept of justice doesn’t feel very relevant to me. I don’t know what justice even looks like after experiencing that kind of devastating violence. My book makes it clear that you can still feel deep optimism about the world, believe in growth, and have a fulfilling sexual life after rape—but there’s no undoing the loss, the sense that something was taken from me forever.

What does justice mean in the face of that? It’s hard to picture. I don’t look to the prison system for answers; locking people up to be abused behind bars won’t restore some imaginary, untouched version of myself. Restorative justice is an interesting idea, but I’m not sure how it works in reality.

I can’t demand my old life back from my rapists, but finishing the book left me feeling much better—lighter, more open. Still, the notion that something so profound could just be healed or erased doesn’t fit with my reality. Not in this world.

This conversation has been edited and condensed.

Trauma Plot
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