The body and living as a Composite Creature

~ Caroline Hardaker

When I wrote Composite Creatures, I don’t think I really knew what I was writing.

I’d already written a poem which ultimately became the premise for the novel, and I’d planned to pen a futurist take on our relationship to nature.

Set in a world very much like our own, the landscape in Composite Creatures is – for want of a better word – poisoned. The sky glows lilac, microfibres pollute the sea and soil, and air purifiers roar throughout the cities. Shoe soles burn away, and workers in haz-mat suits scatter the countryside with minerals to counteract chemical damage done to farmland. The characters exist in a volatile environment. It’s very much their normal.

But once I started editing and adding in new themes, I realised that the novel was really about something quite different, and even more personal.

The key relationship in the novel is between our protagonist, 30-something Norah, and Nut – who (in my attempt to avoid spoilers) can’t really be defined until you’ve read the book. But their relationship stands for something we can all relate to – our relationship with our bodies.

Like many people, I have a complicated relationship with my body. It’s my temple, yes, but it also has a significant number of flaws. I’m not sure if the architect quite knew what he was doing. I’m appreciative of everything that works, but my eyesight is terrible, my metabolism is sluggish, and I was born with a progressive neurological disease that only really became apparent as I reached my mid-20s. It’s meant developing a love-hate relationship with what I have, particularly when it comes to discovering a new limitation or falling down for the umpteenth time that month.

And as real-world researchers move closer to exciting (and sometimes terrifying) new developments to counteract disease and save lives, what does this mean for me?

I’m so lucky to live in the UK, where the NHS has helped me with various ailments and injuries over the years. There’s barely a part of my body that hasn’t been scanned. But in many parts of the world this just wouldn’t be possible. Healthcare inequality is rife, with a disposable income acting as the key to health and wellbeing too often.

This is also true of the world in Composite Creatures, as is the opportunity to take part in some new experimental procedures to ‘enhance life’ and live a longer life. But there’s a price to pay, a heavy one. But you have to read the book to find out what that is.

I don’t think the choices Norah makes are necessarily the ones I’d choose, but it does prompt the question – how far would I go, to remove my disability? Would I do anything at all? Being confronted with my limitations happens almost every day, and I lose count of the times when I wish I had normal feet and could leap across boulders and scramble through rock pools without the certainly that I might fall (because that’s what people do, right?) But at the same time – this is my body, this is my home. It might have its limitations but it looks after me as I look after it. It has greatness about it, even though it’s not perfect. It’s part of me. It is me. And though I’m willing to stretch its capabilities sometimes, I also respect that – just like my brain – it has some stuff that it just can’t work out.

I’m complicated. But is this surprising? We are all composite creatures.

But that’s just me. Everyone’s body is different, and many people might feel the opposite. Composite Creatures explores the paths of several different friends who feel differently about these new, experimental, distinctly shady healthcare options. Perhaps readers will come to their own conclusions when they discover the consequences of Norah’s choices.