Immediate Fiction (7 page)

Do spiders worry about sex? Not yet. Not so far as anyone can tell.

Too bad.

—Hugh Schulze

That's all of it. How did the second part go? Did it get to you? If so, what did and where? Most people connect more with this second part. Why? Can you tell? First, because a person appears. We experience best through a person (even animal characters or Martians are personifications of ourselves). Also, there are a few striking images— "buried in leaves" and "waxing the car, juggling, or building cathedrals." Those are striking images for most people. They're real and visible. That brings us to another important point.
The written story is a visual medium.
Yes, good fiction is just as visual as film. Anytime you don't have a picture in your head, you're in trouble or will be soon. Stories are about the specifics of experience that we can see and touch. That doesn't mean you have to be highly descriptive or describe everything. You just have to give the reader enough so he can picture it. If done well, a few choice details can create a whole scene.

This short piece, as much a poem as a scene, is a good example of the difference between telling and showing. But what about the spider stuff? How does that tie in, or does it? Most people don't relate to it. It doesn't really tie in closely to the rest. It's a provocative idea and might go somewhere in its own right or be made to work if it were woven through the piece. If that were done, some literature professor might be assigning a paper on the meaning of the spider and how it relates to the rest of the piece (the black widow who devours the male after mating?).

This piece was written as a short exercise piece in one of my seminars. This writer had a knack for images and liked spiders. Another sample of his work is at the very end of this chapter. Here's the next piece to examine:

I walk into the kitchen and every goddamn white-enamel, European style cabinet door is wide open. Pots, pans, dishes, bowls, glasses, paper towels, silverware, even the junk drawer has opened its mouth and let me inside. "Shit!"

All right, where are you with this one? Are you related, connected, identified? Most people are, and their level of involvement is on the high side—8 to 10 level. Why would that be? Well, does the character
want
something? Yes, a neat kitchen. Is there an
obstacle?
Yes, the place is a mess.
Want + obstacle = conflict.
Do we know what the character is feeling
(emotion)?
Yes, "every goddamn" cabinet door and "Shit!" express it. So, we're up and running with conflict, which promises action, and emotion we can relate to
(identification).
This scene is moving in just four lines. You don't have to get going that fast, but you should know how, and you should do it if there's no reason not to. So, your level of involvement is high. Let's see where the piece goes with the next part. The character is facing a kitchen with cabinet doors wide open.

I barrel into the room and slam them shut one at a time, enjoying the stinging in my ears as each bang echoes through our tiny apartment.

David is in the living room. I know he is. I know he knows I'm mad. But, I'm not supposed to say anything. He said if we were going to make it living together, I would have to stop nagging. And I agreed.

All right, are you still with it? The same amount? More? Less? Most people are even more involved. Why? First, because the character took
action
against the problem. Second, because the plot "thickened," as they say. "Thickening" means the trouble gets worse, more threatening. What makes it worse is almost always another person, in this case David. Here's the next part:

Most days I could do it, not nag that is. Even if an irritable mood is out there itching to sneak up and grab me, I can push it away. But when I see every goddamn cabinet open, I lose it. I just can't take it. It drives me -mid.

All right, where are you? The same? More involved? Less? Most people are sliding away with this passage if not a good deal less involved. There's a writing reason for it, always—a craft/technique reason for every problem. Can you figure out what story technique is at issue here? How about
telling?
Ideas versus experience, remember? Let's go over the piece bit by bit so that you can see what's working and what's not.

"Most days I could do it, not nag that is.' "Most days"? Why is the character (author) taking us off into "most days." We don't care about most days when we're right in the middle of this day and this tense, high-energy scene. Next: "Even if an irritable mood is out there itching to sneak up and grab me, I can push it away." This again is an idea
(telling),
but even more abstract and intangible. It further interrupts the scene, which was unfolding so well. Last: "But when I see every goddamn cabinet open, I lose it. I just can't take it. It drives me wild." These lines are ideas, general statements that
tell
us what we've just seen happening with out own eyes. We've lived it, so we don't need to be told what we've just experienced.

If I were editing this piece, I would cut this passage, this
telling,
out. I left it in because we learn most from mistakes and from fixing them. It's important to understand that
every writer does this.
Every writer tells, overstates, drifts off into the abstract, points out the obvious. There's no way to prevent it, because you can't control what flows out of you without getting in the way and getting stuck or blocked. So, don't try. Just pour it on the page and then go back and rework it later. And the telling is certainly no reflection on this writer, who is doing a fine job. Here's the last of this piece:

It's worse than white Jockeys or Gold Toed socks hanging out of the dresser drawer. Just one nudge of the finger is all it takes to make everything neat. Just one nudge. But I guess that's too hard.

"David," I say as I lean against the kitchen door, arms folded in front of my chest like a shield.

He looks up from his TV chair with cool, watch-what-you-say eyes. "Yes," he says.

His eyes spook me, and a shiver trills up my back.

How was that stretch? Are you back into it? Most people are, in a major way. Why? What's going on in that stretch that wasn't before?
Action
again, but directed at the real cause of the problem (obstacle), at the more threatening part—the person himself.

That's all there is of this scene. But we can still work with it—not only with what's there, but with what isn't. The question is, Is it over? Of course not. Can you figure out a possible ending? It shouldn't be hard, because you have a real beginning (want + obstacle + action). When you have a real beginning, the ending almost writes itself.
"The end is in the beginning"
is the old writing rule. What that means is you have two forces (want + obstacle) pitted against each other. One wins, and one loses (resolution). In this case, some possible resolutions are: they split up; he agrees to be neat; she agrees to put up with his messiness; or they both agree to try to be more flexible— to name a few. It's a victory or a defeat for the main character, the woman, or a mixed victory.

In terms of this character's emotions, she's angry and upset and worried. But the words
angry, upset,
and
worried
were not used. Her emotions were expressed in her thoughts and her actions. Here irritation and frustration come across nicely with: "Just one nudge of the finger is all it takes to make everything neat. Just one nudge. But I guess that's too hard." We don't need to be
told
what she's feeling, we need to be
shown
it in scene, in action.
Scene is the purest form of showing.
Scene is experience happening in real time, moment by moment, word for word, right before our eyes. Here's the beginning of the last piece:

Ever since I told her I was a lesbian, my mother has taken to talking about me in the past tense.

How are you with this piece? A provocative opening? Most people are with it with this first sentence. Why? Because there are a want and an obstacle—a mother who is not pleased with her daughter. Here's the rest:

"You were such a beautiful baby," she says, her large, sea green eyes filling up with a lethal mixture of nostalgia and longing.

I groan.

"You were the very essence of femininity." Her voice trails off dramatically. I begin to tap the toe of my cowboy boot very lightly on the tile floor beneath the kitchen table, bracing for the assault.

She shrugs, and in the sagging folds of her Eastern European face I see a ragtag clutter of disappointment and despair. Her mouth, which is usually bow shaped and generous, tightens slightly as she looks at me.

"Your walk, your voice, your body . . . everything about you was perfectly feminine." She shakes her head as she ponders this and the tap tap tap of the tip of my cowboy boot begins to pick up speed.

"For God's sake, mother, this is an absolutely ridiculous theory—and it's easily the third time you've presented it this month."

"Please hear me out," she says and I sag under the intensity of her conviction.

As I lean back in my chair, she leans forward and puts her hand—a smaller, more time worn version of my own—on my arm.

"I believe
we
—your father and I, that is—gave
you
a perfectly healthy endocrine system."

I can feel the slight pressure of her hand on my arm as I close my eyes. Through clenched teeth, I give her one last chance to explain her "theory" of my lesbianism before I explode. "What's that supposed to mean, 'a perfectly healthy endocrine system'?"

"Well, it means, it's not our fault," she says, letting her hand slide off my arm and hit the table with a small thud. She shrugs again, heaving her bosom. "So, the warp must be in your psyche. It's the only possible explanation."

That's it. How did it go? Whatever problems you might have with it, it's a strong piece that takes hold of most readers and hangs onto them as these two characters struggle with each other.

Let's look at it from the story angle. Who wants what? The daughter wants to be accepted as she is. The mother wants a straight daughter, ideally, but short of that, the mother's going for something else. What is it? She wants to be guiltless and to blame the daughter, the daughter whom she's trying to convince (action) has a "warp" in her "psyche." The daughter is putting up with her, for exactly what reasons we don't know. So we have want, obstacle, action. There is no resolution yet—neither scene resolution nor story resolution. Can you figure out where this is going? You should be able to, since it's already going in that direction. Victory, defeat, mixed victory.

So, that's the story form and technique. Conflict (want + obstacle), action, resolution, emotion, showing. Just five elements. If you stay focused on these five elements and don't let yourself get distracted or sidetracked, if you master these five, no matter what else you do wrong, you will succeed. You will succeed, because you'll be creating strong stories. The world—agents, publishers, editors—will bend over backwards for a strong story. Stephen King, for example, can be

a sloppy writer (he himself says that his writing is like a Big Mac and an order of French fries), but he's one hell of a good storyteller.

All right. This has been a long stint. I've hit you with a lot. Conflict is tricky and elusive, so we'll revisit it and its finer points in the next chapter. For now, you need only be
aware
of these elements, to understand how they work and relate. But remember, awareness and understanding aren't mastery. Mastery takes practice. It'll come soon enough
if
you stay focused. The main thing is, don't expect too much. Just write and let whatever comes flow onto the page. You're just creating some raw material to work with, to turn into a compelling story—eventually, once you master the craft. For now, it's just practice.

So, it's time to try it, get loose, let go, warm up a bit. I want you to put something (anything) down, throw some words onto the page. But I'm not going to desert you. I'm going to give you some scene setups to help you get going.

Now, if you have something you're working on and want to use that, do so. The main thing is to write for 30 minutes. If you don't have 30 minutes, or you run out of energy, do what you can (5 minutes, 10, 15). When you have time or you feel up to it, come back and do some more until you've written for a total of 30 minutes.
If you have no time and you're not going to have any time,
go to chapter 12 and find the time plan that's workable. Use that plan to do these exercises or something from chapter 12 if you like that better.

EXERCISES

Here are a few scene ideas. Pick one and see what you can do with it.

• Blind date. First is getting set up, including the character's worries, fears, and hopes. Then the first contact on the telephone, which needs to raise both anxiety and hopes. The
want
is to have a wonderful lover. The
obstacle
is having to go