High Five: Rebels and Rules in the Short Story Realm

(In this issue's High Five, Susan Culver tackles five of her favorite short stories.

It's often said that everyone has a story. However, having an interesting and complete short story is a different thing entirely. The act of creating a story in relatively few words that stands out amongst "everyone's" story is something that requires practice. One must know the rules—beginning, middle, and end; the successful follow-through of the plot and all the threads that make it intriguing; a consistent point of view and the appropriate narration to fit that point of view. From showing instead of telling to deciding how much is too much when it comes to description, there are many considerations and they seldom all come together in the first draft.

Can the rules of writing a short story be broken? Of course they can. Should they be? Well, that depends. It depends on whether you know the rules you're breaking; if you achieve something extraordinary and yet definable by breaking them; if you can make your mark as more than simply another writer trying to make his or her mark by breaking, or shaking, the rules.

Indeed, there have been what some might consider rule breakers in the short story realm. However, a study of the work reveals that not only did these writers keep the rules, but elevated them to a new high; they were the rule makers, if you will. Perhaps keeping the rules in new and unusual ways is, then, the key to writing an unforgettable story. Consider the following examples:

The Door, by E.B. White

Until I'd read "The Door" by E.B. White, I would not have considered the author of the beloved Charlotte's Web as a rebel with the rules. And, to be perfectly honest, I wasn't sure quite what to think of "The Door" upon my first reading of it. I found myself wondering, if this work was submitted to my editorial staff at Lily - with all its circular motion, all its endless sentences, vague elusions and seeming point of view changes - would we collectively approve it for publication?

The story is undoubtedly and immediately intriguing, with its opening of:

As a reader, these lines caused a desire to know, firstly, what everything was and, then, where was this somewhere else. Rule one: the story must have an intriguing beginning, something to pull the reader in. In two sentences, I was there.

Having been pulled in, I found myself in a maze of words. The words were interesting—poetic, even—in their twisting, turning momentum. The oddity of what was being related kept me reading even as my confusion as to where the story was going grew. As in poetry, I believe that a successful short story must be fresh in its language. It must present a scene that everyone can relate to, but in a way that it hasn't been related before. Consider the following bit:

By the middle of the story, I found myself starting to understand that there was a certain madness to this story... and the madness was making a frightening amount of sense. The circular language, the images that keep cropping up again and again all worked together to give a delightfully uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. From one thread of thought to the next, there is a seeming jumble of thoughts. And yet, every thread is tied, there are no loose ends. I was complete in my confusion.

By the end of the story, I had a smile. And enthusiastic nod and the belief that E.B. White knew the rules completely. He told me a story of "he," "she," "I," (and the rats, of course)—none of which were introduced in a traditional way, but all of which would be familiar. He even warned me early on as to what was going to happen:

Yet, even with the early warning, I was incapable through the fresh insight and the identification with the thoughts of doing anything else but continuing to read and to be... crazy. It's the perfect execution of the perfect idea: write a story about madness that will make the reader feel mad. Be complete with it, go for broke. Consider every word, every rule to writing and make it seem, for the purpose of the story's point, like you didn't.

As an editor, I'd be every bit as crazy not to take—pray for, even—such a piece to be offered.

E.B. White's The Door can be found online here

The League of Old Men, by Jack London

With a writer's voice as image-riddled and breathtakingly poetic as Jack London's, one would think he could get away with breaking a lot of rules in the act of good story telling. However, here is another circumstance where the strength of the writer not only serves the rules, but moves them up a notch or two.

The plot of The League of Old Men, as I see it: The white men journey to a new and distant land. They encounter native people, whom they later infect with the illness of their new ways. The natives become outraged at the desecration of their land, the loss of their identities in the face of these exotic strangers with their strange and careless customs. The natives rise up, kill as they have been killed, try to rid their land of this newness but are, inevitably, unable to stop it.

You've read it all before, right? It's a plot taken straight from the history books and re-enacted in countless ways. How could there be any undiscovered color in a thread that's been spun so many times? Jack London's rendition—first published in 1902—offers that color through language, the ability to make the words dance off the page and into your mind while still mindful that this story must be told. He tells it in a way that remains, after more than a hundred years and thousands of other attempts, fresh.

Consider the vitality of the opening paragraph:

"At the Barracks a man was being tried for his life. He was an old man, a native from the Whitefish River, which empties into the Yukon below Lake Le Barge. All Dawson was wrought up over the affair, and likewise the Yukon-dwellers for a thousand miles up and down. It has been the custom of the land-robbing and sea-robbing Anglo-Saxon to give the law to conquered peoples, and ofttimes this law is harsh. But in the case of Imber the law for once seemed inadequate and weak. In the mathematical nature of things, equity did not reside in the punishment to be accorded him. The punishment was a foregone conclusion, there could be no doubt of that; and though it was capital, Imber had but one life, while the tale against him was one of scores."

Now, consider too the beauty of the closing paragraph:

"O Imber, thou art indeed a fool," said Howkan. But Imber was dreaming. The square-browed judge likewise dreamed, and all his race rose up before him in a mighty phantasmagoria—his steel-shod, mail-clad race, the lawgiver and world-maker among the families of men. He saw it dawn red-flickering across the dark forests and sullen seas; he saw it blaze, bloody and red, to full and triumphant noon; and down the shaded slope he saw the blood-red sands dropping into night. And through it all he observed the Law, pitiless and potent, ever unswerving and ever ordaining, greater than the motes of men who fulfilled it or were crushed by it, even as it was greater than he, his heart speaking for softness."

Between these paragraphs, there is a pool of such rich language, such strong story telling. London offers glimpses of the souls behind the historical accounting, gives opportunity for the reader to be loyal, to shift loyalties, to question and understand. It's a rare skill to fit so much in so few words, but one worth aspiring for as a writer; something that justifies—demands— the hours of reading, observing, writing and rewriting with the single purpose of delighting the reader.

Jack London's The League of Old Men (along with several more of his short stories that are worth reading) can be found online here

The Open Window, by Saki (H.H. Munro)

In "The Open Window," Saki provides readers with the conflict needed for an effective story. However, conflict comes subtly and only in the shadow of a few perceived conflicts.

As a reader, I not only don't mind, but actually admire the masterful dupe, being led down a path only to find that my anticipated destination is non-existent, that the road really leads somewhere else. As a writer, I know how hard it is to offer such trickery, how likely it is to fail by making the ruse too obvious, by letting the reader in on it too early. As an editor, I've seen the technique attempted many times, and I've seen where it was going a quarter of the way through the story and thus it was no surprise.

I think Saki's success with the technique is in his subtlety. He presents conflict first as a man with a nervous disorder, who has come to a small town and knocked on the doors of strangers, offering a letter of introduction. He has come to meet people and make friends and is very quickly informed by a young girl that the lady of the house is mourning, that her husband has died but that she refuses to believe it. The conflict appears then to be the playing out of this tragedy as the lady of the house appears and appears very much in the state of denial. All of this, mind you, is offered up in a very precise way, clear, quick, easy to read. There aren't any hidden symbols or meanings that require great pondering.

And then the "dead" husband and his hunting party return home, much to the terror of the poor man with his nervous condition.

Saki writes:

"Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall-door, the gravel-drive, and the front gate were dimly-noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid an imminent collision."

This departure of the nervous visitor is the most frantic moment of the story, after which, the scene returns to its serene ways and the true issue at hand— the casual betrayals by one young girl—is revealed. Never once is the action overdone or the emotion overwrought. It's as if betrayal is what's for breakfast, a light conversation over tea and, in the big scheme of things, it probably is.

Having delivered his trick so calmly, concisely, Saki leaves the reader with the full and unexpected impact of an evil child. He also leaves the reader with a smile, offering up a wry bit of humor with the closing line:

"Romance at short notice was her speciality."

Saki's "The Open Window" can be found online here

Haircut, by Ring Lardner

Most writers would probably agree that the first-person narrative is infinitely harder to write than a story told in third person, though—if done well— first person is a way of achieving a connectivity, both for the writer with their subject as well as the reader to the writer. There's a lot to be said for grabbing identification from the reader, and a good first person piece is generally an automatic in for achieving this.

Many a short story told in first person has failed and there are many reasons for that, including the problems that arise by trying to reveal the actions and thoughts of others through one person's "eyes," as well as the issue of how to introduce the narrator in a believable way.

In "Haircut," by Ring Lardner, the first person is introduced in the very first paragraph:

"I got another barber that comes over from Carterville and helps me out Saturdays, but the rest of the time I can get along all right alone. You can see for yourself that this ain't no New York: City and besides that, the most of the boys works all day and don't have no leisure to drop in here and get themselves prettied up."

By using regional and conversational language patterns, Lardner immediately establishes a voice that goes far in revealing things about the narrator. He maintains this voice throughout, without overdoing it.

Although the story is written in first person, the narrator is not the main character, but merely an onlooker. The stakes go up when telling a story in the view of "I" but the story is not "me". I think Lardner succeeds at this. In fact, I'd dare to say that the story—while interesting but perhaps a little rambling (which, incidentally, fits well with the character voice of the first person)—would not have been nearly as appealing or uncommon as a standard third-person offering.

I also appreciated the added touch of interactivity within the piece - that the writer invites "you", the reader, along for the ride, scribbles you in a minor part to play. "You" are found in the second paragraph:

"You're a newcomer, ain't you? I thought I hadn't seen you round before. I hope you like it good enough to stay."

and, again, reminded of the task at hand—a haircut—at the very end.

What I think works best about this story is not that it's the most wildly unimaginable thing written, but that it's solidly imaginable and consistent in a way that can be felt as much as read. It makes writing with and beyond the rules of writing seem like a simple thing.

To read Ring Lardner's Haircut online here

A Telephone Call, by Dorothy Parker

Like Lardner's "Haircut," Dorothy Parker goes for the reader identification gusto with her first person point of view in the story "A Telephone Call." And, like White's "The Door," she obtains a frantic feel to the piece with the use of recurrent language, circular motions, a frenzy of activity within a given scene.

If you've ever had a conversation with God while simultaneously waiting for a phone call from a new love, you'll find yourself nodding your identification with this story right from the very beginning:

"PLEASE, God, let him telephone me now. Dear God, let him call me now. I won't ask anything else of You, truly I won't."

Having been in such a dilemma a time or two myself, I found that the connection to this narrative voice didn't end there, but was masterfully maintained throughout the piece. I relived the experience of alternately begging with God for this "one little thing" and chastising myself for my silliness; of bouncing back and forth between recalling all the wonderful things about this wonderful person who had promised to call and hating the jerk for not doing so.

Parker creates the stage in which these recollections are played out in all their fervor as though they are happening to her, to you, to me. And in truth, that's precisely as they should be played out, for good reading's sake. It is on this stage that I find the story's strength. Forget for a moment the cliche' of writing what you know. Ponder, instead, the concept of writing what the reader knows and in such a simplistic and new way that they wonder why they'd never thought of it like that before. Regardless of who the reader is, there are common human characteristics that most can relate to and in ways both painful and humorous. It is the job of good writing to study not just words, but people. To find those connections and reveal them such as Parker has with lines like:

"It would be so easy to telephone him. Then I'd know. Maybe it wouldn't be a foolish thing to do. Maybe he wouldn't mind. Maybe he'd like it. Maybe he has been trying to get me. Sometimes people try and try to get you on the telephone, and they say the number doesn't answer. I'm not just saying that to help myself; that really happens. You know that really happens, God. Oh, God, keep me away from that telephone. Keep me away. Let me still have just a little bit of pride. I think I'm going to need it, God. I think it will be all I'll have."

This, as much as mastering metaphor and the vital organs of a story, is a skill that takes time. Just as it takes years of dedication, practice and strengthening for a dancer to become a prima ballerina, it takes equal dedication, practice and strengthening to write a memorable story.

Dorothy Parker's A Telephone Call can be found online here