Who else out there is like me, and finds it difficult to turn away from what's happening in Japan?
The earthquake. The terrible tsunami. The nuclear crisis. And it's not only that it's riveting, this human dram, but that my writer's brain has turned on, has taken hold of events. I begin to imagine, to plot storylines through the tragedy. I begin to diagnose beginnings, middles, and ends. I begin to navigate conflicts.
I think some people react negatively to this, and think it dispassionate. "You want to write a story about this? What are you, a vulture?" Even some writers, I think, feel this, even about their own reaction, this fascination and watchfulness. I think there's a tendency to think of it as voyeuristic and exploitative, even if only subconsciously.
Yet I don't think this reaction really understands the psychological dynamics at work. Story is the way we think. This, in part, is how we understand the world. We make stories of it. We set beginnings and endings. Heck, we break our lives up into decades, years, months and days to help us do just that. It makes the world more comprehensible, providing patterns by which we can shape and delineate our experience. Memory, really, is simply the stories we repeat to ourselves, either consciously or unconsciously. Disordered minds are often disordered because the stories they tell themselves do not make sense.
And this idea of experience as story, I think, holds even greater strength for writers. We are writers because we are deeply touched by story, and in some way we've come to understand their value, and so we consciously try to shape narratives. This is an act of exploration, of trying to understand the world around us by shaping it into a story (no matter how strange and transformed that story might be).
And tragedies hold some of the deepest and most powerful stories. These are the difficult stories, the wrenching stories. And this is why they call to us, because they beg for understanding, beg for us to try and come to grips with them. Sometimes we need to do just that. The world can be a haunting place, and some exorcisms can only take place with a blessing of words.
This act of connective story, of fascination and recreation, is not dispassionate. It is, at heart, an action of extreme empathy. We might be distant, but we try to make ourselves immediate, we try to find a way inside the story, inside the people, inside the experiences, no matter how terrible, how tragic, how full of despair.
There is a human need to share, to take in experience, and to offer a little of ourselves in return. For when we write we invite others to take this exploration with us, to step into a new world, a new experience. To taste tragedy and joy...
Doesn't everyone feel this? At least a little? An accident occurs at the side of a road. People drive by... and everyone slows down and looks. Traffic jams are created from this simple desire, to look. But are we all ghouls, ready to drink in the misery? Or is it simply this need to understand; what is the story? What was its beginning, and middle, and end? What is this experience? For a fleeting moment we enter that story, and we wonder, we feel, we try to share and experience it.
For most, however, this is a fleeting thing. The car moves past, and as the scene fades into the mirror the empathetic connection is lost.
But a writer? Sometimes those connections are strong. We have seen and felt a fragment of something, and it won't let us go. And we want to get to the bottom of it. We need to understand, to try and grasp the human meaning, to piece the puzzle together, to find and shape and share the experience in its entirety.
And so we write. And so we tell a story.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Yellow Bus
by Bryan Russell
Yellow Bus
Sara checked her hat and her mittens. The other kids were already heading out the door, except Michael. Sara stomped her feet, her snowpants making her legs feel like heavy balloons.
“Yellow Bus?” Michael said.
“Yes, it’s time for Yellow Bus,” Sara told her classmate.
Michael’s smudged face turned down to his coat. He tried to do up his zipper, but his fingers did not seem to recognize the task. Ms. McCarthy started to walk over, but Sara was already pulling her mittens off with her teeth. They dangled there, red and woolen, as Sara grasped Michael’s zipper and did it up.
“Yellow Bus?” Michael said.
“Come on,” Sara said, pulling her mittens back on. She walked out into the hallway and Michael followed. “Quick, quick,” she said, “we don’t want to miss it.”
Sara pushed out the heavy door to the parking lot, and as it swung back it banged Michael. He was always slow to push through, but sometimes Sara forgot.
“Sorry,” Sara said.
“Yellow Bus!”
Michael pointed. There were a row of yellow buses, but Michael was only pointing at one of them. It was a third the size of the others, and idled at the end of the row. There were lots of yellow buses, but only one Yellow Bus.
Jasmine sauntered over. She was an older girl.
“Yellow Bus!” Jasmine said, miming Michael’s faint lisp.
“I take Yellow Bus,” Michael said.
“You take the Dumb Bus,” Jasmine said. “It’s little cuz your brain is little.”
Michael put his head down.
Sara pulled him. “You gotta get on your bus, Michael. Come on. You gotta get on Yellow Bus.”
Jasmine sauntered after. “Dumb bus, dumb bus, dumb bus.” She wore low-slung jeans. She had older sisters. Everyone said Jasmine was cool. Sometimes she smoked.
“Come on, Michael,” Sara said, trying to push him up the steps onto the bus. His face had scrunched in on itself. His eyes were wet.
“Dumb bus, dumb bu-u-u-us.” Jasmine was singing now, pretending she had a microphone.
The Yellow Bus turned its lamplight face and looked at Jasmine. It growled its engine and then jerked forward, its grill opening and yellow teeth clomping on the girl, swallowing her head. Another bite and most of her torso was lost inside. There was a crunching sound. Only the legs, the low-slung jeans, stuck out.
Sara watched the legs wiggle a moment, one shoe falling off, and then Yellow Bus tossed its head back and the legs slid inside. Crunch crunch. The wipers flashed across, once, twice, and then again. A puff of smoke belched out the tailpipe. Yellow Bus was chewing, though its bright gaze had already turned back to the road, to the larger buses ahead.
Sara pushed Michael onto Yellow Bus. He was calm now. The doors swung shut behind him.
“Everyone ready? Sara?” Ms. McCarthy called.
There was a sneaker on the ground. Turned on its side. Sara kicked it under Yellow Bus.
“I’m ready,” Sara said.
Yellow Bus
Sara checked her hat and her mittens. The other kids were already heading out the door, except Michael. Sara stomped her feet, her snowpants making her legs feel like heavy balloons.
“Yellow Bus?” Michael said.
“Yes, it’s time for Yellow Bus,” Sara told her classmate.
Michael’s smudged face turned down to his coat. He tried to do up his zipper, but his fingers did not seem to recognize the task. Ms. McCarthy started to walk over, but Sara was already pulling her mittens off with her teeth. They dangled there, red and woolen, as Sara grasped Michael’s zipper and did it up.
“Yellow Bus?” Michael said.
“Come on,” Sara said, pulling her mittens back on. She walked out into the hallway and Michael followed. “Quick, quick,” she said, “we don’t want to miss it.”
Sara pushed out the heavy door to the parking lot, and as it swung back it banged Michael. He was always slow to push through, but sometimes Sara forgot.
“Sorry,” Sara said.
“Yellow Bus!”
Michael pointed. There were a row of yellow buses, but Michael was only pointing at one of them. It was a third the size of the others, and idled at the end of the row. There were lots of yellow buses, but only one Yellow Bus.
Jasmine sauntered over. She was an older girl.
“Yellow Bus!” Jasmine said, miming Michael’s faint lisp.
“I take Yellow Bus,” Michael said.
“You take the Dumb Bus,” Jasmine said. “It’s little cuz your brain is little.”
Michael put his head down.
Sara pulled him. “You gotta get on your bus, Michael. Come on. You gotta get on Yellow Bus.”
Jasmine sauntered after. “Dumb bus, dumb bus, dumb bus.” She wore low-slung jeans. She had older sisters. Everyone said Jasmine was cool. Sometimes she smoked.
“Come on, Michael,” Sara said, trying to push him up the steps onto the bus. His face had scrunched in on itself. His eyes were wet.
“Dumb bus, dumb bu-u-u-us.” Jasmine was singing now, pretending she had a microphone.
The Yellow Bus turned its lamplight face and looked at Jasmine. It growled its engine and then jerked forward, its grill opening and yellow teeth clomping on the girl, swallowing her head. Another bite and most of her torso was lost inside. There was a crunching sound. Only the legs, the low-slung jeans, stuck out.
Sara watched the legs wiggle a moment, one shoe falling off, and then Yellow Bus tossed its head back and the legs slid inside. Crunch crunch. The wipers flashed across, once, twice, and then again. A puff of smoke belched out the tailpipe. Yellow Bus was chewing, though its bright gaze had already turned back to the road, to the larger buses ahead.
Sara pushed Michael onto Yellow Bus. He was calm now. The doors swung shut behind him.
“Everyone ready? Sara?” Ms. McCarthy called.
There was a sneaker on the ground. Turned on its side. Sara kicked it under Yellow Bus.
“I’m ready,” Sara said.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
What is the Function of a Story Opening?
Some writers struggle with endings. Some writers struggle with those wide and ungainly middles.
I have always struggled with beginnings.
I think, for the longest time, this was because I only partly knew what an opening was supposed to do; the function of an opening within the overall story was vague to me.
Not completely, of course. I think, as a young writer, I wrote very instinctively. Yes, I'd read books on writing, and taken classes, and knew the basics: the hook, the rising action, the climax, the denouement. But most of what I did was instinctive, grasping at half-buried knowledge and following my imagination.
I think I knew the part that most writers know. The opening is a hook. What does that mean? It's a simple metaphor, really. The opening should hook the reader like a fish and reel them in. No hook? No food at the end of the day. Now, I wasn't so naive as to think that this meant a major action scene was necessary to start every story. But this was basically my idea of what an opening was, and should do: hook.
And, yes, this is important. An opening should definitely hook a reader and convince them to turn the pages. But what is it, exactly, that hooks a reader? And is that all that an opening should do?
I'm currently reading Robert McKee's Story, and one of the things I like about the book is that it relates some very clear ideas about both what an opening is and what it should do. This would have been extraordinarily helpful to know ten years ago, before I learned a lot of it on my own through trial and error. Mostly error. It took me a lot of bad openings to learn a few simple things.
The key element of an opening is the inciting incident, the event that sets the story in motion. Now, it can come on the first page, or you can take a bit of time and lead up to it. But it is always the hinge upon which the story swings. And, so, what is this opening supposed to do? What is it that engages the reader?
One of the simple keys is that this inciting incident relates to character. It's not simply that the major hook is inherently interesting, but that it changes the main character's situation. It sets up a conflict, the most basic sort of conflict, the kind that drives almost all stories: a conflict between what the character has and what the character wants or needs. A sudden gulf is opened. And the character must find a way to cross that gulf.
And this last element is another important aspect of the opening--it should point the way through the story's main conflict and toward the climax and conclusion. There are exceptions, of course (there are always exceptions). But a strong opening often acts as a sort of foreshadowing for the climax, setting up the possibility of the final conflict, a climax which the reader wants to see.
(Beware the spoilers...)
The Lord of the Rings: Frodo discovers the dangerous nature of the One Ring ---> Frodo dangles the Ring over the fires of Mount Doom.
The Road: The man's wife kills herself, unable to face the post-apocalyptic world and continue along the road, introducing the despair/hope conflict ---> The man continues down the road and dies protecting his son, but he offers hope.
No Country For Old Men: Moss finds millions of dollars in the desert amidst a bunch of dead men, and wants the money--and he must keep it away from others who want it just as badly ---> Moss is killed, the villain gets the money, and the sheriff contemplates the meanness of the world.
This is the function of an opening. It engages the reader, yes, but it engages them because it brings them inside the story and conflict. It breaks open a gulf before a character and sets them on a path to find a way across. And the reader wants to know how the character will do this, and what will happen on the other side.
This isn't fancy, or necessarily even deep, but it took me a lot of writing to figure this out. I think the problem, often, is that we think of story elements in isolation. What is my opening? Oh, it's this cool thing that happens. People will love it! But the importance of the opening is not in its inherent excitement, but in its connection to the rest of the story. The opening is procreative, the story created in that singular moment. It is the Big Bang that pushes motion and life into the fictional world, and story velocity is often a function of how well this opening is integrated into the complicating events that follow.
And what about you? What does a story opening mean to you? And how did you learn to write one?
I have always struggled with beginnings.
I think, for the longest time, this was because I only partly knew what an opening was supposed to do; the function of an opening within the overall story was vague to me.
Not completely, of course. I think, as a young writer, I wrote very instinctively. Yes, I'd read books on writing, and taken classes, and knew the basics: the hook, the rising action, the climax, the denouement. But most of what I did was instinctive, grasping at half-buried knowledge and following my imagination.
I think I knew the part that most writers know. The opening is a hook. What does that mean? It's a simple metaphor, really. The opening should hook the reader like a fish and reel them in. No hook? No food at the end of the day. Now, I wasn't so naive as to think that this meant a major action scene was necessary to start every story. But this was basically my idea of what an opening was, and should do: hook.
And, yes, this is important. An opening should definitely hook a reader and convince them to turn the pages. But what is it, exactly, that hooks a reader? And is that all that an opening should do?
I'm currently reading Robert McKee's Story, and one of the things I like about the book is that it relates some very clear ideas about both what an opening is and what it should do. This would have been extraordinarily helpful to know ten years ago, before I learned a lot of it on my own through trial and error. Mostly error. It took me a lot of bad openings to learn a few simple things.
The key element of an opening is the inciting incident, the event that sets the story in motion. Now, it can come on the first page, or you can take a bit of time and lead up to it. But it is always the hinge upon which the story swings. And, so, what is this opening supposed to do? What is it that engages the reader?
One of the simple keys is that this inciting incident relates to character. It's not simply that the major hook is inherently interesting, but that it changes the main character's situation. It sets up a conflict, the most basic sort of conflict, the kind that drives almost all stories: a conflict between what the character has and what the character wants or needs. A sudden gulf is opened. And the character must find a way to cross that gulf.
And this last element is another important aspect of the opening--it should point the way through the story's main conflict and toward the climax and conclusion. There are exceptions, of course (there are always exceptions). But a strong opening often acts as a sort of foreshadowing for the climax, setting up the possibility of the final conflict, a climax which the reader wants to see.
(Beware the spoilers...)
The Lord of the Rings: Frodo discovers the dangerous nature of the One Ring ---> Frodo dangles the Ring over the fires of Mount Doom.
The Road: The man's wife kills herself, unable to face the post-apocalyptic world and continue along the road, introducing the despair/hope conflict ---> The man continues down the road and dies protecting his son, but he offers hope.
No Country For Old Men: Moss finds millions of dollars in the desert amidst a bunch of dead men, and wants the money--and he must keep it away from others who want it just as badly ---> Moss is killed, the villain gets the money, and the sheriff contemplates the meanness of the world.
This is the function of an opening. It engages the reader, yes, but it engages them because it brings them inside the story and conflict. It breaks open a gulf before a character and sets them on a path to find a way across. And the reader wants to know how the character will do this, and what will happen on the other side.
This isn't fancy, or necessarily even deep, but it took me a lot of writing to figure this out. I think the problem, often, is that we think of story elements in isolation. What is my opening? Oh, it's this cool thing that happens. People will love it! But the importance of the opening is not in its inherent excitement, but in its connection to the rest of the story. The opening is procreative, the story created in that singular moment. It is the Big Bang that pushes motion and life into the fictional world, and story velocity is often a function of how well this opening is integrated into the complicating events that follow.
And what about you? What does a story opening mean to you? And how did you learn to write one?
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Invisible Skins
by Bryan Russell
Invisible Skins
The chameleon crept along the line of people. Its green skin filled with shadow blooms like thunderclouds, the color washing through until the chameleon was invisible against the smooth grey carpet.
Small feet, fingers sharp with little claws, crept down the aisle. The chameleon was like a small blur of cloud against a vast iron sky. The black shoes of mourners, the long black-panted legs—they were like trees growing in reverse, growing out of the dark sky and sprouting up toward the distant earth, eyes and coiffed roots searching, searching, always searching.
The chameleon’s tongue touched the air, which tasted of sadness and grief and chemotherapy. The lizard moved forward. A long tail trailed behind, an arrow pointing to safety, to some small crack sheltered from the moist breaths of mourners.
A coffin. Little claws grasping the wood. Up, up, up, like the tree legs. A man lay within. The chameleon stared at the figure with dry little eyes. It was, everyone said, Edgar Martinez, but his skin was not the lustrous skin she knew, smelling of Old Spice and home—it was grey as the carpet, and hinted of some bitter detergent.
The lizard stood, staring, the color of mahogany now, swirls like fingerprints across her skin, like grains of wood, the DNA of change. Edgar Martinez did not stare back. His eyes were closed. It wasn’t him. He was too still. He had the stillness of the chameleon’s baby brother when she watched him, sleeping, unmoving, that moment of stillness before the baby finally breathed, that moment of stillness when she started to worry, to wonder if something was wrong, why wasn’t he breathing, until he breathed, sucking in a breath that made his little chest rise and fall. Except Edgar Martinez did not breathe, his chest did not rise, he was caught in that endless moment of worry and waiting, a premonition of wrongness.
Other people wanted to see this statue of Edgar Martinez. They waited in line. Solemn faces. They could not see the chameleon. She was invisible.
If they could, they would talk to her, these people. Talk to her, pat her head, and look awkwardly away. Their words would remind her that her name was Erica Martinez, but she didn’t want to remember that, her name was dangerous, her name connected her in some way she didn’t understand to the solemn people. They would hand her Kleenex. She would take the Kleenex and sit, tearing it into small strips, and then smaller strips, and then little pieces. They would drift slowly downward like flakes of snow. Little windswept drifts would gather at her feet.
But Erica Martinez was an invisible chameleon and didn’t like the snow. Hers was a secret life of nooks and crannies, of hot sun and cool shadow. There was no snow, just desert winds that peeled off tears and husks of dry skin.
Invisible Skins
The chameleon crept along the line of people. Its green skin filled with shadow blooms like thunderclouds, the color washing through until the chameleon was invisible against the smooth grey carpet.
Small feet, fingers sharp with little claws, crept down the aisle. The chameleon was like a small blur of cloud against a vast iron sky. The black shoes of mourners, the long black-panted legs—they were like trees growing in reverse, growing out of the dark sky and sprouting up toward the distant earth, eyes and coiffed roots searching, searching, always searching.
The chameleon’s tongue touched the air, which tasted of sadness and grief and chemotherapy. The lizard moved forward. A long tail trailed behind, an arrow pointing to safety, to some small crack sheltered from the moist breaths of mourners.
A coffin. Little claws grasping the wood. Up, up, up, like the tree legs. A man lay within. The chameleon stared at the figure with dry little eyes. It was, everyone said, Edgar Martinez, but his skin was not the lustrous skin she knew, smelling of Old Spice and home—it was grey as the carpet, and hinted of some bitter detergent.
The lizard stood, staring, the color of mahogany now, swirls like fingerprints across her skin, like grains of wood, the DNA of change. Edgar Martinez did not stare back. His eyes were closed. It wasn’t him. He was too still. He had the stillness of the chameleon’s baby brother when she watched him, sleeping, unmoving, that moment of stillness before the baby finally breathed, that moment of stillness when she started to worry, to wonder if something was wrong, why wasn’t he breathing, until he breathed, sucking in a breath that made his little chest rise and fall. Except Edgar Martinez did not breathe, his chest did not rise, he was caught in that endless moment of worry and waiting, a premonition of wrongness.
Other people wanted to see this statue of Edgar Martinez. They waited in line. Solemn faces. They could not see the chameleon. She was invisible.
If they could, they would talk to her, these people. Talk to her, pat her head, and look awkwardly away. Their words would remind her that her name was Erica Martinez, but she didn’t want to remember that, her name was dangerous, her name connected her in some way she didn’t understand to the solemn people. They would hand her Kleenex. She would take the Kleenex and sit, tearing it into small strips, and then smaller strips, and then little pieces. They would drift slowly downward like flakes of snow. Little windswept drifts would gather at her feet.
But Erica Martinez was an invisible chameleon and didn’t like the snow. Hers was a secret life of nooks and crannies, of hot sun and cool shadow. There was no snow, just desert winds that peeled off tears and husks of dry skin.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
Scheduling Change
Hello, dear Fellow Sophisticates! News of a small order: I shall be (exploratively) changing my Monday posts into Tuesday posts. Monday has slapped me in the face one too many times. There are other fish in the weekly sea, and that siren Tuesday has been calling to me.
Okay, it's because my new job covers the weekend and monday. But! Tuesday! And Wednesday! Are days off! So, I'm gonna switch to a Tuesday and Thursday schedule for now. Plus, it will balance out all those overly-productive Monday-Wednesday-Friday bloggers out there. You can visit me in between! Or, you know, possibly go for ice cream. Or work. (Okay, I didn't just say that)
If you have concerns, rants, wailings, or gnashings of teeth, please feel free to e-mail me at b.russell@sympatico.ca
Also! I am still, and always, looking for great flash fiction! Send it to me! Tell your friends! Or enemies! Anyone who can type coherent sentences! I have some good stuff coming, still, but I'm always looking for more.
Okay, it's because my new job covers the weekend and monday. But! Tuesday! And Wednesday! Are days off! So, I'm gonna switch to a Tuesday and Thursday schedule for now. Plus, it will balance out all those overly-productive Monday-Wednesday-Friday bloggers out there. You can visit me in between! Or, you know, possibly go for ice cream. Or work. (Okay, I didn't just say that)
If you have concerns, rants, wailings, or gnashings of teeth, please feel free to e-mail me at b.russell@sympatico.ca
Also! I am still, and always, looking for great flash fiction! Send it to me! Tell your friends! Or enemies! Anyone who can type coherent sentences! I have some good stuff coming, still, but I'm always looking for more.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
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