Storytellersunplugged

by Brian Hodge

Throughout June and the first half of July, I served as a judge for a short story contest. It’s not something I particularly recommend doing when you already have a full platter or two of other stuff to tend to — which must be why the organizer asks waaaaay in advance — but it was an education.

Almost immediately, I gained a revitalized respect for editors. I wanted to get in the car and track down everyone I ever submitted to in the early days, and clutch their hands and tell them, “Thanks for reading. And I’m sorry. Really, I had no idea. I am so so sorry.”

And I only had to read 72 stories … 60 in the preliminary round, plus another dozen later when each of the judges read the others’ semi-finalists. Seventy-two stories, several of which were quite good — if I had my own periodical or anthology in the works, I would’ve bought some of them, and suggested revisions for a few others. Nonetheless, before it was over, I had at least a couple episodes of despair while watching the incoming e-mail status bar: Please, o gods, make it stop.

So: Editors who do this year-round — or even just once every year or two — I salute you.

What made the process so time-consuming is actually quite a good thing. It would’ve been much easier if a number of the entries had been the work of obvious semi-literates that could be weeded out after the first few paragraphs. Instead, even though some stories seemed to be early, derivative, or not-terribly-inspired works destined for their authors’ proverbial trunks, the entire batch came from people who no doubt passed their English and composition courses with flying colors. Which I found very heartening, given the usual statistics you hear about declining literacy levels.

(I know, I know — this wasn’t a representative sampling of the public at large. Let me cling to this fragile hope.)

Thus I tried to give each story as fair a reading as possible. Except, I confess, for the entry whose author had formatted it in single-spaced, 9-point Arial, making it fatally annoying to read. “No, I’m not going to do your formatting for you, so you’d better grab me in the first few — NOPE! SORRY! Thanks for playing, though!”

Really, now, do something like that, and aren’t you just begging to take the hit right out of the gate?

This may have been the most egregious example, but the hapless soul at fault was hardly alone. Several times I wanted to ask: Wherever did you get the idea that this even remotely approaches proper manuscript form? No paragraph indentations, or indentations that began as far over as the middle of the page; single-spaced text; double-spaced text in block paragraphs separated by 2 and even 3 punches of the Return key; and so on, and so on. One person had padded his or her story with so much white space that its 3800 words were spread out over 22 pages. Another had left the Microsoft Word document peppered with inserted comment balloons musing over alternate word choices, as though having sent in the story during the middle of revisions the writer couldn’t be bothered to complete.

To all these folks, I wanted to say this: High marks in grammar and composition are one thing. Manuscript mechanics are quite another … and this formatting stuff is NOT a secret. So do your homework first, and try to look as though you really care about what you’re doing.

If I were an editor, I can imagine that in some instances, regardless of a story’s merits, I might never get to them simply because the writer seemed so blithely unconcerned with making a good first impression. And if I, as the editor, had gone to the trouble of delineating the expected formatting in the writers’ guidelines … well, then I’d really feel peeved.

Cue Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction: “I won’t be ignored.”

What I found most educational, though, was a consequence of the blank slate of expectations that can only come from complete anonymity.

Before forwarding the stories to me, the person in charge of the contest had deleted the page 1 and header information that would identify the author. No name, no idea of age, gender, or how widely published the person was or wasn’t. Leaving no choice but to approach the story with zero preconceptions.

That’s a very different set of circumstances than reading a story by someone whose name you know and trust … which can sometimes be all you need to get you through a deceptively slow opening, or to forgive an uncharacteristically clunky bit of dialogue, or other lapses we can all be prey to.

Even when you don’t recognize an author’s name, you may still, if unconsciously, give him or her the benefit of the doubt out of association, to whatever extent you know and trust the editor of the anthology, magazine, etc.

In an anonymous contest, though, all these little graces are gone, and any advantages go with them. Which is as it should be. Each author had only words to win me over.

Soon I began to wonder why some did and others didn’t. Why does this one pull me in immediately, and this one leave me indifferent?

I tried to pinpoint what was going on, in a general sense, whenever it all seemed to click and the magic happened. Without exception, these stories declared themselves in their first few lines. They just seemed to exude a quality the others didn’t.

Unfortunately, as these intangibles so often go, it’s easier to eliminate what that quality isn’t than peg what it is. It has nothing to do with hitting the ground running, literally … like the preliminary slammer that so many movies begin with, as though their makers fear the audience will nod off to sleep unless they’re immediately hit with fireworks. And it has nothing to do with the kind of vague tip-off that some writers seem to think kick-starts instant suspense: “From the moment he woke up that morning and put on his stocking cap, Waldo knew that today was the day he was going to be found.”

Instead, what these stories had was something much more subtle. In each of them, the opening felt a bit like a curtain being pulled aside … but not all the way, sometimes allowing the merest glimpse past it. And, too, letting hints escape, maybe nothing more than whispers, but enough to make me think, I want to know more about this person, this scene, this situation, this world. Because I’d been given a tentative promise that it was all there, waiting inside, and would probably be worth the trip. Somehow, in just a paragraph or two or three, the author had managed to establish a connection, a trust. From the very beginning, there was a sense that I was in the hands of a natural born storyteller.

This brought to mind a statement I read several years ago, and which my memory wants to attribute to Ramsey Campbell: that the difference between a professional writer and an amateur lies in how they begin their work.

But back to the phrase “natural born storyteller.” This may sound as though the ability to pull the reader in is something genetic, and if you weren’t born with It, well, tough toenails. Au contraire. I’ve been reading some writers long enough to see them develop a much surer touch with their material than they displayed early on, and far greater adeptness at drawing the reader in from the first few lines. Then again, some people, though dextrous enough with language, never do seem to make the leap into compelling storytellers, so practice doesn’t always lead to perfection.

If I had to pinpoint the one shared fundamental among the contestants whose stories worked best for me, it would be this: They all had their own voices, or at least seemed further along than most in developing them. While I never knew their names, these writers nonetheless transcended anonymity.

The good news/bad news conundrum here is that voice is something no one can teach. You have to find and develop and refine it on your own. At any given time, it’s the fusion of 1001 little aesthetic and stylistic choices. It’s in the words you choose and the rhythms that emerge from the way you string them together. It’s in the details you notice and the observations you make and the turns of phrase you employ to make them. It’s the linguistic fingerprint that sets you apart from everyone else.

And, if you’re lucky, it may flow from you almost as easily and naturally as your breath. More likely, getting there may take so much work it feels as though you’ve had to follow the old advice on how to carve a horse from a block of marble: chisel away everything that doesn’t look like a horse.

In short, voice doesn’t come from adhering to a formula. It’s more akin to alchemy.

Of course, an enticing voice is no guarantee that the story will work in the end. During my brief and solemn judgeship, it was a big disappointment to, a time or two, watch a writer deliver a promising opening that pulled me right in, only to later go off the rails.

But you know…? Weeks later, I remember these near misses a lot better than I do the stories that may have successfully incorporated all the requisite 101-level components, but never rose above the merely adequate. Because the near misses showed more promise. Because they related a more singular vision. Because one’s story sense can catch up to one’s voice with greater experience. And because, for a while at least, these stories brought the magic.

And if their authors were able to step forward, identify themselves, and let me read their next work, I would genuinely look forward to seeing it … no less than I would welcome something more from those contestants who had me from beginning to end … even if they didn’t necessarily wind up with a prize. They had something better: a solid foundation to build upon.

Instead, it’ll have to be enough to watch and wait, pulling for them without knowing who they are … and someday listening for the strains of a voice that I suspect maybe, just maybe, I’ve heard before.