Storytellersunplugged

Frank Wydra

January 13, 2008

January is a transitional month. North of the frost-line grey snow still blankets the fields and the prospect of buds breaking seems a distant promise. Yet, once the solstice has passed, the chimera of renewal and rebirth flame the imagination. Young and aged alike assess the road traveled and contemplate new paths. So it is at the Gonquin where a cheery blaze in the expansive Jeffersonian fireplace warms those perched around its central table.

“Resolutions,” Mary says, as if asking a question.

“Don’t believe in them,” Edgar says.

Papa, draws deep on his briar, then, “Last year I swore off tobacco, seems a good place to start.”

Bram pats his paunch, “Leaving ten pounds on the floor wouldn’t hurt, I guess.” But it is said with little conviction.

Al, the Gonquin’s ubiquitous owner, seems relieved no one is suggesting cutting down on alcohol.

Mary, head shaking, says, “No, no. Wrong kind of resolutions. What I’m wondering is how important is it that we resolve elements we introduce into our stories, things such as issues with characters or pregnant situations.”

Edgar slaps his hand on the table and makes us all jump. “What nonsense. Of course there must be resolution. The basic rule is that if you put something into the story by its end you must take it out. Resolve it”

Mary, seemingly taken aback by the outburst, says “Heavens,” then regains her composure. “Yes Edgar, I have heard that. Yet, today, so many stories now seem to end without resolution. Take Cormac McCarthy’s Pulitzer winning story, The Road. At best the ending is ambiguous and it is clearly unresolved. Worse, there is no clue to the Armageddon that put them on that soot-filled road.”

Bram says, “Of course. He lets the reader draw his own conclusion as to what preceded and what follows. To me that seems a wholly appropriate ending. There seems to be a trend developing of late where, to be considered literary, the work has to be obscure and ambiguous.”

“This is not a new phenomenon,” Papa says, looking at Edgar from under his brows. “I can recall others who have left key points of the tale unresolved.”

Mary says, “So many of today’s stories seem to lack a plot, focusing, instead, on character. John Updike comes to mind. His Rabbit books are like that, character studies at stages of his protagonist, Angstrom’s, life. It is a commentary, if you will, on evolving values as man passes through life. Very literate. And, of course, he won the Pulitzer for two of them.”

“Ah,” Bram says, “but there was resolution; Angstrom dies.”

“Dies, yes,” Papa says. “But was anything resolved by his demise?” Or was death simply another event adding to the exploration of values?”

Edgar, quiet since his first outburst, says, “This talk about literary fiction is rubbish. All fiction is literary, some rises to a higher plane, allows the reader to perceive truths once masked. That is the function of all writing to shine a light where darkness reigns. Sometimes the function is mundane, sometimes profound, but the writer illuminates. And for light to be focused; there must be resolution not ambiguity.”

There is silence around the table until Papa draws deeply on his pipe and softly says, “Well.” He taps the bowl of the briar on the table to settle the ash. “A story of yours which I greatly admire is The Cask of Amontillado. A good little piece. Yet, though I have pondered the nature of the slight that led Montresor to brick up the unfortunate Fortunato, I am at a loss to what it was. In this masterpiece of yours you leave the reader to wonder, to imagine, what transgression could have led to such an extreme remedy. That, I would argue, is the core of the question Mary poses. From Amontillado it would seem that you are not averse to leaving dangling threads.

It is clear from Edgar’s scowl that he does not relish being caught up like this. “That,” he says, with noticeable restraint in his voice, “was a short story. You cannot compare shorts with novels.”

Papa nods, but it is unclear whether it is in agreement or simply acknowledgement of Edgar’s point.

Bram starts to say something, but is interrupted. “Hold on, hold on.” It is the ever-lurking Al. Everyman. “What you guys don’t get is that when you bring in a gun in chapter two or Maggie’s ex-boyfriend in chapter three, we expect that it will somehow impact the story. It doesn’t, our take is you didn’t do your job. So, yeah, those of us who pony up a shekel for a story want those ends tied up.” Al gives his chin a Mussolini lift, then, “So anyone need a refill?”

Bram lowers his spectacles and over their rim touches eyes with everyone at the table. “Quite right,” he says, perhaps acknowledging Al’s point. Perhaps not. “As to your point, Edgar, in my mind short stories are more demanding than longer works. Every word counts. If you introduce a notion, it must have purpose, otherwise what use does it serve? And once introduced the bugger must be dealt with, brought to resolution.”

Papa says, “The rule seems to be there are no rules. Once I would have said that genre fiction, particularly the mystery, requires tighter plotting—which of course implies adherence to Edgar’s rule. But, having read classic tomes such as Chandler’s Big Sleep where Taylor’s murder is unresolved or Harris’s Silence of the Lambs where Lector’s fate is ambiguous, I have come down on the side of doing what works and damn the rules.

“So,” Mary says, “you believe resolving details is situational. Do it or not as fits the story.”

“As situational as my resolution to stop smoking,” Papa says.

“Well, then,” Edgar says, ‘what guidance does that give the developing writer? For people to develop there must be standards, guidelines, benchmarks to anchor the craft, else they face chaos.”

Bram is nodding. “You are right, of course. As writers develop, the rules are important. But once they have found their voice and are confident in it, breaking rules—as you did in Amontillado—allows the craft to develop and explore new vistas. It is that freedom and exploration that creates exciting stories.

“Doesn’t always work,” Papa says.

“Nothing does,” Edgar says.

frank.writestuff@gmail.com

Sunday, January 13, 2008