Storytellersunplugged

Frank T. Wydra

This afternoon the Gonquin glows. Al has turned up the lights and lit a fire to counter the storm. Weather seems to have driven folks inside, for the chatter is loud, and random spikes of laughter accent the noise. Uneasy laughter. Awkward laughter. Yet those at our table are reserved. Bram seems mellow, but Edgar is on edge. Storms do that to him.

Mary says, “This place seems different, today. Somehow, more tense.”

“It’s the storm,” Edgar says, “the lightning and wind put people on the cusp of madness.” As if he were confessing.

Bram laughs, “Dark and stormy night?”

Mary says, “In a deserted clearing.”

Papa says, “Location, you know, can be as powerful as any character in a story.”

Whether it is his mood or temperament, Edgar quibbles. “Nonsense. Characters have power, subtlety. And they are dynamic, subject to change as circumstance evolves. Not so with a story’s location. It is there, nothing more than a backdrop on the player’s stage.”

Mary, eyes wide, glances around the table, as if in disbelief at the words. “Edgar. How can you say that? Look at your FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. How, if not the place being a character, would you categorize that setting.”

“Dear lady,” Edgar affecting a bored look, “you presume too much. I wrote the piece, and I would know if my intent were to make the setting a character.”

“No, no, no,” Papa hammers the table, almost upsetting his Daiquiri. “There is no doubt you are a great writer, perhaps the most versatile in this group, but even you, dear Edgar, are not in complete control of your work. None of us is. There are subtleties that flow below the surface of your mind. Things that you do instinctively, not recognizing their effect. It is that which makes your voice, your stories, distinctive.

“Nonsense,” Edgar giving short shrift to the notion.

The background noise grows louder as if acting the chorus to Edgar’s assertion, and I cannot help but feel that every ear is tuned to the table.

Bram says, “In a deft hand, location might well be considered a character. It can influence the outcome of the story and act as surrogate protagonist or antagonist. It can take on personality. It can evoke emotion. Are not these the things we expect of characters?”

Edgar rolls his eyes, as if dealing with a dunce and says, “What you forget is that location lacks motive. Motive is what separates humans from the pack. It is the essence of character.”

Mary snickers, then says, “Edgar, at times I think you delight in being contrary. All animals have motive. It is not a trait reserved for humans. The bear that swipes a salmon from the stream is motivated by hunger. The bitch that fetches a stick is motivated by a pat on the head.”

Papa says, “In my OLD MAN AND THE SEA, the marlin, sharks and Gulf Stream were, to me, all characters. They propelled Santiago. Without them it would have been impossible to show his indomitable will or his self-destructive pride.”

“With all due respect, for it was your story,” Edgar says, “I think you confuse symbol with character.”

Papa’s cheeks turn ruddy and his voice solemn, “Was it not a moment ago I heard you say of USHER that you would know if it were your intent to make setting a character? It seems to me that now it is you who are presumptuous.”

Al steps into what threatens to become a fray. “What say, another round? On the house? And does it seem a bit hot in here? Shall I let the fire die?”

Bram flutters a hand, signaling the man away.

Mary says, “There are many novels in which the setting, the place, the location—call it what you will—are so crucial to the development of the story that if they are not a character in the fullest sense of the word, they are so nearly so that they must be considered as such. Imagine a GONE WITH THE WIND and you see Tara. Imagine HUCKLEBERRY FINN and you are on the Mississippi.” The book and the location are inseparable.”

“Or,” Bram says, “NEUROMANCER and the computer.” Winking at Janet and George who are in the huddle, “Not to mention CHILD OF THE LIGHT and pre-war Berlin. The place in each of these drives the action. They are as much a character as any of the other players.

“But,” says I, “does it matter? I mean, who really cares?”

I have never seen Bram’s brows arch as high. “Young man,” he says, “I care. And I care not only as a writer but also as a reader. When you understand that the location is an integral part of the story, then you give it the respect it deserves. You develop it, nurture it, feed it as you would any other character. You give it nuance and meaning. You do not let it molder in the background.”

Edgar goes, “Pshhht.” Then says, “What goes into a story is what is needed. Neither more, nor less. If a location or setting is important, the competent writer will give it the depth it deserves. If it is immaterial to the tale, it will be treated lightly.”

“My dear Edgar,” Mary says, “Is that not how you would treat a character?”

He closes his eyes, seeming to suffer silently, before saying, “Were a place a character, I would need to give it a voice.”

“Ah,” says Papa, “a place can have a voice. Think of the wonderful descriptive rhythms Berendt used to portray Savannah in MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL.”

A smirk on Edgar’s face. “Considering it was non-fiction, which is not what we are discussing.”

“True,” Papa says, “but the piece read like fiction and there are some who say—given the subjective portrayals he employed—that, had the names of the players been altered, as was done in the movie, it could have been a fiction. But put that aside and consider Michener’s body of work from THE SOURCE to MEXICO or Rutherfurd’s British books, all with a place as the central character and an unmistakable voice. Come now, Edgar, you must concede the point.”

“I,” Edgar, draining his glass, says, “concede nothing.”

Nor, would any of us who know him, expect less.”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com

Tuesday, March 13, 2007