In writing a short story, I hold to the doctrine that Less
Is More. The less we know about a
character or the events that transpire, the more we must rely on what we are
told. That’s not to say I don’t
enjoy long breathy novellas or even long breathy sentences. To be sure, there is a certain pleasure
in immersing ourselves in a deep, warm tub of description: We can relax and luxuriate and not have
to pay close attention to every element. But if, instead, the element is limited, even scarce, then we’re likely
to be more attentive to what we do have, in hopes of not losing out. We feel pleasure just the same, but
it’s quicker, more momentary. And
more intense. The kind of pleasure
I have found in many poems.
Poets, I think, read with more attentiveness—with more caution
and suspicion—than the average fictionist. They have been trained to do so, not only to question everything
they find in a poem but also to consider what they don’t. And while the final line in a good poem
is often compared to a door swinging closed with satisfying click, the brevity
of most poems tends to leave many people feeling like they’ve been left on the
wrong side of the portal. There is
often some confusion, some uncertainty. Whatever sense of satisfaction one might have is accompanied by a
feeling of intrigue, of questions left unanswered. For that reason, we often reenter the poem and take another
look around, hoping to find what we’ve missed.
My interest in very short fiction stems in part from my
training as a reader (and then writer) of poetry. I’m intrigued by the well-chosen word, of course, but even
more so by the well-chosen absence of words, the space in which a poem
hangs. In the visual arts,
sculpture in particular, such otherness beyond form is called “negative space”
(a term I’ve always considered a kind of tautology). In a short narrative, it’s what we’re not being told.
What-we-don’t-know is often purposeful in dramatic narrative
or mystery writing. It’s a way of
sustaining interest and intrigue; it’s a formal and structural consideration
(the primary method of playwriting, I suspect). We realize a certain
satisfaction when, at the end, everything is revealed to us.
Information left out for the sake of brevity, however, is
different. The intent is more
poetic. What-we-don’t-know we
don’t know throughout—there is no resolution—which may not be so much the
result of manipulation on the part of the writer but of the lack of knowledge
on the part of the narrator herself.
Fiction—and very short fiction in particular—has many of the
same purposes as poetry, not the
least of which is “to teach and to delight.” Parables, fables, allegories, romances—whether in poetic
form or prose—are meant to feed us the chalky knowledge of our human condition,
but in a way that tastes like gingerbread (or Jolly Ranchers candy). Such stories are obvious and
purposeful, and we come away feeling satisfied for that reason. Yet, at times,
not unlike poetry (which occasionally buckles to the peer pressure of its
cousin Philosophy), fiction will not have answers. It will raise a few quick questions and then send us on our
way.
