Writing in General and the Short Story in Particular

by L Rust Hills

  I go to this length because people are always telling writers that they must never forget that the short story originated in the simple impetus of one man to communicate something to another man, or to entertain him with some "story" (and hence don't forget the importance of plot, is what they are leading up to)—but this has no connection with what a modern author is up to. Insofar as I'm concerned with the author's "intention" at all, it is his conscious intention to create a literary short story as a work of art, and if he can sell it to The Hudson Review or The New Yorker and people read it there and appreciate it, so much the better. But his intention, or some caveman's intention are of no real nevermind whatsoever.

  The best thing to do about the modern short story's "origins" is just to forget them: they're in Chekhov and Joyce and James and in things like the Imagist movement in poetry and Pound's and Eliot's approaches to criticism. Independent of any "traditions" or "influences" or "origins," the short story became immediately as complex, intricate, and difficult as any other contemporary art form, more so. At any rate, it has no connection with cavemen or "simple utterance."

  Plot in a Short Story, as against Plot in a Novel

  That disposed of, we are left with plot as one of a number of aspects of fiction technique—neither more nor less important than some other aspects. Theme (the story's "meaning") and tone (the author's "voice" in the story) are important in determining the style (both in descriptive language and in dialogue), are intricately involved with the point of view chosen, and may have the controlling decision on matters of symbol, imagery, setting, mood, atmosphere, and other aspects of the story. These are the matters or methods that, ultimately, determine whether a short story will be successful or not—for they represent the potential meaningfulness of the action. Almost any plot will take on a unique meaning (theme) or coloration (style), simply by partaking of the vision and morality (tone) of a great author. One author could conceivably take a plot of another writer and shape it to his own uses; he could never do this with another author's theme or tone. What "happens" in a story, the real meaning of the action, is seldom much concerned with the plot.

  In a novel, elements of the meaning or theme of the book may be developed somewhat independently of the plot. The novelist can keep his readers interested in the "story" while he pushes his points in paragraphs of exposition or description or commentary—sections that the reader probably skips anyway so as to "get on with the story" and "find out what happens next." This engrossing of the reader into accepting what the author says, is achieved almost entirely by plot—by a sequence of actions or incidents that lead one into another. The reader thus swept up into what he thinks is "a rousing good yarn" may never have much idea of what the novel is about—if such a novel is really about anything at all. This "narrative sweep"—supposed to be the sugar coating on what the serious writer has to say—is often all that readers get even from a good novel. But at any rate it is of very great importance even to the literary novelist: after all, he's got to get the reader through four hundred pages somehow.

  In a short story, there's none of this separateness. The theme of a successful short story is inextricably embedded in all its other aspects. The plot of a modern short story may interest or involve or even fascinate the reader, but may also seem to him in some other cases, especially if he is a careless reader, to be virtually nonexistent. There is just not room for a lot of action for the sake of action, for a lot of episodes to develop "narrative sweep." In fact, it is probably quite true that the more superficially "exciting" a story is—the more full of shooting, window smashing, and fist fights—the less likely it is to have any real consequence or meaning.

  Let me summarize the plot of a very successful short story, Ernest Hemingway's "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place." Two waiters chat as they wait to close an outdoor café for the evening, and they finally dislodge an old man who has been sitting quietly drinking at one of the tables. The older of the two waiters goes to a bar before going home and recites to himself a version of The Lord's Prayer in which virtually every other word is nada: "Our nada which art in nada..." End of story. Or rather, end of plot; for there is much more to the story. There are elements of characterization, of theme, of symbol, tone, and so forth, that make it a very great story. The young waiter mentions in conversation that the old man once tried to hang himself and was "saved" by his niece; the younger waiter has a wife waiting for him, the older lives alone and has insomnia; a soldier and his girl walk past the café and light glints on the insignia on the soldier's collar. There really isn't any more plot, the story only runs some twelve hundred words. Yet what a lot "happens" in this story! I don't speak of the great analogies made in the story between life and light and sex and the confidence of youth on the one hand, contrasted with death and dark and the impotence of age on the other —these intricacies are such that one imagines Hemingway intended even such a purely descriptive detail as the glint of light on the soldier's collar as an attribute of sexual potency. Of course, it is these other aspects of the story in combination that give the story its importance, but there is a lot that happens in the sense of plot alone, in the sense of plot or action that moves character. For in the course of the "events" of the story—and they are really no more than has been recounted—the old waiter "realizes" what he had perhaps before only felt, that fear of death and of the dark are universal among those who have the age and knowledge and disposition to feel. He says at the end (not believing it): "...it is only insomnia," and adds: "Many must have it." This realization will give him strength to conduct himself properly—that is, according to the Hemingway stoic code. It is, in a way, a lot to happen in a story. There's enough plot to do what's necessary, and no more.

  Plot, or incident, in a short story then, is never there for its own sake, for its intrinsic "interest" or "excitement." Any action in a story must be justified by its contribution to the whole—no matter how indirect or oblique it may be. Contrary as it may sound to say, plot's "job" in the modern short story is not to interest or intrigue the reader (although it may certainly do so)—its job is simply to move character through (or by) action, to provide the "something that happens to somebody." And to this extent, plot is of course important in a short story, for it is the action that accomplishes the required movement of character that distinguishes a short story from a sketch. The fact of character-moved-by-action does equal what "happens" in the story, and what happens does equal (when "combined" with theme and tone) what the story is "about," which will be equivalent (when all the aspects are "included") to the story's whole meaning. But plot is not by itself, by any means, equivalent to the whole of the story.

  Selection in Plot

  The first thing to say is the most basic: a writer can't hope to tell the whole of what "happened" to his character. It follows then that a crucial matter in constructing the plot is the relevant selection of incidents to recount. Even if the writer were willing to start way back when (or even before) his character was born and go right through to (or even after) his death, he would still have to leave out ninety-nine one-hundredths, or more, of the events in his character's life. And what a dull story it would be anyway! And how little such a comprehensive structure would focus the narrated events on the significance of the story. Everyone has read the sort of story that tries to cover too much ground: by the simple chronicling of too many events in a character's life, the author ends up without bringing any of them to life. Even biography and autobiography are selective; the novel is ever so much more so; and as it is the essence of the short story form to be economical and compact, selectivity and suggestion in each of its aspects is crucial: characterization must be deft, often merely implied; description of setting must be suggestive rather than comprehensive; style must be entirely without embellishment that doesn't directly contribute; and the plot, especially, should begin no farther back in time than is necessary to make the consequences of the movement clear.

  Just as the writer has omitted many events t
hat proceeded the beginning or followed the ending of the story that he has to tell of something that happened to someone, so he must in the same way omit many events of little or no importance that occur during the period of action he has chosen. He will usually find that "what happens" is composed of not just one episode, but of a number of them; and even if his story can be told in one sustained episode, he must omit some of what goes on. He won't, for instance (and just to be vulgar about it) want to describe each time his character goes to the bathroom, unless he has some special reason for doing so (to show stress, for instance?).

  Anyway, of the events of this period that he mentions at all, some he will want to emphasize and others he will subordinate. The ones he wishes to emphasize he will render in full dramatic detail, complete with dialogue and description of place and movement and so on—this is sometimes called "close view." Other events, necessary to mention so that the story will follow, but not of interest to the writer to render in full dramatic detail, he will merely summarize—this is spoken of as "long view"—that is, from a distance, not in close-up. There is, of course, an intermediary method, a sort of "half-scene" or "middle view" approach, in which the writer will neither render the episode fully nor merely summarize it, but will sketch it in quickly, suggesting some of the details of the action. On the face of it, this compromise method seems not to offer the full advantages of either, but it sometimes offers some of the advantages of both. The middle view need not, of course, be "dead middle," will sometimes be nearer close view and at other times nearer long view. The proper selection of sequences—according to their relevance and potential interest—to be done in close view, long view, or some sort of middle view, is fully as important to successful plotting as is the original choice of when to begin and when to end the sequences of the action.

  The episodes of the action are always in competition with each other for space/time in the story, and there may sometimes seem to the beginning author to be a conflict between an episode of "interest" and an episode of "relevance." In a novel there may be room for a sequence that is interesting in and of itself but with no real relevance to the movement of character; in a short story such conflicts may be a sign that the story is perhaps wrongly conceived. In a short story, there's no room for anything that doesn't function perfectly in several ways. The episodes recounted are usually limited to those which, as directly as possible, advance the action which achieves the movement of character—which is not to say that there isn't need for preparation before the event or for an amount of realization after the event. And if the writer wants to bring a sequence that interests him really "to life" in full detail, he must then save his space/time by summarizing as economically as possible those events which do need mentioning, but seem unpromising to him to develop.

  Only the author will know what is really important to do at length in his story; only he can tell what's of real "relevance" or real "interest." The story will make certain demands on him, but it is after all he who is writing the story. All I'm interested in, again, is demonstrating to the beginning writer that his choices are many, that there are perhaps more techniques, devices, and opportunities open to him than he may realize. Let us consider an example:

  Martin spent a restless night and was at Miranda's door early the next morning.

  This is obviously a transitional passage, connecting an episode from the day before with an upcoming episode between Martin and Miranda at her apartment. The writer has chosen to summarize the time Martin spent alone in his apartment, restless and worried, rather than render it in detail. A sequence has been done in long view that could have been done in close view. An author could wisely choose to do it this way; my only point is that he could wisely choose to do it the other way. Imagine for a moment that Martin came in late, and, as we know he left early the next morning, let's assume that he spent not more than four or five hours there in his apartment. And let's assume that restless as he was, he still managed to sleep for three hours. About the remaining hour or two that Martin spent alone and restless in his apartment there is much that could have been written.

  Suppose, for instance, that when he comes in he is hungry—it is, after all, past 2 A.M.— and he goes to his icebox (this offers an opportunity to describe the contents, indicative of what a lonely bachelor or newly divorced man, or whatever Martin is, would have in the refrigerator), but finds nothing he wants to eat, slams the door shut angrily (does it bounce back open again infuriatingly? or close efficiently with a hollow, lonely click?). He makes himself a drink (or is he out of whiskey again?), and taking his piece of raisin bread or his whiskey and water with him, he stands contemplating his life, his room (describe room?). He walks around it, inspecting the pictures on the wall, the wallpaper itself, thinks of all the things he's left unattended to lately, draws a warm bath to calm himself (no hot water? too hot? or does he fall asleep in the tub and awaken wrinkled and cold?), checks the time again (are his clocks working or run down?). Does he dial NERVOUS to hear the operator's recorded voice? DIAL-A-PRAYER for the lonely laugh? Does he try to read? What has he been meaning to read lately? And what actually does he read? Does he think only now of what he should have told Miranda that afternoon? Does he rehearse what he will tell her in the morning? Does he find in his mail circulars addressed to OCCUPANT? Magazines? Letters from his parents or from old friends? Does he consider his checkbook, and what shape is it in? Does he wonder how and why he landed in this situation when all he wants to do is get some work done, get to Europe, get married, get home to Fort Worth? What's on TV this time of night? Does he worry so about not sleeping that he can't? Does he fall asleep, still dressed, in his chair? Does he dream? What makes him decide to go to Miranda's at such an early hour?

  One could of course go on and on. These are cliché TV-ish ways of indicating the restlessness of a lonely man late at night, but there remain a myriad of original ways too. If the writer chooses to skip the scene, a summary sentence like "Martin spent a restless night and was at Miranda's early the next morning" is perfectly adequate. No need to "do" the scene at all, if there are other scenes more important to do. But Martin's lonely restless night could have—in another story, perhaps—represented the moment of movement, could have been the central crisis, the climax of the story, when his decision is made or when he succumbs or triumphs, when whatever it is that happens to him in the story, happened. Then, it would have been wrong to scamp the scene. There are other ways of doing it. He could tell Miranda, over coffee at her place, just what a night it was, what happened to him could be explained by him to her. There are in fiction a million ways to do everything, but the important thing is that they be done. What is important in the story should be emphasized (or so played down that it is somehow accentuated—there are a million ways) and what is unimportant must be summarized or skipped entirely so as to permit full dramatic rendering of what is of consequence. The morning confrontation of Miranda and Martin may well be the important thing—how she lives is perhaps what ought to be described in detail, what they said to one another after a night apart may be what needs rendering in full dialogue; perhaps it is her room we should see him pace, trying to say what he knows needs to be said. Whichever episode works best with the story as a whole should be the one chosen. Perhaps both of these sequences are needed, and some other sequence should be dropped. But the whole of the story can never be told—even the whole story of what happens to one man alone for one hour in his room cannot be entirely told; no matter how many pages are devoted to it, some thing will have to be left out—and choice must be made of where emphasis is to be placed.

  Scenes

  Books on How To Write Fiction are full of theories about what they call "plot structure," derived from the formulas of the "slick" magazine fiction that was once so popular. And most of the terms used are handed down from theories about playwriting after having been altered a bit to fit theories about novel writing. As the contemporary short story often resembles lyric poetry more than either t
he play or the novel, these terms sometimes fit the discussion very awkwardly indeed.

  Most of what's said about "scenes" in fiction, for instance, is derived from drama theory. A scene in a play usually designates a sequence of action that is continuous, in a certain place (a set), and in the represented time; when the action moves to another place (a change of scene) or if there is an interruption, an interlude of time, then that scene is ended and another has begun. In fiction there is no need to ring down a curtain to show lapse of time, no need to put stagehands frantically to work changing the sets; but of course the equivalent must be done, with line space or transitional passage; and the term "scene" is used, usually, similarly to describe any continuous sequence or episode that is rendered in detail.

  Scenes seem to me a very bothersome concept in discussing fiction, for they are often thought to have some magical virtue in and of themselves. We have said that any episode of the action that is thought by the author to have interest or relevance ought to be rendered in detail—this does indeed bring the story "alive," does "dramatize" it. But those who take their fiction lessons from the playwright insist that a story is best composed like a play, of a series of scenes, each carefully "set," each with its own beginning and development and end, each with its own "rising" dramatic action and its own climax and resolution, each preparing for the next and leading into it. In a short story, needless to say, scenes are seldom units in themselves (indeed many short stories have only one episode); much less do the episodes have their own separate action. And of course there's no need to render every episode in detail. All the various problems about scenes—how to get an extra character offstage so that the two remaining can have a love scene, how to get two enemies together for their confrontation scene, how father and son who haven't seen each other for twenty years can convincingly drop information so that they can have their recognition scene, how to provide a big climax or suspense scene for the second-act curtain—all such problems have to do with awkwardnesses of the play form and don't take into account the greater flexibility of fiction. And at any rate they are "formula" concepts and have no relation to a discussion of the contemporary literary short story form.