by S. E. Hinton
I think so. Of course, you don’t know how to judge your own work, but these short stories are about as vivid as anything I’ve written.
In our society, we tend to think that shorter is easier. Is that the case with Some of Tim’s Stories?
I’ve always thought longer was easier. That’s why I never really got into short stories or poetry. In a novel you have more time to set up what’s going on and to explore. Tim’s stories are a little easier, because they revolve around the same characters in Tim’s life. I didn’t have to start a whole new premise with each story. Each one can stand alone as a short story. But when you finish, you’ll have the feel of a novel.
Why did you decide against writing a frame for the stories that explains the Tim connection and the story format?
Because it’s such a delicate balance. I could pretend that I met Tim or that his creative writing teacher gave me his stories, but to me that would ruin the concept. I think the observant reader will figure out why they’re called Tim’s stories. I just didn’t want to mess with them. They’re rugged—like old pieces of granite—but the thread that holds them together is delicate.
How important, then, is the actual sequence of the stories?
I wrote them at completely different times. It wasn’t until I was through that I decided on the order. But I wanted to develop a time mark so that one story could help explain another. When you read “Sentenced” and Mike’s aunt mentions his old girlfriend, he says, “I don’t see her anymore.” Then you realize that in the previous story, “The Girl Who Loved Movies,” Amber is the girl. There’s a later story where Mike’s talking about a memory he had from childhood, when he heard his dad having a nightmare, but it turns out it’s really about Mike/Tim being in love with this other woman. By the placement of the story, you can see she was his creative writing teacher. These aren’t flashbacks; they’re memory stories.
In many ways your writing style in these stories reminds me of Elmore Leonard’s. I know you’ve read his western novels. What literary influence do you think guided your approach to this collection?
Of course, you like to think of yourself as influence-free, but even Homer was influenced by somebody. So, probably Hemingway. I’ve got tons of biographies about him; he’s an absolutely fascinating character. You couldn’t make up this man. But his short stories are the only writings of his that I really admire, and I think—probably—his spare style influenced me.
In “Class Time,” Mike has read Hemingway’s To Have and Have Not. Is that one of your favorites?
I’d always heard To Have and Have Not was one of Hemingway’s worst books. But when I was taking a movie class just a few years ago, we studied the film version, and I finally read the novel. I thought it was great. That’ll teach me to listen to other people’s opinions! Mike also mentions that he can’t read Henry James. I enjoy Henry James.
You’ve often said that you re-read Jane Austen’s work about once every year. What have you learned from reading her novels that’s made you a better writer?
Her revelation of character through dialogue is just fascinating, and that’s what I do best.
In many ways, Mike and Terry are reminiscent of your earlier characters. How do they transcend those roles?
I might be reverting. We talked about this earlier—one of my closest relationships when I was growing up was with my cousin, Jimmy. We were raised like brother and sister. We did everything together—skied, fished, played football. Our families were always with each other. That bond is even stronger with Mike and Terry, because they’re double first cousins. Their fathers are brothers, and their moms are sisters. They have the same backgrounds and are bound together, but they’re certainly not the same people.
You’ve already mentioned Tim’s mom and her weakness. In the book Aunt Jelly is a remote but powerful presence. Would you agree that she’s one of your most fully realized characters?
Yes, but I go back and forth between calling her “Aunt Jelly” and “Julie.” “Jelly” is obviously a childhood nickname for her. She was probably always making the boys jelly sandwiches. I have an aunt Eloise (that’s my middle name) who was called “Peeny” because she always liked “peeny” butter sandwiches. Aunt Jelly is a strong woman, except that she spoils Terry. She’d like to spoil Mike, but he won’t let her. He’s the responsible one. One of the lines in the stories says it best: Mike’s step-father’s resentment was probably no worse than Terry’s mom’s indulgence.
Do you think you, aka Tim, have taken your initial themes to a new level through these characters?
Maybe so. They’re not outsiders. In Hawkes Harbor, Grenville was an outsider and so was Jamie to a certain degree. Only at the end of the book did Jamie realize that the townspeople accepted him as another citizen. Tim’s stories are about how your environment and your own personality shape your life. Tim has a drinking problem, but he doesn’t take any steps to rectify it, even though he knows he should. In his environment, his drinking is accepted. Terry’s the one who doesn’t drink, and he gets in the most trouble.
What could you say as a mature writer through Tim that you couldn’t say as a teenager through Ponyboy?
Tim/Mike has a lot of hard-earned wisdom. Ponyboy can be wise, but he’s an idealistic kid who still thinks the world can be changed. Tim knows the world’s not going to change, but he’s trying to figure out how to deal with it. As a bartender he realizes that when people come into the bar and pour out their stories to him, he’s not there to fix their lives. As he puts it, he’s not a social worker, but he figures out what people want to hear from their bartender, and he decides that’s what he needs to give them. In a way, that’s a cop-out. The name of that story, by the way, is “What’s Your Poison?”
You’ve also adapted many of these stories as plays. How did placing your characters in a different format give you new insights into them and their circumstances?
I don’t know, but it was very interesting to do. I had to figure out how to work with Mike, Tim, and Terry as three separate people. I gave Mike the on-stage ability to do narration. Tim was off to the side in the same clothes writing the story.
I wonder if casting the stories as plays also gave you a better sense of dialogue—maybe even timing. As you’ve pointed out, Tim had to struggle with dialogue.
I don’t ever have to think about dialogue consciously.
Which of Tim’s stories stand out as favorites of yours?
“The Girl Who Loved Movies” is my favorite. It’s the shortest story, but it’s one of the strongest. I think of it as a metaphor that can stand by itself. I also like “Visit,” when Mike finally comes to visit Terry. And “The Missed Trip.” In that story, Mike as an adult is contemplating what would have happened if their fathers, both his and Terry’s, hadn’t been killed in a car wreck together. He feels pretty ashamed of his life at that point. He’s in his mid-twenties—in a do-nothing job—and Terry’s in prison.
In “The Girl Who Loved Movies,” you have this great closing line: “It was cliché he knew. But he meant it classic.” Did you know how lyrical those words were the moment you wrote them or did you have to wait for the initial feedback from your early readers?
I did know. I wrote that whole story in just a few hours, realizing that was going to be my ending line.
In fact your closing lines are stunning throughout the collection. Do you think the shorter format called upon you to create more emphatic endings?
Yes, I do. The only open-ended story in the book is the last one, “No White Light No Tunnel,” but it’s still a closed chapter in Tim’s mind. Some of the stories are even funny, like when Mike/Tim finally managed to get Terry worried about something in “Full Moon Birthday.” I get very upset with a book that doesn’t have a strong ending, and it was almost an indulgence to have this many strong endings to work toward.
Strong en
dings, yes, but there’s still a sense of the stories being ongoing.
Some of the stories are unresolved, but, at their moment in time, I think they are definite. Terry didn’t come home from prison and adjust immediately; Mike just hopes in the end that the old Terry is still there. And with “The Girl Who Loved Movies,” in my mind, I picture Mike looking up Amber again. But I’m not going to write a sequel. Why press my luck here?
How significant do you think Tim’s stories are in your overall career as a writer?
They’re the best writing I’ve ever done. They may be the best writing I’ll ever do. Who knows? You always think the next book’s going to be the best one, unless you’re writing something like Hawkes Harbor, which was such self-indulgent fun. But I do think these stories are going to stand the test of time and will end up being mentioned as some of my best work.
What lasting impact do you think Tim will have on you personally and professionally?
Professionally I hope the stories will give people a broader insight into my writing. I don’t pigeonhole myself, so it would be nice if readers could get over the fact—a little bit—that I wrote The Outsiders. I’m hoping Some of Tim’s Stories will do well critically, but they’re done. I don’t plan to revisit them, but I do miss Tim sometimes.
I was going to ask about that, because you were so close to him.
Tim’s like somebody I knew once. He used to come over and tell me what was going on, not just stories, but about people getting into fights and about ladies who wanted him to walk them to their cars, supposedly for tip money but, as it turned out, not for money at all. It was really interesting being privy to that life.
You made publishing history as a teenager. What do you still have to accomplish as a writer?
I always want to write a better book; I always want to write another book. I can’t do anything else. I also want to feel productive and useful in my life, but I never think in terms of what I’ve got to accomplish. I don’t compete with The Outsiders. It’s there; I’m proud of it, but I’m through with it, like I am with Tim’s stories.
How would you sum up your career so far?
I’ve been lucky in a lot of ways. Luck got me my agent, Marilyn, or was it coincidence, synchronicity? But luck didn’t sell The Outsiders—or the other books. I’ve worked hard.
Have you ever felt like writing was a responsibility?
To a certain degree. I was given a gift, and it’s my duty to use it in the best way I can. I don’t want to throw it back in God’s face. But the fact that I enjoy writing makes everything kind of easy.
Interviewer Teresa Miller is the editor of the Oklahoma Stories & Storytellers series and host of public television’s Writing Out Loud. She is also the founder and executive director of the Oklahoma Center for Poets and Writers. Her writings include novels Remnants of Glory and Family Correspondence. She resides in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
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