Tag: #ShortFiction

  • Short Story Review: “What’s the Deal, Hummingbird?” by Arthur Krystal

    (The short Story, “What’s the Deal, Hummingbird?” by Arthur Krystal, appeared in the January 24, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)

    To all the high school English teachers I had, the college English and Creative Writing professors who tried to teach me, and to all the writing group members who argued strongly against me, I can now conclusively say that you were all wrong. That I and my good friend, and sometime writing partner, John Esquivel were right; you can write a story that has no plot or climax, and it can still meet the cathartic resolution threshold for a short story to be successful. No matter your opinion of it, but The New Yorker is a preeminent publication of short fiction, and if their editors saw fit to publish a story of this form, then it must be true; a short story to be successful does not need a plot or climax, it just needs catharsis for its protagonist.

    “What’s the Deal, Hummingbird?” by Arthur Krystal is the story I am speaking of, and I applaud the effort of it. It is a simple narrative of an older male New Yorker dealing with the start of the Covid pandemic, and the thoughts that he has.

    I had the feeling, about half way through reading it, that this was a rather experimental story. Not stream of consciousness, nor modern absurdist, but like a filtered realistic consciousness. It exist in a linear timeline, but it feels like that is there more to show the movement of time, and not as a hard road sign of where the narrator is. Memories and thoughts float in, and so does the music the main character is listening to, which lead me to also feel that there was a music quality to the story; like how listening to classical music can sort of make you feel like the music is floating in the air.

    I did enjoy the story, and the structure of it, but I was still left feeling that the catharsis wasn’t complete. To use a music metaphor; the song didn’t end, but just faded out. Like it was a deep cut B-side from your favorite band. The song was good, but you understand why it didn’t make the album. I think I feel this way because of the structure Krystal used for the story, such as a question is posed in the story, and then referenced again at the ending which brings about the catharsis for the protagonist. Krystal placed the question close to the ending, which I feel didn’t give it enough time mix and fold with the memories, thus making the catharsis feel muted, but not ineffective.

    It is a minor criticism, because I felt that Krystal was successful in creating a realistic character that is experiencing, thinking, and remembering all at the same time. It makes the story feel honest, and, personally for me, proves that a short story does not need to behave like a novel. It can be its own art form.

  • Short Story Review: “Fireworks,” by Graham Swift

    (The short story, “Fireworks” by Graham Swift, appeared in the January 17th, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Crisis and release. Some people live for it, some thrive in it, but most people try to avoid it. As we are all living in a global crisis, helplessness seems to be a feeling that we are all dealing with, and, in some cases, projecting on others as well. Different characters exemplify these emotions, and reactions in Graham Swift’s short story “Fireworks.” It’s a short short story, even for The New Yorker’s standards, but that isn’t a knock against the piece, as it is a concise and subtle work.

    Plot: The story is set during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the question is if Frank’s daughter’s wedding will happen, or will the world end, and then the after effects of that situation at a neighbor’s bonfire on Guy Fawkes Night.

    I liked this story, for its simplicity and directness of Frank’s experiences. How Frank stayed steady and calm about a positive outcome for the Missile Crisis, and how life would continue. I like how Graham Swift worked in the observation of Frank’s dread of Mondays, but also his relief and focus when that work day was over, as now the rest of the week would be manageable for him. Knowing that Frank was a bombardier in the War, added a nice depth to his character, as Allied aircrews had a high mortality rate. And how it all mixed together at the neighbor’s bonfire, celebrating the foiling of the Gunpowder Plot, which if it hadn’t been stopped, could have plunged England into war and civil strife. Frank’s heroic act is faith, belief that it will be okay, though everything is out of his control. Sure, maybe this wasn’t the most dramatic story I have read, but I don’t think high drama was the point. I felt like this was a story confirming where we are presently, and where we can still end up. And if it does work out, appreciate what you went through to get there.

  • Short Story Review: “What the Forest Remembers” by Jennifer Egan

    (The short story, “What the Forest Remember” by Jennifer Egan, appeared in the January 3rd & 10th, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Why did our parents do the things that they did? Why did my dad stop buying sports cars in the 70’s and then start buying station wagons? I can guess, which is that he started a family, and two door sports cars just aren’t practical for a growing family. That’s a logical answer, and most likely correct, but there is an outside chance it could be something else. Do I want to know his thought process as to why he made this decision when it came to cars? No. I want to believe he made that decision because he loved his family and it was the right thing to do. I would hate to know that he was guilted by my mother to give up his sports car for a station wagon, and he spent the rest of his life resenting her and his kids. It’s not a pleasant thought, but it is possible.

    I feel that was what Jennifer Egan was trying to tackle with her short story, “What the Forest Remembers,” which is a fun read. She tells the story of four men, three of which who are married with families, all living around the San Francisco area in 1965, who go on a trip to the wilderness around Eureka, CA. The point of the trip is to visit a marijuana farm/commune, experiment with grass, and have a good weekend. The crazy right turn of this story is that the narrator, Charlie, who is the daughter of Lou, one of the four men going on the trip, has access to the memories of her father, the rest of the men, and even some of the people at the commune. This is because Charlie exists in the near future where people have uploaded their memories into a Collective Consciousness, and thereby, one can review memories and thoughts of the past. It was a bit of a jarring twist, but it had a slight Vonnegut feel to it, so I went with it. I don’t want to spoil the story, but this trip plays an important role in the three married men’s lives.

    I had to read this story twice, because the first time through it, I just felt like I had missed something. The story and the writing is very, I think, charming is the best way to describe it, but the ending left me feeling unsatisfied. I sat on it for a day, and then decided I needed to take another crack at it. The second time through, I began to pick up on a little of the nuance of disappointment Charlie has with her father, which I found at odds with the concept of the story. If the premise is that Charlie can see and hear her father’s thoughts and memories, then there shouldn’t be any vagueness on her understanding of his intention and thought process of those decisions. There are moments and lines that are dropped by Charlie about her father’s thoughts towards her, that you would believe would be difficult for her to hear, but these thoughts are treated like adjectives in describing a person’s hair color. In fact, at one point in the story, Charlie rhetorically asks what should be done with this overload of information that comes from viewing a person’s memories? Which causes Charlie to state, “Not every story needs to be told.”

    And I think that is where my issue with this story lies; why is this being told? If Charlie is not affected by her father’s memories; they neither make her happy nor upset, then why is this being shared? If you remove Charlie and the Collective Consciousness database, then this is a story of a consequential weekend for three men in 1965. But Charlie and the database is in there, so the question must be asked, as to why? Shouldn’t Charlie and her feelings towards what happened be paramount to the story’s resolution? And that right there is why the story felt unsatisfying for me; what does Charlie think about all of this? It’s like a punch got pulled at the very end.

  • Ideas for 2022

    I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions. Mainly because, they always fail.

    I, on the other hand, try out new ideas to see if they stick.

    As you can see, two totally different things.

    This first thing I will try out is not drinking. Not total sobriety, but taking a break. It comes down to two things; health and finances. On the health front; I am twenty pounds overweight. I have the middle age man belly, which isn’t really surprising, as I am middle aged. The alcohol isn’t helping with the gut, and I think it’s adding to my depression as well. I don’t feel as positive of a person as I used to be. I don’t think I have a problem with drinking, but I feel like if I don’t start making steps to take my health seriously, that I could have a problem. The other thing is financial. Not that the wife and I are spending a huge amount of money on alcohol, but looking at our year-end review, we spent, on average, $100 a month. I think we can say that we know of a better ways to use that money.

    The next thing is that I will, oh god, start going to a gym for 30 minutes at a time. You might have heard that I am about twenty pounds overweight. Though I would like to say that it was all alcohol and sugary drink’s fault, it’s also inactivity’s fault. Yes, we were hiking most weekends this summer and fall, but one day every two weeks just isn’t enough. (We will pick up hiking again in the Spring.) It’s also the mental health benefits that comes with exercise that I am missing. In the past year, I have been harder on myself than usual. I know everyone has that nagging self-sabotage voice in their head, but most people work through it. For me, this past year, it has been harder and tougher for me to forgive myself, or even have the energy to follow through on a project. That’s not who I am. I was the guy who followed through and got shit done.

    And the last thing is that I have to admit that I didn’t meet my writing goals for the last four month, and in essence, for the year. I did okay, but I didn’t make the goal. I wanted to have three short stories completed by the end of the year. I got two finished, and I think they are in good enough shape to submit, but I wanted to have three. Now, I know full well there is nothing stopping me from submitting the two, but, you know, I didn’t complete what I set out to do. I have maintained the blog, though my viewers have dropped by half. So, instead of four people viewing daily, I now only have two. (And I think I know who those two people are. Hey, guys.) Maybe I do need to spend the $100 and get away from the free WordPress site, or might just need to come to terms with the fact that a random blog about one guys thoughts isn’t that dynamic anymore. It’s not 1997 when confessional blogs were all the rage. Anyway, the blog still brings me a level of joy and feeling of accomplishment daily, so I think this will keep going. The other writing? I need to get back to the grindstone. I need to put in the work.

    And I need to read more!

  • First Day of Winter

    I couldn’t sleep last night, or I guess, more accurately, this morning. It was about 4:30am when I looked at my phone to see what time it was, and I wanted to try to get back to sleep. I tried. I rolled over to a different position, but it didn’t help. It was too hot in bed, I couldn’t get comfortable, and my beard was very itchy. By 5:30, I had to admit that I was awake and that I wouldn’t get back to sleep. I didn’t want to wake anyone, so I went to the office, and sat down with my journal.

    I could hear classical music coming from my daughter’s room, as she listens to that now, to help her fall asleep. The music plays all night, and there is something very innocent and endearing about it. That the kid is starting her own music education.

    I took out the journal and just started writing about the day; what I need to do, and hopefully, what I can accomplish. I also started writing about the next project that I want to work on, and how to use short stories, and story sketches together to tell a complete narrative of family dealing with mental issues.

    And I continue to write about writing. Writing about something that I would like to write about. How will I write about it? What style will I use? Will I try to craft 10 stories that each have an individual style to them? Is that possible?

    Then it dawns on me as the dawn is dawning; that this is the first day of Winter, and the shortest day with the longest night. It begins again, the growing of the day, the receding of the darkness. All things must pass, and the daylight is good at arriving at the right time, right?

    Sometimes things happen at the right time for the right reason.