There is a brewing movement underway being led by adjunct faculty and students. Hell Gate ran this story yesterday about students at the New School, here in New York City, joining the faculty strike, which has been going on for 23 days. If you didn’t know, University of California academic workers, have also been on strike. For far too long, adjunct professors, basically part-time teaching staff, and academic workers, who are teaching assistants, tutors, graduate student researchers and postdoctoral scholars, have been doing more and more of the actually teaching at universities. Across the country, full-time and tenured positions at universities have been shrinking, while at the same time administrative positions have been growing. I don’t think anyone will find it surprising that administrator salaries have been growing, while faculty pay has remained flat for years. A reckoning is coming. For the past forty years, American universities have become little corporations – making money and growing endowments comes first, and education is second. And to accomplish that, administrators have to keep their labor costs low. It has gone on for too long, and now faculties are pushing back. I see strikes like these growing and continuing in the coming years.
Tomorrow, our Christmas Tree arrives. We ordered one, it’s fake, which was designed to fit specifically in small apartments. The base diameter is like 23” and it’s 6’ tall, so it’s a think pole of a tree. I can admit that that since we put up decorates after Thanksgiving, it really hasn’t felt like Christmas in the apartment, and that’s not really surprising. The Tree does tie the whole thing together.
So, what’s the deal with all the views on my post: Short Story Review: “The Face in the Mirror” by Mohsin Hamid? When I originally posted it, I received 11 views which, for my humble little blog, was rather respectable. In the last two weeks, the same post has received 42 views, which is an outlier for me. So, what’s going on? If people are enjoying what I wrote, then that’s cool, but being that this blog is, well, little, then I find it odd when people notice it. Or is this just a bunch of bots screwing with me?
I have been getting into short short stories, and flash fiction. What I am enjoying about these smaller works is that is that I feel like most of the writers are playing with the short story form, and experimenting with what can work when it comes to narrative. Maybe this is a reflection of the digital age, and texting – use as few words as possible and get to the point.
“My Wonderful Description of Flowers” by Danielle Dutton is not a flash fiction piece, but for The New Yorker, it is a shorter short story at just three pages. There is no plot to this story, and I think that was purposeful. The story functions like a dream, and in the first paragraph, the narrator tells us that her husband had a dream, though he very rarely dreams. And with that framing, the story is on its way. There are a few narrative threads, or lines that weave in and out of the story; the husband not returning a text message, their child playing a video game that doesn’t seem to be like any type of normal game, a lecture and reception, a stranger who had corresponded with the narrator, and then a train ride that leads to the end of the line.
The prose is lovely, light, and ethereal in the sense that it flows back and forth from narrative threads, which could only work together in a dream. What keeps the narrative moving forward is the growing frustration with the messages not being returned, and the train literally running toward the end of the line. These two threads do function as the device that creates the rising action, so the story has the feeling of a plot, or at least that a climax is coming. Dutton has created this frame for the story to live in, and then she goes on to fill spaces with movements, gestures, actions and observations. It’s a wonderful experiment in testing what a narrative can be, and be used to hold a story together. And like a good guest, the story knows not to overstay its welcome, and gives an ending that isn’t climatic, but is satisfying as it fits within the atmosphere of this dream-like world.
(Hey! Thanks for making it to the end of this review. If you are enjoying my posts, please take a moment to hit the like button. To quote Mark Twain, “Likes are the currency of the internet.”)
(The short story “Returns” by Annie Ernaux appeared in the November 14th, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)
(Yes, I will SPOIL this story.)
Illustration by Sébastien Plassard
The New Yorker publishing a shorty story by Annie Ernaux for this issues, is the equivalent of a company softball team bringing in a ringer to bat cleanup; Like this story was going to be bad. Such is the world of publishing a Nobel Prize winner writer.
But why was it good?
The story is simple, or, more like, is direct and to the point. Plot wise; Daughter comes to visit her elderly mother who lives alone. But the first sentence sets the tone for the piece succinctly:
The last time I saw my mother at her home, it was July, a Sunday.
Immediately, there is a feeling of sadness, mourning, even regret, coupled with Summer and a feeling of relaxation as it is a Sunday. We are loaded with emotional information that only us and the writer know. We have been made a confidant as well as a witness as to what will follow.
The story is told in three sections, three acts. The first, the introduction of the setting and characters, as well as showing that there is some awkwardness between the mother and visiting daughter. The second section goes deeper into the awkwardness between mother and daughter, showing that the teenaged years were difficult and filled with fights and screaming. These are two people trying to make amends; the mother wanting to daughter to stay longer – offering gooseberries -, but the daughter is willing to leave early if the conversation lags. And the third section, the narrator acknowledges that the mother has no power over her anymore. The memories of the narrator’s former life come back to her, again showing that she was unhappy there, and wanted to leave. Then a stray cat arrives, which the mother feeds and allows to stay, and for a short time the mother and daughter find a subject of conversation. And then the climax, the daughter goes to leave, but the mother gives her a form she needs help filling out, but the daughter refuses to do it at that time. The daughter promises to fill it out and send it back to her mother at a later date, which upsets the mother. Then the narrator describes leaving the town, and how the places fade behind her in the distance. Finally, we learn the mother soon suffers sunstroke and is admitted to the local hospital. When the daughter returns to the home, she finds the gooseberries in the refrigerator that she forgot to take, but now the berries are spoiled and brown, liquid lump.
This story flows easily like water in a stream; it gently takes you where it wants to go. It moves so well, that all the little tricks to elicit an emotional response are but ripples on the narrative. We know that death is coming from the first line, and short stories love dealing with death, but Ernaux talks about death by not saying death. It is hinted and lingers in the background of what is to follow. As the story continues, there is the tension between the mother and daughter, shown by the slight bickering about locking the front door. Moving deeper in, we learn the reasons for this tension, knowing that this is not something that is easily overcome. But these two don’t hate each other, as when the cat arrives, we see that they can connect and share. But as we know, all visits must end, and we see how the mother tries to prolong their time. By this point, we understand each characters motivations, what they want, and how they cannot give the other what they need. The melancholy comes through these passages. These are the last moments, and this last interaction isn’t acrimonious, but also not affectionate either. This is the parting one has when you believe there will be another Sunday, and another chance to make up for lost time. It is all implied, and never directly spoken. And as the daughter rides the train home, and she does love her mother, from her description of leaving, we know that she doesn’t want to be there. And when the end of the story arrives, as we knew it would, the gooseberries in the fridge serve as the button for the story; the lost opportunity that withered and died.
In talented hands, storytelling seems so simple and effortless. Breaking this story down, examining it, it’s like I can hear the important notes that Ernaux is hitting in the middle of this melody of a story. It is impressive, this level of skill.
Annie Ernaux doesn’t need my endorsement, but she is a ringer.
(Speaking of which; Yes, that’s right; Speaking of which, if you have enjoyed what you read, take a moment to give a like, or a share, leave a comment, or follow this blog. Not only does it help my standing, but it will help agents verify that I have a following.)
(The short story “Princess” by T. Coraghessan Boyle appeared in the November 7th, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)
(Spoilers, I guess)
(Photograph by Jacob Mitchell for The New Yorker)
Well… Stories like “Princess” by T. Coraghessan Boyle make me feel like an asshole. I’m going to have criticisms about this story that will seem to total up to a negative review. But I don’t dislike this story, I think people should read it, Coraghessan is a talented writer, yet there are issues that I can’t ignore nor rationalize out.
So, this story is about a young woman drug addict who wanders into an unlocked house and falls asleep in a teenage girl’s room. The single mother, whose house it is, calls the cops and the young woman is arrested. Early the next morning, when the young woman is released by the cops, she wanders into the woods of a nearby park, and discovers the body of a little girl, but the addict doesn’t call the cops for fear that she’s be accused of the murder. The single mother has issues with her teenaged daughter, and after some time passes, the addict wanders back into the house. The End.
The structure of this story alternates between the addict and then the single mother. It’s close to linear, but some sections do jump ahead in time over the other. It’s an effective form to keep the story moving, but it wasn’t conducive in helping create a sense of climax, conclusion or even catharsis. The addict just keeps being an addict, but now she’s an addict with more guilt for not having come forward about the murdered child. The single mother keeps having a rocky relationship with her teenaged daughter. I would think that by using this structure, we’d come to some point where these two lives interact and bring about some resolution, but that never arrives. Yes, the addict returns back to the home at the end, but the way it’s laid out, it is presented as more of a coincidence, rather than the addict making a choice to look for that home. Also, the dead child seems to be poised to have some influence on the characters, but that also doesn’t amount to anything. Though the addict feels guilty, the guilt doesn’t change her behavior. And even when the single mother recognizes the murdered girl, that also bring about no change. All of these tangents are presented, but none of them add up to anything. And the story doesn’t feel like it’s trying to make a point about how dark and unchanging the world is.
Now, I did say that I liked this story, and I thought people should read it, and that is still true. I did like the structure and the alternating between the characters. The writing is good, quick, and not overindulgent, which makes the story pull you in. And I was engaged with this story as I was reading it, but as I pointed out above, it stumbled, in my estimation. I guess what the story feels like is the first chapter of a novel, or a first draft of this idea. It either needs to be worked on some more, or it has a bigger story to tell.
It just needs to choose one and go with it.
(Why, hello there! I am glad you made it this far, and I would like to ask you to do one more thing for me. Please, take a moment to like this blog. In fact, feel free to comment, share or even follow it as well. The more interaction I get, the more that hole in my soul closes up!)
The short story is an art form that I love immensely. Basically, everyone tells short stories; “Funny thing happened to me at the grocery store…” “Let me tell you about this guy at work…” “So, I was out late last night…” Some people might be better at telling a story, history professors seem to be great at it, but we all tell “Beginning, Middle, End” stories to our friends and family all the time. As such, we know when a story works, if it’s entertaining or not. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, but it’s also not easy telling a good short story. There isn’t a lot of time to set up characters, situations, conflict, and a climax that has meaning. Not to mention setting tone and theme. This is why I have bottomless respect and admiration for writers that can create, craft and tell a great short story.
But I also have bad boy fascination with those writers who take all the rules of short story writing, and throw them out the window and try to create something brand new. These experimental writers are like the kids that sit at the back of the classroom, or they’re the people who wear sunglasses to their writers group. I think of Jonathan Lethem that way after having read his story “Narrowing Valley.”
It is a story told in seven sections, and from the section titles, it has the feel of a concept album, especially with the “reprise” at the end. The story is told in the 3rd person, and takes the angle of telling us about the story the writer wants to tell. The story that wants to be told, is actually based on another story told by a different writer, which lends to creating a feeling that this story is like a “cover song.” (Hence, why I use the album reference before.) What the story ends up settling on, is how to describe a character, and the personal history this character has to the writer.
This is an experimental type of short story, and I would be hard pressed to identify if or where there was a climax. But Lethem does identify that the ending really isn’t an ending, and that the story might not have even started. And what were the characters hoping to accomplish? I’m not sure. Yet, the story did go someplace. It did take a journey, and maybe the only person who “learned” anything was the writer. I didn’t feel like my time was being wasted, or that this experimentation was to see how long a reader would put up with this form.
I can admit that I would understand why some other person would read this, and not like the story. My opinion might be based more on personal bias, rather than a more logical critical interpretation, but I do like experimentation for the sake of experimenting. It’s the only way the art form evolves and moves forward.
(Did you know that you have the power to keep blogs like this one alive, and thriving? Yes, you have that power! By taking a second of your time to like, share, comment, or follow this blog, you will be exercising your power, and showing the algorithm who’s truly in control!)
