Getting into Fights

So, I’m working on my novel.  I know who’s going to be in it.  I have lengthy files documenting their life stories and psychological profiles, their wants and needs and hates.  They are as real to me as any of my neighbors I might wave at when going out to check my mail.

Unfortunately for my characters, it’s taking a little longer than expected to put them in place.  I could set them down in the streets of my story town and they would be right at home.  What I forgot, though, was how these characters would interact.

Two characters in particular hate each other, loathe one another, despise the very idea of the other.  But, that does my novel no good unless I can get these two fellows into a fight.  I’m good at getting them into conversations, or contemplations, or even a lively contretemps.  I’m having a hard time doing a fight.

My son, a martial artist, studied stage fighting, in which two or more actors appear to be having a real swashbuckler while in reality it’s all a choreographed dance.  Maybe if I see my characters’ fight as a dance, I can infuse my story with the dramatic tension it needs.  Look at the success of the movie The Black Swan.  Dance can be quite dramatic.  Ooh, I think I’m on to something!

 

The Wedding: A Short Short Story

The Wedd

The Wedding

Short, short story by Becky Ruth Powell

She looked at the name on the wedding cake.  She couldn’t remember whether she was Lisa, or Beth, or Mary.  She was Lenora this time.  She looked at her new in-laws, who adored her.  Mother, aunt, sister, like three scoops of sherbet in pastel dresses, strands of pearls buried in folds of neck-fat.

Lenora considered whether she’d rushed things by spiking his cup of wedding punch, but when his head plopped onto her shoulder she dismissed doubt.

Amid the chaos of death, she inherited his sizable estate.  Her in-laws fussed so over her well-being, she grew fond of being Lenora.

The Rough Draft

This summer I finished the rough draft of a novel I’ve been mulling over for several years.  It felt good to have an entire draft completed.  It was better than I was afraid it would be, but worse than I’d hoped it would be.  Now, all I have to do is revise and edit.  That I can do.  I could probably revise and edit for years.  And years.  Anything’s better than finally saying, okay, this is it.  This is my best effort.  I’m ready to be judged.  The rough draft has been sitting in a tatty file folder on my ottoman for about three weeks now.   The days go by, and the pile of newspapers, sketch pads, half read books and paper plates with sandwich crumbs waxes and wanes on top of the folder, hiding, then revealing, then hiding again my secret:  I may never complete my novel.

And Letters: Review of The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid

The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid

I looked forward to reading Mohsin Hamid’s second novel published in 2007, The Reluctant Fundamentalist, having read and enjoyed his first novel, Moth Smoke.  What struck me with Moth Smoke was Hamid’s confidence as a writer.  Reading Moth Smoke never gave me that slight uneasiness that results from reading a new writer who hasn’t quite grown into their writing shoes.  With a more experienced writer, in contrast, you can walk to your shelf and pull off any novel by say, an Ann Patchett or a John Irving,  comfortable in knowing you are in capable storytelling hands.  Hamid is such a novelist.

The Reluctant Fundamentalist exudes the same confidence as Moth Smoke. Which is not to say that Hamid over-reaches or is shy about using unconventional storytelling techniques.  This short -184 pages- novel consists entirely of one side of a conversation between the Pakistani narrator and an American stranger over the course of one evening in a cafe in Lahore.

The tension and uneasiness that lies between all things Pakistani and all things American under-girds The Reluctant Fundamentalist as it did in Moth Smoke. Yet, the conversation is not an angry rant or confrontation.  The narrator, Changez, tells the American stranger of his  experience of being a Princeton-educated Pakistani man in New York with a promising career in a prestigious American firm.  While Changez  always feels culturally different from most of his American colleagues and friends, the benefits of his lifestyle seem to him worth any compromises.  His emotional roller coaster of angst, dissatisfaction, and guilt only begins after he has fallen in love with a troubled American young woman who cannot love him back.

As an older and wiser Changez relates his saga to the American stranger in a Lahore cafe, he acknowledges the American’s discomfort, wariness and suspicions, and attempts to allay the man’s fears. Yet, despite Changez’s likableness, the accessibility of his story, one can’t help feel the creepiness and danger inherent in the c conversation.  I vacillated between feeling compassion for Changez and scanning for veiled threats between the lines.

The Reluctant Fundamentalist is the story of lost love, broken hearts, and the guilt that accompanies the lust for success and money.  It is about the cultural abyss between the haves and the have-nots and the tidal pull of patriotism and loyalty.    No matter how well we can identify with this Middle Eastern man’s feelings and experience, we are still left with “us” v. “them”.  No matter how much we like Changez, like the American stranger, we can never let down our guard.  But, then, isn’t that where bigotry begins?  Fear becomes an excuse for suspicion, suspicion breeds contempt, and contempt precludes any chance of connection.

Like Moth Smoke, The Reluctant Fundamentalist is more than a story.   It’s a guided meditation.  Hamid’s skillful storytelling allows us a safe space in which to examine thoughts and feelings that we otherwise might not acknowledge even to ourselves.

And Letters: Review of Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson

Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson

There’s no denying that Per Petterson is a master storyteller.  His spare prose squeezes every ounce of meaning from the chosen words in his novel, Out Stealing Horses.  The Norwegian setting lends an other-worldliness to the story of an older man reassessing his past.  In particular, the man reconstructs memories of his father.  Partly from his own memories and partly from wartime stories about his father told by a friend, what emerges is a contradictory tale of a father’s wisdom and love and of a father’s neglect.

Lovely prose and haunting subject notwithstanding, I was  nonplussed by Out Stealing Horses.  I never developed a relationship with Trond, the man at the center of the story.  It was difficult to keep my mind from wandering while reading about Trond.  His self-imposed removal from the outside world, which provokes his contemplation of this youth,  feels artificial.  Despite ooccasional wispy hints of his earlier life, Trond never becomes real.  Trond, isolated in a cabin in the Norwegian woods, seems more a vehicle for an interesting semi-story of wartime intrigue.  Trond is just another anti-social old guy who likes to live alone and think about himself.

Out Stealing Horses made the New York Times Books of the Year list, so perhaps I missed something.  Or, perhaps, certain authors of the male persuasion overestimate the charm of isolation and rumination.  Without a compelling character, reading about Trond’s memories of his life is like sitting through a long dinner with a first date who does nothing but talk about himself from soup to nuts.

Still, Petterson’s writing is lovely and spare, and ultimately worth reading.  I just don’t think the story is as universally appealing as some reviewers believe.

Short Short Stories: The Wedding

Something I do to help myself learn to write where every word counts is by writing stories that are exactly 100 words long.  I thought it would be impossible at first, but it isn’t.  It just requires making every word pull its own weight.  Plus — it truly takes very little time to read.

The Wedding

  So, enjoy!

The Wedding

Short, short story by Becky Ruth Powell

She looked at the name on the wedding cake.  She couldn’t remember whether she was Lisa, or Beth, or Mary.  She was Lenora this time.  She looked at her new in-laws, who adored her.  Mother, aunt, sister, like three scoops of sherbet in pastel dresses, strands of pearls buried in folds of neck-fat. 

Lenora considered whether she’d rushed things by spiking his cup of wedding punch, but when his head plopped onto her shoulder she dismissed doubt.

Amid the chaos of death, she inherited his sizeable estate.  Her in-laws fussed so over her well-being, she grew fond of being Lenora.