Frank Wydra

RETURN TO THE STORYTELLERS HOMEPAGE

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Frank Wydra

March 13, 2008

For those of us sitting back to entryway, Bram’ s sloping, upward thrust of his mug accompanied by cherubic smile warns that a friend has entered the building. “Ah Edgar,” he bursts, “Papa and I were just speaking of you.

Edgar gives us a pensive look, as if nothing good of him could be said of his behind his back. “And, if I may ask,” dropping his kidskin gloves into his upturned Beaver, “On what subject do I fill your thoughts?

For once Mary gives him an inviting look and pats the empty seat next to her. “Here. Come sit by my side.”

His eyes shift, as if he is aware of being set up, but has not yet figured the game. Flipping his swallowtail he sits stiffly at Mary’s side. It is a departure from his laconic slouch, and his mood is clearly one of discomfort.

Finally, Mary breaks the silence with a thither and raps her fan playfully on Edgar’s forearm.. She says to the rest of us, “Cut it out now, I told you he is far to astute be taken in by your parlor games.” Then, turning to Edgar, “Your only fault is coming through at door last.” She gave the table an aerie wave. “These children decided to see if they could raise your anxiety by foreshadowing, by making a statement that exploded with meaning. So, when Bram saw you, he let loose the set-up.”

Papa, wide-grin splitting his face-fuzz, says, “And it worked. He pointed the stem of his briar toward Edgar. “Your chin was a stiff as any Baltimore maiden’s bib.”

Edgar says. ”If you are exploring anxiety may I suggest you join me after we finish here.” Smug smile creases his face. “There is this new cask of Sherry I think you will enjoy.”

Even Al can not hold back a chortle at Edgar’s wit. He wanders away, shaking his head, mumbling, “Ides of …” as if it held the secret of the universe.

Sorry you were the butt of it, old boy. The thing was, Papa and I were arguing over whether, to save some work, some writers are slipping in a foreshadow to keep the narrative lively.

Mary says, “And there is some intellectual vigor to the subject. Most of the time we think just thing of foreshadowing and plug it in to accelerate the though. Some’s take, though, is to unwisely stage by inserting the gimmick step into every place public along it’s untidy boundary Think of all the painful times you’ve read,

Yes, she would do it.

But what if something were to happen, if Lenny were to discover?

END OF CHAPTER

NEW CHAPTER

Lenny knew what she was doing.

Papa says, “there, you see it. That is virtually useless copy. First, there is no timing between the end of one chapter and another. Some readers will flash across the chapter pages sucking for air. Others will browse, putting a good night between reads The effect is the same, as soon as the writer shadows she has started a little game. The writers seem to say BIG CLUE now go gyrate before I revel the answer. Second, the sequence adds nothing to the tension. It’s a game fit for three year olds who hide a piece of candy in outstretched, but reveal its location even before being asked which hand hides the treasure.

Bram says, “Ahhhh, but effective foreshadowing is sublime. Never let the reader be shocked into a line of reasoning that has not been supporter. A good foreshadow is wing-dust settling upon the plot before the reader knows it is airborns. As the story unfolds, so do the foreshadows, each a decibel stronger in magnitude and amplitude from it s predecessor. At some point the reader will rise and look back over the sticks stuck in the mud. For some there will be an epiphany; the stubby twigs willl read like notes on a clef. For others there will be no more than squad of marshy boughs that have been foaled stillborne into the story”

Mary draws a kerchief from her sleeve and dabs at an eye. All the rest of us, choosing not to be romanced by some pretty words, look for dust in the eaves.

I, perhaps mellowing in my dotage, say. “Bram, that is as fine a description of a foreshadow as I have heard.” Papa bounces the briar’s bowl on the oak and says, “here, here.”

Edgar says, “yes yes,” the mouths a restatement of the old saw that admonishes you to make them as subtle as the scent of a rose wafting on the twilight breeze, while at the same time remembering not to make them as flagrant as a codpiece on a midget.” He pushes air to stifle dissent. “But not to get caught in imagery, there is, I think a more important point and that is to use any tool with parsimony. No guide benefits from a rule as does this one.”

There are nods, but they are not enthusiastic.

Al, fingers wrapped through the handles of three glass mug clinks a glass and says, “An announcement.” It takes a moment, but Al waits it through. “Methinks,” he says “adopting phony Middle English, “that I shall declare tomorrow a holiday. All ye who visit this house from noon on will be allowed to draw two measures for the price of one.

Papa beams and throws a n arm around A. ”Do that and we shall surely have reason to beware the ides of March.”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com

Thursday, March 13, 2008

February 13, 2008

Mary Shelley frowns as Al, the Gonquin’s owner, with a dramatic conspiratorial wink, places a blood-red rose in front of her and says, “From a secret admirer.”

Eyebrows around the main table rise as if pulled by a puppet string. Bram says, “From Dr. Frankenstein, no doubt.”

Mary blushes, “Given the color–and the proximately to St. Valentine’s day–it more likely comes from your Count Dracula.”

Papa, hands layered over his heart, says, “To quote the bard, ‘As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.’”

Edgar with a swatting hand tries to wave away the sweet comments. “These symbols of love, these words, its emotion, emotion to the core. The issue we as writers must deal with is how to convey not just the feeling of love but the essence of all relevant emotion through our work. Hate, fear, anger, disgust, sadness, happiness. Putting our pen to these and making them flow to the reader is the challenge we face. Without convincingly infusing these into our characters and stories we write nothing but hollow tracts filled with reason and no heart. ”

Not for the first time, Edgar has stilled the quick tongues around the table. If there is an immediate reaction to his words it is one of logic, not emotion, as thoughts seem to ricochet inside skulls. Bram is the first to respond. “Though I hate to admit it, you raise an interesting issue. My first reaction is you cannot convey an idea without impregnating it with emotion. Ideas standing alone are straw men easily picked apart by determined crows.”

Papa raps his briar on the oak table then points the stem at Bram and says, “Unfortunately, dear friend, you are wrong. Ideas are best presented without emotion. Though Darwin wrote with passion, he did not argue from a visceral platform. He laid his hypothesis, his evidence, and the conclusions he drew from them on the table, unadorned with emotion.”

“But,” Mary, catching Papa between words, interrupts, “there is a difference in fiction. As we spin our stories what we do is give life to ideas, we take them from Dr. Frankenstein’s scientific table and show how they affect the lives of people. To that extent, Bram is entirely correct.”

Edgar says, “To me the issue is not whether we embed emotion into our work, but how to do it without being melodramatic, without insulting the reader. For example, in my story, The Pit And The Pendulum, the key emotion is fear. Using the atmosphere of the setting: the melting candles, blackened cell, lurking hazards, the scythe, and the unknown at the bottom of the pit, my goal was to elicit horror and its handmaiden, the emotion, fear. You feel the fear my narrator feels even though he does not admit to it. My sense, then, is that it is the atmosphere you create that can best evoke emotion.”

“Ah,” says Mary. “To ‘evoke emotion,’ what does that mean? Is our challenge to create a feeling in the reader or to effectively describe the emotions experienced by our characters? The difference, I think, is subtle, yet important.”

“I’m not so sure,” Papa says. “If the task is to have readers understand the emotion felt by the character, what better way than to duplicate that feeling in the reader. It’s the old ‘show versus tell’ admonition. And Edgar, while I would agree that atmosphere is an effective tool, I think there are other means by which to convey emotion. Analogy, metaphor, and word choice to name a few. Think of old Lancaster in Elmer Gantry, ‘And what is love? Love is the mornin’ and the evenin’ star. It shines on the cradle of the Babe. Hear ye, sinners. Love is the inspiration of poets and philosophers. Love is the voice of music.’ No finer description of love than that.”

Bram says, “As always, dear friend, you are right. It always comes down to understanding on the part of the reader. And, I would add foreshadowing to your list, little hints that alert the reader to what is ahead. Anticipation—whether it be of affection, anxiety, contempt, frustration, or shame—is, I think, is the foundation upon which feeling is built. Emotion does not pounce on one like a puma, instead, it sneaks up like twilight before the night. For me it has been an effective device to elicit emotion.

Edgar, smug, treating us to a self satisfied look, says, “I think we have agreement. And as my erstwhile pupil, Stephen King, says ‘The most important things are the hardest to say, because words diminish them.’ No doubt, emotions in writing are both important and hard to capture.”

The rose still rests in Mary’s hand. Who sent it seems less important, now, as we think of its implication. Is it an attempt to create an atmosphere? An analogy? A metaphor? A foreshadowing? If so, to what purpose? It makes us all anxious.

frank.writestuff@gmail.com

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Frank Wydra

January 13, 2008

January is a transitional month. North of the frost-line grey snow still blankets the fields and the prospect of buds breaking seems a distant promise. Yet, once the solstice has passed, the chimera of renewal and rebirth flame the imagination. Young and aged alike assess the road traveled and contemplate new paths. So it is at the Gonquin where a cheery blaze in the expansive Jeffersonian fireplace warms those perched around its central table.

“Resolutions,” Mary says, as if asking a question.

“Don’t believe in them,” Edgar says.

Papa, draws deep on his briar, then, “Last year I swore off tobacco, seems a good place to start.”

Bram pats his paunch, “Leaving ten pounds on the floor wouldn’t hurt, I guess.” But it is said with little conviction.

Al, the Gonquin’s ubiquitous owner, seems relieved no one is suggesting cutting down on alcohol.

Mary, head shaking, says, “No, no. Wrong kind of resolutions. What I’m wondering is how important is it that we resolve elements we introduce into our stories, things such as issues with characters or pregnant situations.”

Edgar slaps his hand on the table and makes us all jump. “What nonsense. Of course there must be resolution. The basic rule is that if you put something into the story by its end you must take it out. Resolve it”

Mary, seemingly taken aback by the outburst, says “Heavens,” then regains her composure. “Yes Edgar, I have heard that. Yet, today, so many stories now seem to end without resolution. Take Cormac McCarthy’s Pulitzer winning story, The Road. At best the ending is ambiguous and it is clearly unresolved. Worse, there is no clue to the Armageddon that put them on that soot-filled road.”

Bram says, “Of course. He lets the reader draw his own conclusion as to what preceded and what follows. To me that seems a wholly appropriate ending. There seems to be a trend developing of late where, to be considered literary, the work has to be obscure and ambiguous.”

“This is not a new phenomenon,” Papa says, looking at Edgar from under his brows. “I can recall others who have left key points of the tale unresolved.”

Mary says, “So many of today’s stories seem to lack a plot, focusing, instead, on character. John Updike comes to mind. His Rabbit books are like that, character studies at stages of his protagonist, Angstrom’s, life. It is a commentary, if you will, on evolving values as man passes through life. Very literate. And, of course, he won the Pulitzer for two of them.”

“Ah,” Bram says, “but there was resolution; Angstrom dies.”

“Dies, yes,” Papa says. “But was anything resolved by his demise?” Or was death simply another event adding to the exploration of values?”

Edgar, quiet since his first outburst, says, “This talk about literary fiction is rubbish. All fiction is literary, some rises to a higher plane, allows the reader to perceive truths once masked. That is the function of all writing to shine a light where darkness reigns. Sometimes the function is mundane, sometimes profound, but the writer illuminates. And for light to be focused; there must be resolution not ambiguity.”

There is silence around the table until Papa draws deeply on his pipe and softly says, “Well.” He taps the bowl of the briar on the table to settle the ash. “A story of yours which I greatly admire is The Cask of Amontillado. A good little piece. Yet, though I have pondered the nature of the slight that led Montresor to brick up the unfortunate Fortunato, I am at a loss to what it was. In this masterpiece of yours you leave the reader to wonder, to imagine, what transgression could have led to such an extreme remedy. That, I would argue, is the core of the question Mary poses. From Amontillado it would seem that you are not averse to leaving dangling threads.

It is clear from Edgar’s scowl that he does not relish being caught up like this. “That,” he says, with noticeable restraint in his voice, “was a short story. You cannot compare shorts with novels.”

Papa nods, but it is unclear whether it is in agreement or simply acknowledgement of Edgar’s point.

Bram starts to say something, but is interrupted. “Hold on, hold on.” It is the ever-lurking Al. Everyman. “What you guys don’t get is that when you bring in a gun in chapter two or Maggie’s ex-boyfriend in chapter three, we expect that it will somehow impact the story. It doesn’t, our take is you didn’t do your job. So, yeah, those of us who pony up a shekel for a story want those ends tied up.” Al gives his chin a Mussolini lift, then, “So anyone need a refill?”

Bram lowers his spectacles and over their rim touches eyes with everyone at the table. “Quite right,” he says, perhaps acknowledging Al’s point. Perhaps not. “As to your point, Edgar, in my mind short stories are more demanding than longer works. Every word counts. If you introduce a notion, it must have purpose, otherwise what use does it serve? And once introduced the bugger must be dealt with, brought to resolution.”

Papa says, “The rule seems to be there are no rules. Once I would have said that genre fiction, particularly the mystery, requires tighter plotting—which of course implies adherence to Edgar’s rule. But, having read classic tomes such as Chandler’s Big Sleep where Taylor’s murder is unresolved or Harris’s Silence of the Lambs where Lector’s fate is ambiguous, I have come down on the side of doing what works and damn the rules.

“So,” Mary says, “you believe resolving details is situational. Do it or not as fits the story.”

“As situational as my resolution to stop smoking,” Papa says.

“Well, then,” Edgar says, ‘what guidance does that give the developing writer? For people to develop there must be standards, guidelines, benchmarks to anchor the craft, else they face chaos.”

Bram is nodding. “You are right, of course. As writers develop, the rules are important. But once they have found their voice and are confident in it, breaking rules—as you did in Amontillado—allows the craft to develop and explore new vistas. It is that freedom and exploration that creates exciting stories.

“Doesn’t always work,” Papa says.

“Nothing does,” Edgar says.

frank.writestuff@gmail.com

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Frank Wydra

December 13, 2007

The imagined thump of Santa’s hobnailed boot on the oak planks of the Gonquin, reminds us that the season of giving is here. Al, dispensing mugs of nog, says to no one in particular, “Y’know, finding the right present is always a problem.”

Edgar, cream tinging his mustache, says, “That, my man, is because you have it backwards. ’Tis better to receive than to give.”

Mary, hand flying to her mouth, says, “Edgar!”

He shrugs. “It’s true. I like getting things more than I do giving them away. Giving is such a bother, trying to deduce what would bring pleasure to others. In the end, most of the things I’ve given get scant appreciation.”

“Perhaps,” Papa says, “you pay too little attention to the habits of those around you. I’m sure Mary, here, would always welcome another delicately embroidered kerchief, Bram some arcane magic trick, and me, I always enjoy a pouch of fine tobacco. So, you see, gift giving is no more than understanding the habits of those around you.”

I say, “I find that the best gifts to give to writers are recycled gifts that have been given to me.”

“Uncouth,” says Bram. “Do you think so little of these gifts that you would pass them on?”

“To the contrary, I pass them on because I value them so highly. For example, I once wrote Herman Wouk, author of The Caine Mutiny and War and Remembrance, asking him if he would be so gracious as to settle a troublesome matter. His handwritten reply is burned into my memory. He wrote, ‘Letters like yours are the finest reward for the many years of work. Thank you for taking the time and trouble to write.’ What better gift is there than this example of humility by a renowned writer? So, wherever possible, I recycle Wouk’s humility, by example where possible, else by anecdote, and gift it to other writers.”

“Well,” Edgar huffed, “that’s not really a gift in the sense that we’re using the word here.”

Mary says, “I’m not so sure.” Then, eyeing Edgar, “Perhaps it is a gift some here could profit by.” She smiles sweetly at me. “What other gifts are in that bag of yours?”

I blush, unaccustomed to such attention. “Elmore Leonard has written a list of ten rules for writers, all useful, but one is supreme. He says, ‘Leave out the words people don’t read.’ Those words they were an epiphany, a gift from heaven. I recycle them at every opportunity. And then there is the example of George Higgens in The Friends Of Eddie Coyle. What a gift it was to see that an entire book could be driven by dialogue alone. The power of that gift is awesome. It is worthy of being regifted a hundred times.

Papa says, “With respect to you and Missy, there…” Mary’s spine seems to stiffen. “…I tend to agree with Edgar. These gifts of yours are not tangible. It is as if after today’s drink you were to give our dear host, Al, some kind words as a tip. For example, if you were to tell him, ‘Don’t stand up in a canoe.’ It would indeed be a tip, but not one that would help him meet his obligations.”

Bram, finger wagging at Papa, says, “My dear friend, you miss the point. To a writer, gifts of wisdom are more valuable than mere objects. Humility, parsimonious use of words, and descriptive dialog, seem wonderful things to regift.” He turns to me. “Are there others?”

“Ira Levin, who recently passed,” I say, “is famous for his compact prose. He once told me, stories should only be as long as necessary to tell the tale. And, indeed, Rosemary’s Baby, Stepford Wives, and Boys From Brazil were all slim volumes, yet each carries a powerful message. Leon Uris, on the other hand, used words to abundance. Yet his gift was in telling an exquisite story. Battle Cry, Exodus, Trinity, among others, were all lengthy tomes. His gift to me was the advice to concentrate on storytelling and not get bogged down in the mechanics. He was terrible at spelling and grammar. He said, too often people become so obsessed with the mechanics that they forget the story.

“I’m not sure I agree with Uris,” Mary says. “Poor grammar and spelling detract. They can poison a story.”

Papa says, “Any competent publisher has copy editors to deal with the mechanics. But storytelling is a rare gift. What I hear you saying is that by repeating these pearls you have received to others, you are passing on gifts given to you.”

“Exactly,” I say. “And it is not always just words that can be regifted. Sometimes it is something more obscure, something you perceive about a writer or her work. I write for this blog, Storytellers Unplugged, and two of my fellow bloggers, Richard Steinberg and Janet Berliner, have given me the gift of understanding that true writers write through the pain in their lives. So many times we stop writing because of some minor impediment. These two, though, preserve against the odds. They are writers. It is what they do, so they do so regardless of the catastrophes they suffer. Another blogger, John Skipp, has through his actions, his demeanor, his unique prose, bequeathed the gift of enthusiasm. You cannot but read his words without being caught up in the euphoria of his writing. There are others, Dave Wilson and his productivity and diligence and Sully with his inimitable prose. Each is an inspiration, and that is the gift they give they have given to me. Given the opportunity, I will recycle their gifts, passing them along to others who may not have had an opportunity to observe their gifts first hand.”

Bram chortles, “Add a few more and we could set the list to the tune of Twelve Days of Christmas.  Imagine: humility, parsimony, descriptive dialogue, economy of line, focus on story, write-on regardless, enthusiasm, productive diligence, and inimitable prose.

Papa says, “For those we could lean on Edgar, here.  He has given more than most to the craft.  The mystery and science fiction genres claim him as their own. Short story scribes light candles to his bust.  He has given the world gifts that have been recycled many times.”

We expect a “humbug,” but Edgar only snorts.  It is clear he is pleased, as is fitting in this season of giving.

 

frank.writestuff@gmail.com

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Frank Wydra

November 13, 2007

Though it is five o’clock somewhere in the world, it has not yet reached Martini time at the Gonquin. Yet, here I sit, alone, sipping a latte, waiting for the others to arrive, despondent over a disquieting thought that has forced itself upon me of late. Al sensing my melancholy keeps his distance. He is wise.

Edgar and Bram are the first to arrive, arms linked, chattering to each other, as if the world had not changed. They take up seats across from me, their usual places. We have all atrophied into a convention where our positions around the table have calcified. Bram says, “Why so glum, chum?”

“Cute,” I could have said, that or some other smarmy retort. But I don’t. Instead I push air with my hand, dismissing his concern. How would he know, established as he is,an iconographic figure? Papa saunters in taking a seat next to me, and Mary, close behind, heads the table. My teeth clack at the slap Papa lays on my back. “Pouting?” he asks.

Again, I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”

“Aghh,” Papa says, “Now there’s a lie. Out with it. Otherwise you’ll sour the evening for us all.”

Al, sliding drinks in, says, “It’s that last story of his, the allegorical tale. The detective story. Wrote it with such subtlety that most people saw only the surface story.”

Mary says, “Is that it? Is that why you wear that long face?”

It is. Yet the last thing I want is them parsing my angst. When it comes to writing, they have razors where others have tongues and rocks where hearts should nest. I know that if they dissect the object of my self-pity they will leave its carcass rotting on the floor. But, like wolves on a doe, they will not be denied. As Al reported, the story in question is, in fact, a detective story, but it is also an allegorical tale where Satan has been killed by a letter bomb and the Angel Gabriel, acting as detective seeks to answer the question what kind of love does it take to dispatch evil. Weird combination, I know, but hey, you write what you write.

“Allegories are hard for readers to fathom,” Edgar says. “They were in my day, and given the evolution of a graphical world, my guess is that now readers only skim the surface of the story not looking for the underbelly of the tale.”

“The point,” I say with more arch in my voice that is wise, “is that I have been preaching that literature requires multi level stories with a truth, an allegorical truth, at their core. What sense does that make if readers are blind to the subterranean strata?”

Bram says, “Most preachers are shrill.”

“And a bore,” says Mary. “But to your point, I think you expect too much from the casual reader. They pick up a story to be entertained not converted. If there are layered depths, they will be discovered in time by more serious students of literature who will revel in the cleverness of their perceptions. “

“Mary is right,” Papa says. “How many casual readers saw beneath the surface of her great book? Not many until the academics dissected it.” There is a twinkle in his eye. “Pun intended.”

Edgar says, “I think we overlook the core of this melancholy. It is not the reader’s cleverness that is at issue. It is the writer’s. If the reader does not perceive the depth of the story, if he does not perceive that hidden truth planted in the furrows of the written words, how then can he marvel at the sagacity of the writer?” A slant eyed look slides in my direction. “Is that not it?”

I wince. There is truth in the words, but to acknowledge it is to admit to a pettiness that would tarnish my esteem. “Of course not,” I say, knowing there is not much force to the words.

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive,” Bram says. “We are all egoists; else we would not be writers.”

Papa thumps a fist on the table. “Here, here. We write because we believe what we have to say has enough merit to foist it on unsuspecting others. To write something others will believe, we must first believe in ourselves—or if not in ourselves, then in the ideas, feelings, passions, or notions we hold dear.”

“I’m not getting this,” says a lurking Al, “The writer is trying to send a message. The reader doesn’t get the message. So, whose fault is that?”

“Fault?” Bram says. “What an irksome word. Would you fault Melville when readers failed to grasp his symbolism in the whale book? It took fifty years for astute readers to puzzle through the labyrinth Melville laid, and then only because critics waived their lamps. No, you would not fault Melville for he crafted a deep but lucid tale for those who had the Rosetta. And the readers? Would you fault them for not investing as much in the reading as Melville had in the writing? I think not. It is the nature of algorithmic work to cast shadows within shadows.”

Mary cocks an eye at me. “You do yourself disservice by worrying on whether the depth of your story has been probed. If you had written it so plainly that it was evident to all, then it would be a shallow piece, not worthy of further study.”

Edgar seems to agree, “A more dangerous sin is underestimating your reader and eliminating nuance by over-telling the story.”

“It seems to me,” Mary says, “that your problem is more imagined than real. If you have written an entertaining piece, one that will draw readers in, trust them to discover the plums you have poked into the pudding. If they do, they will be delighted. If they do not, the confection will still leave a sweet taste.”

Papa says, “The thing is, nobody expects a literary theme in a detective story, which is why I like the idea about putting one there. For God’s sake, who would have thought a monster story was an allegory on the dangers of rampant technology, of man supplanting God? Yet that is what our little missy there crafted. If we have ideas we must place them in the vehicles that have currency. Today the detective story is popular. What better place to hide a truth?”

Edgar who has been strangely quiet throughout now leans forward, steepling his fingers at my nose, saying, “Write your words then move on. If you have something to say, you do not have time to brood. You do not have time to worry whether anyone will read what you write, let alone whether they understand its true meaning. Your job is to move what is in your mind to the page. Others have the task of deciphering and interpreting. If you write well, if you offer something of value, they will find it, if not now, later.”

“Yes,” Bram says, emphatically. “Edgar, that little piece you wrote about the stolen letter is a case in point. It, too, was a detective story with an underlying allegorical point, to wit, that which is in plain sight is often the most difficult to discern. How fitting.”

It is not often that Edgar preens, but he seems to do so now. This and the banter just passed makes me think that perhaps I have taken myself too seriously. I signal to Al. It is time for more than latte.

frank.writestuff@gmail.com

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Frank T. Wydra

Even for October, the day is gloomy. Puddles paste soon-to-be-decayed leaves on the soles; clouds shadow even the sunniest dispositions. Inside Al’s Gonquin the atmosphere is no better. Edgar, Bram, Papa, and Mary seem to hunch over the conversation as I arrive. “Cheers,” I say, and get hostile stares and what sounds like a muffled “humbug” back. Only Al delivering my Jack-on-the-rocks seems in good spirit.

“Who died?” I ask, forgetting that all around the table but me are dead.

Edgar gives a “please spare me fools and little children” look.

Mary, seeing the look says, “You’re forgiven.”

Bram says, “It’s October.”

Papa says, “They’re expecting a story.”

Edgar says, “A horror story.”

I say, “So?”

Bram says, “We’re not here to write stories. The Gonquin Table is about discussing serious literary subjects, not making up stories to amuse readers on this dyslexic Halloween.”

“Okay,” I say. “What makes a good horror story?”

Edgar cocks one of his caterpillar eyebrows. “Come now. There are as many descriptions of that as there are writers.”

Mary slaps him on the wrist with her fan. It is the first display of violence I have ever seen from her. Clearly, there is something in the air. She says, “You are being disingenuous. While every writer has a personal style, there are elements of a horror story that unify the genre. For example, suspense—the anticipation, the foreshadowing of evil or a threat–is almost always present.”

Bram says, “As is an element of fear, usually based on some aspect of the unknown.”
Papa says, “I defer to you on the specifics, but horror stories I have liked seem to have a character with whom I can identify, empathize.”

“And place,” says Bram. “The place must set the atmosphere, establish an aura where the unimaginable can plausibly happen.”

“So,” I say, “let’s see what we can do with what we have.” I start,

In recent years, Halloween in Middleton has been a quiet affair, more commercial than scary. The costumes come from Wal-Mart and the treats–wrapped and portioned–from Kroger. Though the cloudy night sky is moonless and an intermittent rain falls, this year seems no different.

“Yes,” says Edgar. “Very good. That word, ‘seems’ anchors the suspense, signals that this night will be different.”

Papa picks up the thread,

Anne, a sweet confection of six with a wholesome face and even disposition, is dressed as Little Red Riding Hood. Her hand is tucked into that of her father, Roger, a sensible man, who would not dream of allowing his princess to roam free on a night such as this without his protection. As she walks to one door then the next, sometimes in the company of pirates, bears, the grim reaper, or Cinderella, he hovers far enough to give her independence, close enough to observe, to protect, if necessary, rescue.

Papa pauses to ponder and Mary continues,

Anne’s classmates have boasted that they will be venturing out without a parent, but she is content to have Daddy by her side. In the short walk between houses, she feels him squeeze her hand, looks up at him, squeezes the finger she is holding in her soft white hand. The character of the neighborhood is changing: lots are bigger; houses are farther from the street, streetlamps end. Anne notices none of this. The rain intensifies. Now she stops, looks up at him. They are coming to the house she has been warned about, the house she always crosses the street to avoid. At first, Roger does not seem to understand. Then he remembers, they are approaching that house.

Mary, cocks her head to one side and bites her lip. She seems to know what will follow, but before she can say it, Bram says,

A group of boys some older, some near Mary’s age, all in costume run from the porch of the forbidden house screaming, laughing, seeming delighted with the booty they have won. In the rain, it seems a house like any of the other dozen they have visited.

“No, no,” Edgar interrupts. “Suspense. Where is the suspense? The sense of foreboding? Fear? Try this…”

As they stand in the penumbra of that house Roger senses that two Halloweens have come and passed, with no evil emanating from its rafters. Is it safe? He feels safe. He has always felt safe, here. Forgotten are the stories of the little girl they’d found in the wood. Nothing proved. Forgotten is the next bloody corpse. Nothing proved. Old records culled from the man’s other life betrayed his past. He was seventeen, she fifteen. Rape they called it. Sexual predator they labeled him. Then, the eight year old. Caught, talking her off the bus. Attempted kidnapping, the charge. No conviction, but enough to dredge the past, enough to start speculation about the found bodies, enough to draw a ring around his house.

“Darker,” Bram says. “Darker.”

“Pieces of the girls were never found.”

“Wait,” Mary says. “Go back to where Anne is squeezing Daddy’s finger and the boys are running from the house.”

Anne looks up sensing Daddy’s reluctance to go on. “Please? One more?” The anguish of deprived youth stamped on her innocent face. Roger smiles. The child is right. Nothing was ever proven, yet the thought police have done their work. He has waved to the man. An ordinary looking man. And he has received a wave back. An ordinary wave. Besides, before the thought police, how many teenage girls had lost their virginity to seventeen year old boys with no politically-correct labeling? For an eerie moment they seem alone on the street. No other bandits or werewolves are in sight. Her bag is almost full. After this house they will go home. Have hot chocolate. “Sure,” he says, smiling at his princess.

“Now,” Bram says. “We need the element of fear, an abrupt act that heightens the tension.”

Roger lurks as she presses the door buzzer. Though the porch light is out, soft rays seep through the door’s side windows. A candled jack-o-lantern warms the stoop. The door opens and the pleasant-looking man he has waved at appears. “Trick or treat.” Anne says, holding out her bag. Face still smiling, the man seems to scan the dark, then, instead of depositing a chocolate, he takes Anne’s wrist in his hand.

“I like that,” Edgar says. “The wrist is the unexpected expected.”

Immediately, she turns, crying “Daddy.” The hood blocks him from seeing the fright on her face, but he knows it is there. Roger is already moving. Angry. Outraged. The man’s other hand rises, and the muzzle flash explodes Roger’s face. Anne screams, but the noise of a six year old, muffled by a blood splattered red hood, is lost in a night like this. The man, still gripping her wrist, drags her through the front door and shuts the lights. Only the man and the flickering, sinister jack-o-lantern are smiling. Halloween is just beginning.

“Disgusting,” Mary says.

“Yes,” Edgar, repressing a grin at what he takes as a compliment, agrees. “Horrible.”

“A nice touch,” Papa says “is that the horror is imagined. Rather than being inked on the page, Anne’s fate is left to the reader’s imagination, which is always more extreme and personal than any writer’s prose.

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Saturday, October 13, 2007

Frank T. Wydra

The Gonquin seems off-kilter, as if Archimedes has found his fulcrum and has levered the place a degree or two off-center. Blinking, I try to right the floor and square the walls. Al, owner of the Gonquin Bar, stands next to me, and I say, “Is there a tilt to the place, today?”

He gives me a frowned look, saying, “Is this your first stop of the day?”

“It is,” I say. “Things don’t look slanted to you?”

He makes a show of exploring the place, then, “No.” Eyes narrow. “It’s just your imagination.”

Imagination, indeed. I close my eyes, shake my head, and reopen my eyes. All seems normal. Something must have rocked my equilibrium, one of Vonnegut’s timequakes. “I guess,” I say to Al, giving a high sign to the assembled regulars around the table, “my mind is playing tricks.”

Vic Hugo and Hank Miller are salted in between Edgar and Papa. I quietly shake hands and take my seat. Bram is in the middle of a antidote, saying.”…and he asks, ‘where do you get your ideas?’” We all chuckle, for it is a question endlessly repeated by those outside the circle.

“But,” Mary says, the question though redundant, is pertinent. Ideas are the soul of writing. Call it by another name, if you will: creativity, imagination, invention, but ideas, it must be humbly admitted, do not consist in creating matter out of a void, but out of chaos.”

Vic, smile creasing his bearded face says, “No one knows like a woman how to say things which are at once gentle and deep.”

It is a compliment, but we who have sat at this table long, wait to see how it will be taken.

“Creativity,” says Mary, “has little to do with gender and everything to do with perseverance.”

Papa looks askance. “Perseverance? I would have put my dollar on intellect, rather than steadfast plodding.”

Hank says, “It is neither. Back of every creation, supporting it like an arch, is faith. Enthusiasm is nothing: it comes and goes. But if one believes, then miracles occur. If men cease to believe that they will one day become gods, then they will surely become worms.”

Edgar who has been lolling in his chair raises an instructive eyebrow and says, “You are all correct, that is what makes the question of where ideas come from so difficult to answer.” He leans in, pointing a finger at Papa, “But I must agree with Mary that perseverance is at the core of creativity.”

Papa who detests fingers pointed at him, is chewing on his Meerschaum. But before he can let loose, Vic says, “When one thinks of perseverance, sweating brutes come to mind. But, one is not idle because one is absorbed. There is both visible and invisible labor. To contemplate is to toil, to think is to do. The crossed arms work, the clasped hands act. The eyes upturned to Heaven are an act of creation.”

Bram trundles on Vic’s speech. “Most people think a book is one grand idea, but that is not the case. Truly, the plot is an idea, but so are the characters, and the moods, the setting and the very words used to paint them. Every moment spent crafting a story is a moment of creativity, a moment of imagination, of ideas.”

Papa, hard-fingers drumming a tattoo on the table, eyeing Edgar, is clearly irritated at his inability to edge words into the fray. He says, “A dullard with the diligence of those proverbial thousand monkeys slamming typewriter keys could not, despite the prognosticators, construct the simplest Nick Adams story. No, my friend,” now pistoling his pipe at Edgar, “perseverance helps, but without intelligence, creativity is an idea whose time has not yet arrived.”

Hank, with the disinterested mien of one who has suffered through Papa’s rants before, says, “Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is anything Godlike about God it is that. He dared to imagine everything. In this age, which believes that there is a short cut to everything, the greatest lesson to be learned is that the most difficult way is, in the long run, the easiest. Whatever there be of progress in life comes not through adaptation but through daring, through obeying the blind urge.”

Vic, paunch pushing the table, says, “There is much to what Papa says. I am an intelligent river which has reflected successively all the banks before which it has flowed by meditating only on the images offered by those changing shores. I love all men who think, even those who think otherwise than myself. Intelligence is the wife, imagination is the mistress, memory is the servant.”

Al, who has been oiling the conversation with strong drink, leans over my shoulder. “Sounds deep. What’s it mean?”

Vic does not wait for my interpretation. “Dear man, develop an interest in life as you see it; the people, things, literature, music–the world is so rich, simply throbbing with treasures, beautiful souls, and interesting people. Forget yourself. Observe. Memory will serve you with fodder for the pen. Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such.”

Mary says, “Bram’s point is the most intriguing. A book is not a single grand idea. It is a hundred thousand small bursts of creativity, fireflies illuminating the page, making it interesting and informative. Each contributing to the whole so that in the end the work is the red-hot blaze on a perfect sunset. It is the cliché avoided first by recognizing it as such and then by persevering to find freshness. It is the arrangement of plot that does not telegraph its message. It is placing memorable words in the mouths of magnificent characters. Such writing does not drip from the pen, but instead is hammered and chiseled from the marble of the writer’s experience and imagination.”

Hank who has been listening intently, says, “But imagination is prime.” He wags a finger. “Confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not understood. Chaos is the score upon which reality is written. All growth is a leap in the dark, a spontaneous unpremeditated act without benefit of experience. One can be absolutely truthful and sincere even though admittedly the most outrageous liar. Fiction and invention are of the very fabric of life.”

Vic says, “The learned man knows that he is ignorant. To contemplate is to look at shadows. To think of shadows is a serious thing. There is nothing like a dream to create the future.”

Mary smiles. “My dreams are all my own; I account for them to nobody; they are my refuge when annoyed –my dearest pleasure when free. Yet I know that what terrified me will terrify others; and I need only describe the specter which had haunted my midnight pillow to panic others. That, I suppose is the source of my creativity.”

Edgar says, “Some say ideas are cheap. And I suppose they are. Everybody has them in such abundance that they have no reluctance of lending me theirs. But it takes so many of them to fashion a story, that it is their very weight that makes the tale more precious than a loving child.”

Al, who is the everyman, whose role is to do no more cater to the taste of the intelligentsia gathered at this table says, “Perhaps. But when I read The Old Man And The Sea I marveled at the idea that pride can defeat a man, even a man who has his faith eaten away. When I read Frankenstein, it was the idea that there are things to fear from the pursuit of unbridled science that riveted me. So, when people ask, ‘where do you get your ideas,’ are they not asking what kind of person is it who can conjure these thoughts? I don’t know, but that’s how it seems to me.”

I, for one, wondered whether we should pull another chair to the table.

Note: Most of Miller’s and Hugo’s observations are quotes from things they have said or wr
itten, and, as usual, seasoned to the taste of this writer.”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Thursday, September 13, 2007

Frank T. Wydra

It’s one of those spongy July days where you get as much water as air in every breath. The bar of the Gonquin is at least out of the sun, and overhead blades mix the breathable soup. We are relatively cool and the iced drinks ease the pain of breathing.

Though Mary usually acts the doyenne, directing ideas, today the talk meanders like a mountain stream, moving in a different direction each time it hits a hard place. Emboldened by her lack of direction, I clear my throat and say, “After at our last session, a friend of mine, Donella, who makes a practice of lurking in the gallery, cozied up to me and asked, ‘What makes a novel timeless? One that get’s read over the years?’ I, of course, had my thoughts, but she said she wanted to hear yours.”

Donella, always a grandstander, waves to me from a middle row of the gallery and blows a kiss.

Mary, with a wave to Donella, says, “An interesting question, and one with no easy answer, for works of all persuasions have become timeless.”

Bram harrumphs, saying, “Interesting, yes, but not difficult to answer. Timeless books have contemporary significance, themes that transcend the ages. Take Dickens’s Oliver Twist, a commentary on the evils of child labor. The book was published almost two centuries ago and has never been out of print.”

Edgar, eyes shaded by lids at half mast, says, “Unfortunately dear Bram, your example belies your premise. Child labor might be a contemporary issue in the third world, but in advanced economies, particularly in English speaking countries where Dickens is most likely to be read, it is no longer of significance. Dickens is read, because he is a delightful storyteller, one whose prose is infinitely readable, a joy to the brain, and a delight to the ear. There is a nuance to his work that upon each reading reveals new meaning. That, I think is the key to a timeless book, or, at least, one of them.”

“One of them?” asks Al, the Gonquin’s owner, who has been delivering fresh glasses of iced potion.

“One of them,” Edgar repeats, cementing the period to the sentence. “In my mind there are a number of things that dispose a book to longevity, not the least being beautiful, evocative writing. Some writers have a gift. Of the contemporary crop, take, for example, Styron, McMurtry, Conroy, Roth, or Harper Lee. All are extraordinary stylists. All are poets. Regardless of their message, which in each case is substantial, these writers play with words and evoke images that linger in the mind.”

“Yes, yes,” Mary is orgasmic. Al raises his eyebrows. She does not notice, saying, “The truly gifted are indeed artists. So many who write are craftsmen—or is it craftspeople—sturdy scribes who are competent but whose prose does not create a sweet summertime song. Do not mistake me; they are the spine of the writing craft: informative, entertaining, enjoyable, but they do not lift us to another sphere. They are for the moment. But the artists,” her eyes momentarily close as she feigns a swoon, “they create word pictures that let us fly on seraphic wings. And in any generation there are so few of them that they are often shrouded by lesser, more popular voices.” Puzzle lines distort her face. “Unfortunately that shroud sometimes blinds both critics and public to artists.” She sighs. “If only there were standards. But there is no criterion for great art. You only recognize it after it is done. So, trying to use some notion of art as the measure for timelessness is the devil’s playground. It leaves us chasing our tail.”

Papa taps the bowl of his Bacchus-carved-Meerschaum on the table. “You are all mistaken. It is neither the art of the writer nor the theme of his work that predicts a book’s longevity.” Having garnered our attention, he sits, sips his daiquiri, reams the Meerschaum, then says, “It is the academics who determine whether, after its initial blush, a book shall be reprinted or take the A-Train to oblivion.” There is a satisfied look on his face as he waits for rebuttal.

“Nonsense,” Bram says. “I’ll grant that academics have some sway, since they can manufacture sales by dictating titles to be read by their sophomores, but you overstate their influence.

Papa leans into the discussion and aims the stem of his pipe at Bram. “Do I now? Well, consider how their influence is magnified by the papers they write, the elbows they rub, and the conventions they frequent. How many would have read Salinger’s Catcher were it not an assigned book? How many would have slogged through Ulysses were not credit offered? How many would have searched out Fitzgerald’s Gatsby, Ellison’s Invisible Man, or Orwell’s Farm had they not been on some reading list? No, my friend, it is not literary merit that determines, it is the politics of the herd. If a Hemingway course is taught at Illinois, it must be offered at Michigan.” Papa sits back, as if the day is won.

Edgar ‘s devil eyes glow, and it is evident from his smirk that he has fodder for the fire. “Well, then, “he challenges, “how do you explain the continuing success of the books Bram cited. Surely there is not some university cabal dictating that McMurtry be taught. Academics do not even like the man.”

Papa dismisses the question with a wave of his pipe. “He has won prizes and has had his work hawked in film. Earmarks such as those always attract flies.” A smile. “Academic flies.”

Mary says, “No, Ernest, I think you are mistaken. “ Her use of his given name is portentous. Will he be sliced or diced?

“Academics are followers not trailblazers. They read the critics, watch the Times list, take cues from the popular media, and collectively cull the catalog. But, it is the people who read who dictate the timelessness of a work. People read a work and then whisper its name to another. How else do you explain the continuing success of Chandler who in his prime was no more than a pulp writer of clever mysteries? Herbert’s Dune is such an engrossing tale, so relevant to our time that it would be reprinted even if there were no academy. Stevenson’s Treasure Island has delighted generations as father has passed it to daughter. The same, I think, will be true of the Potter books. They are works that can be read and reread without becoming tiresome. In part, I think that is because of what Edgar calls infinite readability, the discovery of nuances that shade meaning. And, in part, it is due to artistry of the writer, the ability to create unique and indelible word pictures.

As I sit and listen, I cannot but smile, for they are all correct in their view. Universal themes, relevant commentary on the human condition, eloquent prose, popular appeal, academic dictate all contribute to the literary melting pot. The landscape of fiction is so grand that no single excuse will answer Donella’s query. I sneak a peek at the gallery and she is there, absorbing the banter, drawing her own conclusions. This, in the end, is what every writer posits readers must do.

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Friday, July 13, 2007

Frank T. Wydra

I’m late, I’m late for a very important date. All the seats around the Gonquin table are filled. Ted Geisel sits in the chair I usually occupy, sketchbook resting on the table’s edge. Tall, lanky Charley Dodgson is perched across from him. I find a vacant chair at a table across the way and shoehorn in between Papa and Edgar. Al, ever alert, is there with my Jack-on-the-Rocks before I can say “happy unbirthday.”

As is her wont, Mary is stimulating the synapses, saying, “I think we are agreed that all great literature has at its core a theme, some belief the author holds dear. My question is, does the theme shape the story or vice versa?”

At this, Ted, who has been sketching members of the gallery as worm-like creatures in funny-hats, says. “On the other hand, though. I had a dream without a theme. It did not seem to dull my gleam.”

Papa chortles. Then, “That was good. You do that on the spur?”

Ted smiles, as if the question is childish.

Bram says, “I always start with a theme. To me, it is much easier to have the story flow from an understanding of a point I wish to make rather than the reverse.”

Charley, who is eyeing a pubescent innocent, snaps back into the conversation, “If you don’t know where you are going, any road will get you there.”

Edgar who caught my glance at Charley leans over and whispers, “Young thing, there, probably has no idea that Carroll is no more than a Latinized name for Charles.”

I say, “Latin is out of fashion.”

“As are themes,” he says.

Ted says, “No matter what you do, somebody always imputes meaning into your books. One of my best books had no theme, all I wanted to do was write a book using no more than fifty words.”

Mary claps her hands. “Green Eggs and Ham. How I loved it.” She smiles forgivingly at him. “But there was a theme.”

“Oh?” Bram says?

“Why yes,” says Mary, “a profound theme. Remember how it ends. Their little world is in disarray and at that point what’s his name puts his prejudice aside, eats the eggs, and finds there is hope.”

“Ted says, “I meant what I said and I said what I meant. I start drawing, and eventually the characters involve themselves in a situation. Then in the end, I go back and try to cut out most of the preachments. If there are themes, they evolve.”

Papa says, “Well, that may work for you. But for me, I’m like Bram. I start with the idea and then drape clothes on it.”

Charley says, “Everything’s got a moral, if only you can find it.”

Al surveying the table to gauge the need for libation says, “Well now, morals and themes are different. A moral dwells on good or evil. A theme, on the other hand, is the thread of an idea and focuses only on morality at the behest of the writer.”
We all look at him. He raises an eyebrow, the hint of a smile insinuates itself on his face, yet to the casual observer he is doing no more than polling for drink orders. But there are no casual observers at this table.

Mary says, “My books all start with a premise that shapes the characters, environment, and plot. In Mathilda the theme was the misery of incest. I even sub-titled my monster book as The Modern Prometheus to emphasize the theme of overreaching technological striving.

Ted says, “That’s because you care. Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not. Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite. Or waiting around for Friday night or waiting perhaps for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil or a better break or a string of pearls or a pair of pants or a wig with curls or another chance. Everyone is just waiting. And that is as it should be. As a writer, you are the one who’ll decide where to go.

“It sounds,” Charley says, “as if you contradict yourself. Are you now saying that theme drives the story? To me, that it is like my little Alice who came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree. ‘Which road do I take?’ she asked. ‘Where do you want to go?’ was his response. ‘I don’t know,’ Alice answered. ‘Then,’ said the cat, ‘it doesn’t matter.’”

“Contradiction is benediction,” Ted objects, penciling in a snout on the sketch he is making of Charlie, “You can get help from teachers, but you are going to have to learn a lot by yourself, sitting alone in a room. Where you start is where you are. For me, I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living; it’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, and that enables you to laugh at life’s realities.”

Papa whacks his pipe on the table and says, “As I was saying, even though it is my practice, starting with a theme is out of fashion. Now it is all plot or character, theme be damned. It’s as if writers think readers are content with marshmallows, all sugar and air.”

“It’s what the market demands,” Bram says. “People have no time for deep, philosophical reflection.”

Edgar says, “The most effective themes are those inferred from the story rather than explicitly offered. It is a harder, more rigorous method but more suited to storytelling.”

Ted says, “Preachers in pulpits talk about what a great message is in the book. It’s all inference.”

“Perhaps, as is the case with friend Ted, here,” Charley says, “writers have learned to take care of the sense knowing that the sounds will take care of themselves. All they need to do is, always speak the truth, think before they speak, and write it down afterwards. Today most writers pursue not an idea but a dollar. They are not philosophers, but entertainers.”

Ted draws a sparkle on the caricature of Charley’s nose. “Ah, the market. It rules. Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks you can think up if only you try! Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind. Today was good. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one. That’s how the market is. When at last we are sure, you’ve been properly pilled, then a few paper forms, must be properly filled, so that you and your heirs, may be properly billed. That’s what the market thinks.”

Mary, frown creasing her brow, asks, “Are you saying that serious writers are becoming irrelevant?”

Ted says, “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”

“I don’t believe it’s over,” Charley says. “There are many today who write of profound themes. While the laughter of joy is in full harmony with our deeper life, the laughter of amusement should be kept apart from it.”

“The trouble,” Papa says, “is that the serious writers are not read with any frequency.”

“Perhaps,” Mary says, “They would be better read if they, like Ted here, were more entertaining.”

“What you need to remember,” Ted says, handing a sketch of a horrid looking writer to Mary, “is that adults are obsolete children.”

Al, leaning over to take a closer look at the cartoon, says, “Nice likeness.”

Note: Most of Geisel’s and Dodgson’s observations are quotes from things they have said or written, and, as usual, seasoned to the taste of this writer.”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Wednesday, June 13, 2007