I finished a short story last week, a story I started writing two years ago. For the longest time, I didn’t know what it was about. All I knew was that two guys, bandmates disenchanted by their lack of opportunities to play, hang out at a dive bar and meet weird people. I thought for awhile that it was about unfulfilled artistic ambition, but apparently it’s about loneliness and belonging. Surprise! No wonder I couldn’t finish it.
It’s strange to work on a story whose theme escapes me. I’m obsessed with meaning in real life, so of course I’m obsessed with it in stories—but I recognize this obsession is a menace when it comes to storytelling. As Stephen King wrote in his memoir, “Good fiction always begins with story and progresses to theme; it almost never begins with theme and progresses to story” (208). I am rather a preachy sort of person, but not a preacher by trade; sermonizing makes for excellent sermons and terrible fiction. I guess I’m saying it’s not such a bad thing that I didn’t know for awhile what this particular story was about. Good practice.
When it was finished (okay, I’m still tinkering), I was taken aback by its crudity. My two main characters are guys, and my imagination seems to believe that when two guys get together to drink beer, vulgar things are said and sometimes done. The wacky part is that it felt completely natural when I was writing, not gratuitous at all. Surprise! Apparently, this pastor’s daughter’s id presides over deep-drilled wells of nasty. I’m not going to send it to my mother to post on the fridge, because I kiss her with this mouth.
I’m still processing the last surprise. I sent out my little baby to a couple of people whom I trust as readers, to get their feedback before I do whatever it is I think I’m going to do with it (not yet determined). And I am a mess. Surprise! I’m just as neurotic as I’ve always feared. It’s taken every ounce of mental discipline not to edit and re-edit and re-edit again, based on what I imagine their comments will be. Good grief. Anxiety is so pointless.
Filed under: writing | Tagged: neurotic writers, short stories, writing themes
Some quick preliminary notes:
I really like where you’re going, but I think it needs some rewrites, take it in a new direction, you know? I’m thinking something like: two iconoclastic truthtellers in a fictionalized Ventura in 2055 use their music to liberate inner-city kids from the chains of corporate art. Sort of “Snowcrash” meets “Mr. Holland’s Opus.”
What do you think?
Suddenly my anxiety seems entirely warranted.
I’ve been to a lot of dive bars, but I’ve never seen a pint of Guinness look that good. Could it be an Uber-Dive Bar? And do they serve breakfast? Bangers and mash and Guinness! Lord, take me now!
Dive bars in Ireland serve pints just like this one. Not that my story takes place in Ireland, but whatever. :)
Mercury Lounge in Santa Barbara/Goleta serves perfect pints and cool music. Plus, there’s a collection of vintage ceramic ashtrays.
I like surprises. Well, not when they are about ME, but FOR me or about others are good. Your surprises intrigued me.
Carrie – I don’t generally like surprises. (Bryan planned a surprise party for my birthday last year, and it did not go well. That is, the party was super fun, but the hours preceding it were a disaster. He finally had to spill the beans because I was being so difficult.) I think, though, that I need to get more comfortable with them. I don’t control the universe, so there’s bound to be a shock now and then.