The Short-Story Workshop

Abstract

but always practical. That is how an artist learns, not by following a set of rules. BUT, since this paper is addressed to teachers, not writers, I see no reason why I should not share with you my personal conclusions as a writer of fiction, as well as a longtime student of writing workshops and a short-time teacher of them. The points I will enumerate are intended as nothing more than a collection of tendencies of young short-story writers. If at times I sound dogmatic, remember that the errors of an inexperienced writer can often become the virtues of a great writer. I would simply like to point out some common failings and suggest some practical solutions. A young writer frequently writes stories with only one character of any dimension. He often uses the first person, the logical voice for a beginning writer. It supplies him with a ready-made point of view; he need only be concerned with the workings of one conscience; he need not create a whole objective third person environment. But it is very easy to become fascinated with one's narrator to the exclusion of any other real people in the story. Young writers often write flat stories because heir single narrators exist in a vacuum. It is just as common to have no characters at all. Some young writers think there is such a thing as a fictional mood piece or lyrical sketch. In poetry, yes, but not in fiction. Lyrical passages may contribute to larger works, but one cannot consider a sensitively observed slice of anonymous life to be fiction. All great fiction is inseparable from its characters. A young writer begins to write well when he is at last captivated by the character of his protagonist, and then, to continue writing well, he must be equally captivated by his antagonist. If he lets the balance slip noticeably, the reader will feel something lacking. This does not mean that the antagonist should be as appealing as the protagonist or even of equal stature: surely Claudius hardly stands up to Hamlet. But we can talk about both Hamlet and Claudius as individual human beings, and thus their conflict has space and dimension. If one sets up one's hero among cardboard characters, he will be cardboard himself. A real character needs a breathing world to move around in. Another thing that most apprentice writing lacks is the vivid concrete image. By that I mean specific objects: a green plastic chair, a grapefruit rind lying under the kitchen table, a torn window shade. Fiction is a verbal not a visual medium, and yet it needs certain concrete visual details onto which the reader can hang the abstractions, just as film needs words now and then. One can write all one likes about how it feels to live alone in the city, but if one gives the reader a green plastic chair, a grapefruit rind, and a torn shade, then the feelings will snap into focus. Nothing is drearier than reading pages of apprentice writing with no specific visual details. No one has the patience for that sort of thing except perhaps young writers. But choosing the correct images is the trickiest part of writing. Suffice it to say they This content downloaded from 207.46.13.146 on Tue, 23 Aug 2016 05:08:19 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms THE SHORT-STORY WORKSHOP 813 must come naturally. If the reader feels the author has struggled for hours to find the perfect concrete symbol, then all spontaneity is lost. Young writers should never think in symbols. They should think in images that spring naturally from the material at hand. One's subconscious sees to it that these images will fit in, most of the time, and a strict careful ear must weed out those that do