Back in Trauma

Just read Adam Johnson's "Trauma Plate" again. D'Ambrosio's story and it's three act structure with shifting points of view got me thinking again about Johnson's story, which I commented on in two prior postings: one on POV and another on the extended use of metaphor. If you aren't familiar with "Trauma Plate," check it out. It's also in his excellent collection Emporium.

literary fiction, short stories

Off the Grid

The first time I read Charles D'Ambrosio's story "Her Real Name" what blew me away, saved the story actually, was McKillop, the off the grid alcoholic doctor. When he appears at the start of Act II, right off the shift to a new character and a new POV re-energized my interest in the story because once again I didn't know where it was headed. After reading along for 17 pages—a longish story in itself—with Jones and Wig Girl I'm starting to reach the limits of my interest in the situation and themes, so, structurally, I was ready for a shift or an ending.

The POV shift to McKillop is important becasue it elevates the character from being a mere prop, makes him integral to the story. The other thing D'Ambrosio does to bring McKillop to life is make him self-aware: He knows he's off the grid and, to steal a line from The Doors, knows also that he's one of those "who like to go down slow." This makes the irony of him—who is slowly self-destructing—"treating" the girl—whose body is destructing against her will and her prayers—even more chilling.

Another aspect of the POV shift that is great is the way it prevents Jones from narratively disclosing that he's desperate. Instead we get that information in the scene through dialog and a bit of backstory on McKillop:

   "I was told in town I could find you here," Jones said.
   McKillop nodded. "You must be desperate."
   The doctor wiped dust and sweat from his neck with a sun-bleached bandana. One of the day pickers had fallen from a tree and broken his arm, and McKillop had been called to reset it. He was no longer a doctor, not legally, not since six months ago when he'd been caught prescribing cocaine to himself. The probationary status of his medical license didn't matter to the migrants who worked the apple orchards, and McKillop was glad for the work. It kept trouble at a distance.
   "Let me guess," McKillop said. "You don't have any money? Or you're looking for pharmaceuticals?"
   "The bartender at Yakima Suzie's gave me your name," Jones said.
   "You can get drunk, you can smoke cigars and gamble in a bar. You can find plenty in a bar. I know I have." McKillop pressed a dry brown apple blossom between his fingers, then sniffed beneath his nails. "But a doctor, a doctor you probably shouldn't find in a bar." He looked up at Jones and said, "I've been defrocked."
   "I'm not looking for a priest," Jones said.

Notice the restating of the desperation theme in a way that echoes the conclusion we might be reaching as readers ". . . a doctor you probably shouldn't be finding in a bar." A nice bit of harmonizing on this theme of Jones' choices comes after McKillop sedates the girl with morphine:

   "Your wife?" McKillop asked.
   "Just a girl I picked up."
   "Jesus, man." With forced jocularity, the doctor slapped Jones on the back. "You know how to pick them."

Again, letting this character deliver superb lines elevates him from prop status, which is a big part of what makes this story so strong.

Similar to the reveal of Jones' desperation, McKillop is also on the scene after the girl's death so that we get Jones' options through action and dialog rather than through narrative telling:

    "You could tell the truth. It's rather unsavory, but it's always an option."
   Jones looked at the doctor. "It's too late," he said.
   "I've tried the truth myself, and it doesn't work that well anyway. Half the time, maybe, but no more. What good is that? The world's a broke-dick operation. The big question is, who's going to care?"
   "Her family," Jones said. "Born-again Christians."
   "I was raised a Catholic." McKillop pulled a silver chain from around his neck and showed Jones a tarnished cross. "It was my mother's religion. I don't believe, but it still spooks me."
   "This is against the law."
   "If you sent her home, there'd be questions."
   "There'll be questions anyway," Jones said. "Her stepdad's a fanatic. He'll be looking for me. He believes in what he's doing, you know?"

Now we are ready for the ending sequence where Jones himself goes off the grid to bury the girl at sea.

literary fiction, short stories

Structure or Stricture

Charles D'Ambrosio's story "Her Real Name" is a long story divided into three numbered chapters/acts—I, II, and III—and, yes, the form is conventional: Setup, Conflict, and Resolution. Those of you with PoMo sensibilities or Feminist disdain for linearity will find the structure uninteresting, but unless your creative work is also bent in those directions, there is still plenty of room to maneuver within the convention; and regardless whether the convention is in our DNA or the result of culture, it is our omnipresent narrative convention. I guess I'm one of those throwbacks who believe you should master the rules/conventions before you break them, so if you are a beginning writer I think it is entirely worthwhile to learn how to structure your work in the three act way. It's much easier to transgress the convention after you've mastered it. Mastery of the form is perhaps even necessary to avoid unconsciously slipping back into the DNA/Cultural script.

Act I—the Setup—of "Her Real Name" is divided into five sections:

—Introduction - establishing the journey
—The Pickup - how they came together
—The Reveal - surprise, I have cancer
—2nd Reveal - surprise back at you, I'm taking you to a hospital
—Point of no-return - backstory of why she's not in a hospital already

Act II—Conflict— is divided into four sections:

—Desperation - finding a doctor off the books
—Deeper desperation - morphine, plus a glimpse of other desperate lives
—Climax - as he cares for her, all the themes are revisited
—Aftermath - she's dead and he goes against the law

Act III—Resolution— is divided into two sections:

—Destination - he reaches the ocean with her body and makes preparations
—Burial at sea - a somewhat pagan ceremony ends the journey

At the end of the first act, the inevitability of them being together until she dies is established although we still don't know at this point how the story will turn out. In the climactic scene in Act II, this inevitability is tested when Jones asks her if she wants to go back, her answer is elliptical, but an interpretable no, and that helps to set the stage for Act lll.

Even with the conventional structure, there is a lot of free play in the story; the rogue doctor is great example of dumping dirt into the conventional flow. There's a shift in point of view when the doctor first appears, and I'll take up that scene in more detail in my next post.

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A Real Beginning

Charles D'Ambrosio's story "Her Real Name" from TBR was originally published in The Paris Review and included in his collection The Point. It's a story full of both lyricism and gritty realism which also manages to take the familiar theme of a cancer death and make it fresh, and from a literary criticism perspective, this would be awesome story to analyze. I will resist that temptation—although I will note that seeding your story with topics a critic can latch onto, in this case death, religion, the clashes between fundamentalism/law and pagan ceremonies/honoring the dead—those are all fertile topics for a lit crit analysis. My point being that certain readers get off on ideas and their literary expression and certain writers get off on meeting those readers needs—you can too.

One of the many things I admire about "Her Real Name" is the directness of the first sentence:

The girl's scalp looked as though it had been singed by fire—strands of thatchy red hair snaked away from her face, then settled against her skin, pasted there by sweat and sunscreen and the blown grit and dust of travel.

Even before I get to the wig later in the first paragraph, I have an inkling of what's to come. This is not a coy beginning. It has grit—literally—pain, and invokes a journey. This is a perfect example of what every story should do with its first sentence—dive in head first. Don't be coy, don't be clever, don't be subtle, simply come out with guns blazing. Your readers aren't going to stop reading because you've told them what's going on or what's at stake, so don't be afraid to bait and set the hook.

Now notice what D'Ambrosio does with the remainder of the first paragraph:

For a while her thin hair had remained as light and clean as the down of a newborn chick, but it was getting hotter as they drove west, heading into a summer-long drought that scorched the landscape, that withered the grass and melted the black tar between expansion joints in the road and bloated like balloons the bodies of raccoon and deer and dog and made everything on the highway ahead ripple like a mirage through waves of rising heat. Since leaving Fargo, it had been too hot to wear the wig, and it now lay on the seat between them, still holding within its webbing the shape of her head. Next to it, a bag of orange candy—smiles, she called them—spilled across the vinyl. Sugar crystals ran into the dirty stitching and stuck to her thigh. Gum wrappers and greasy white bags littered the floor, and on the dash, amid a flotsam of plastic cups, pennies, and matchbooks, a bumper sticker curled in the heat. EXPECT A MIRACLE, it read.

Unless it hits to close home you won't stop reading yet: the wig, the bumper sticker— the barbs of the hook get sharper.

Specificity. Here's D'Ambrosio also excels: "the down of a newborn chick," "that withered the grass," "melted the black tar between expansion joints," "bloated like balloons the bodies of raccoon and deer and dog," "dirty stitching and stuck to her thigh." This is how a writer seduces a reader with evocative language.

As you read the story be thinking about its structure, I'll take that up in the next post.

Technorati Tags: literary fiction, short stories