Docotr's ReOrders

A Work-Around!

Problem Solving is the Greatest Joy in Writing

As a writer first you create the World’s Worst Problem!!! Then, you solve it. THEN your beta reader raises questions, and you solve those. Then your editor raises more, deeper questions, and you solve those. The graphic designer asks about cover art. Red or green? How should we handle the section breaks? What about the jacket copy?

Eventually you’re on tour and your flight out of Memphis is cancelled, and you’re expected in Buckhead in four hours. You start with The World’s Worst Problem: “Cathy loves Heathcliff, but she marries Linton.” And from there you work your way down to the World’s Dumbest Problem: “The only food at this airport is Cinnabon.”

This Week’s House Call…

Will focus on Karin Kohlmeier’s story Get Set. Go. Read it Here. The soul of Minimalism isn’t terse Hemingway-style wording. Minimalism refers to keeping your elements limited, then revisiting them in new combinations so the tension ramps up faster. Karin is the Queen of Control. Hers is the perfect story to explore from a Minimalist angle.

All week Karin and I have been discussing her story. It’s a wonderful piece with a strong undercurrent of Flannery O’Connor vibes, and we’ve been looking at ways to bring some Shirley Jackson energy to it, as well. Karin is the Queen of Staying in Scene, so the horizontal of the story is clear and easy to follow. In a way, this has been like walking into a well-built house and choosing the paint colors and furniture: The fun part.

But while we’ve been doing the Fun Part, the technology has been glitching. Our Comments and back-and-forth has been disappearing and resorting themselves. To salvage this week’s House Call, I’ve cut and pasted various Comments. They appear below. Please go read the story — it’s surprisingly short — and, if possible, read the Comments there and post your own. As a back-up, you’ve got the following:

The Comments from Get Set. Go.

Comment #1

Karin, any time you’ve got a young maiden and a big bird, you’ve got:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L…

How radical would you go? If you recognize the ancient story you’re retelling, you can more intentionally mess with the cultural precedent.

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Comment #2

You’re so good at staying in scene that when you shortcut with a “thought” verb it really jolts me:

“Sally wants to climb up into the hay loft, but that wouldn’t be fair to Charlie, so…”

Instead of “wants” why not have Sally begin to climb the ladder. From far below Charlie barks — you get some comic-book Bah-Ark! sounds to break the stillness. The higher Sally climbs the more frantic the barking becomes. Something moves in the rafters, a dove? a rat? and Sally begins to descend the ladder. Whether Sally recognizes a possible menace (Stanley is hidden in the loft) the reader will take note, and the tension will rise.

Early on, Sally knows where grandma and grandpa are… but not the uncle. That seems to be your buried gun. The unaccounted-for-element is synonymous with the dangerous rooster. Also, if you told this story from hindsight, through an adult narrator who occasionally drops in a line, you could allude to the events before the fact. For example:

“People always ask about the scars on my cheek, so I show them the scars on my hands as well…” As a lead, that hooks with physical sympathy, and an adult narrator looking back could hint at a greater knowledge of some menacing undercurrent.

Karin Kohlmeier: I love the idea of describing the loft scene -- and adding the element of unknown/danger there.

Here’s a possibly dumb question: If I were to change to telling the story from the perspective of an adult looking back, how does one balance that more distanced perspective with staying in scene?

Chuck Palahniuk: Only shift to the adult voice when you need to elapse time. Think of the adult narrator in To Kill a Mockingbird. Or, shift to the adult voice as a tease: When you’ve created huge tension, stall for time by adding an adult aside observation.

Or, if you need a flash-forward, use the adult voice to foretell some future outcome. It assures the reader Sally won’t die — she lives to tell this tale — but the tension stays intact.

Mostly, I see the adult voice as the opening hook: Mentioning the scars. The adult voice could also give the context for the telling, thus giving you another nested loop: The adult… the child… the child’s imagination amid the alfalfa, by then the reader would be three levels deep in the story..

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Comment #3

When Charlie ventures into the alfalfa it seems like a betrayal. The dog is abandoning Sally. Then you raise a red flag:

“Mommy told her she’s allergic to alfalfa. She watches her best furry friend as he leaves her behind and disappears farther into the one place she isn’t allowed to go.”

Consider that Sally has no such allergy. Her mother has warned her of this to keep Sally out of the field because something bad lives/occurs there. You might even expand on Mommy’s warning, describing the pain and symptoms of the allergic reaction — symptoms that could easily also suggest a physical danger (Stanley). This subtext is already present in “Mom told her” instead of Sally having learned from experience. Mom might even suggest you will die if you wander too deep into the alfalfa.

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Comment #4

Now the journey into the subconscious…

“Razor claws catch in her shirt and rip as she tries to fight him off. His beak hits her forehead over and over as he goes for her eyes. She drops to the ground, crouching in a ball with her arms protecting her head. Blackie lets out a victory crow, then everything goes quiet.

Sally lifts her head and peeks through her fingers.”

During the melee, Sally has run with her eyes covered, but now finds that she’s run deep, deep into the alfalfa. She stands a head above it, but the crop is so tall she can’t see the road/path. However, she can hear something in the crops around her. The rooster is somewhere close by — like a shark under the water — and Sally has no idea how close or in which direction.

Worse yet, Sally is touching and breathing the alfalfa, the thing she’s been told will poison her. She has no idea how to reach the road and might wander deeper into the wilderness of poison. She begins to imagine all the deadly effects her mother has foretold. The unseen rooster crows.

This would take us from the violent fight to a seeming lull, but a lull that holds the tense promise of an even worse outcome. If you want to really twist the knife in your reader, softly and from a distance Sally begins to hear Uncle Stanley shout her name. Like a lullaby. Stanley is trying to find her, and suddenly Sally’s not sure if she wants to be found by her uncle.

The field of alfalfa is her subconscious, and Sally’s vaguely aware of threats.

Maybe now all of Mom’s cautionary tales make sense. You can lavish On-the-body details on Sally as she imagines she’s dying from an allergic reaction. The unseen rooster is circling. Stanley’s shouts make Sally crouch and hide, but she’s not sure why she’s hiding. (the reader will assume why, the reader will enthralled with Sally at this point).

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Comment #5

Now to bring events full circle:

“Charlie’s golden fur is soft and scratchy on Sally’s face… Charlie’s tail thumps against the grass.”

In the same way we’re first made aware of Charlie — by feel — now we feel Charlie coming to the rescue. Sally is bloodied and shaken, stalked by predators, but Charlie leads her out.

Granted, this is a little tight and neat, but it uses only the elements you’ve already put in place. My goal is to demonstrate how things that seem happenstance can become well-planned steps that create, heighten, and resolve tension. You’ve still got the kittens. What part could they play?

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The true magic of your story is that you run terror and humor side by side. Some readers will be amused, others will be frightened. THAT is real genius, like Shirley Jackson bright.

Comment #6

Before Grandma wrings the rooster’s neck, she waits for a television commercial. That way you can juxtapose the violent and the banal.

I can’t wait to see what you come back with!

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Comment #7

Now here’s a little trick to consider… Think of classic Toby Wolff stories like Leviathan and Bullet in the Brain, where he builds a big framework for telling a very small, poignant anecdote.

While the child is immersed in the alfalfa, you could switch to an adult POV and tell any story. The reader would be so hooked at that point, the reader would tolerate a digression, even into the adult life of Sally.

Do you have a similar story that you might “nest” into that moment, deep in the alfalfa? We’ve talked about “nested loops” and you could draw the reader even deeper by telling a self-comforting story — Sally calms herself by telling herself such a story, just as Nick Carraway tells himself a Christmas story at Gatsby’s rainy funeral.

What perfect story do you have that you can nest into Sally’s head while she hides in terror? What’s her go-to for comfort?

NOTE: This story-within-a-story is a great way to graft two or more anecdotes that each by itself isn’t enough to satisfy a reader. The “nested loops” trick works: The narrator hides in the grass, she closes her eyes and conjures a comforting fantasy, that fantasy leads her further… As long as each “portal” is clearly and specifically detailed, so the reader can keep track of the transition.

It’s this “nesting” that turns small, pithy anecdotes into incredible novels.

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Comment #8

This isn’t necessary, but I’ll always ask about using an “object.” No, not every story needs an object to carry and use, but if you’ve overlooked one you might bring it into play. That object might be Sally’s blood. That blood could serve a lot of purposes, like marking her path — ala breadcrumbs — as she tries to navigate her way through the alfalfa. Discovering her own blood would prove she’s moving in circles. And the blood might stain anything she touches, keeping each past moment present as the rooster is being eaten at the end.

So, objects?

Karin Kohlmeier: I like the idea of blood as an object. Should I introduce it earlier? Like in the opening scene where Sally is sitting on the lawn with Charlie, she could pick at a scab and it could bleed a little.

Or is that unnecessary/too much/too on the nose?

In general, when we use an object like this, is it best to introduce/hint at it as early in the story as possible? Or does that matter?

Chuck Palahniuk: Good question. Rather than depict blood too literally at first, you could show the chopping block with an axe embedded in the top. The blood might be suggested by something in the barn. It might even be the color red. Another strategy is to depict the tracks Sally and the dog are leaving in the dust. That way the dusty footprints morph into bloody trail markers that morph into the bloody hand prints Sally leaves in the bathroom.

To repeat, this is just a wild option for creating and using an object.

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Comment #9

Another element you have in play is the grandfather who is running irrigation. I grew up in alfalfa fields that used those enormous, rolling sprinkler systems that rotated around a central hub. If Sally does fall into a shocked reverie — that nested story, possibly a story told to her by her mother, possibly a fantasy of who Sally will become — inevitably the arrival of cold Rainbird water will get you out of the nested loop.

Because you’ve planted the “gun” of Grandpa and irrigation, feel free to use either or both. And since those automatic sprinklers move in a predictable way, you could use the slowly advancing, rolling system as a “clock” because Sally might be surprised initially when a huge aluminum wheel comes rolling toward her, but she’ll quickly recognize its nature.

For the reader it’s “What fresh hell is this!” but this new devil is actually Sally’s salvation. This is what I’m referring to: Center-Pivot Irrigation

Karin Kohlmeier: I like that. Except I realized that I’m going to have to change my crop. I looked it up, and alfalfa doesn’t grow tall enough for even a five-year-old kid to actually get lost in it. She would be able to easily see above it to the edge of the field and just head that way. I’m thinking corn. As long as the whole “corn in horror” trope isn’t too stereotypical, corn is kinda perfect. Obviously, it’s tall enough that she could get legitimately lost in it – but the stalks would be spaced far enough apart for the whole blood trail thing to work well. Also, it could do quite a bit of work on the mom’s lie. Sally eats corn and isn’t allergic to it. She even helps Grandma shuck the corn sometimes with no problems – but Mommy says the corn is dangerous when it’s in the field, which doesn’t quite make sense. (Plus, corn leaves can be kind of sharp, which could be fun.)

A couple other thoughts:

My current ending is too sweet and sincere. When I wrote this, I genuinely didn’t clock the uncle as an actual danger. (This is what I mean when I say you sometimes see where I’m going even when I don’t!) As it stands, the uncle is kind of miffed that the family is eating his prize-winning rooster, but that’s it. I need to keep that danger present, right? And end the story by moving into a new and horrifying possibility? Just brainstorming here, but if I’m adding corn anyway, that could easily be part of the meal with the fried rooster. And maybe the story ends with the uncle smiling another smile Sally doesn’t understand and offering her an ear of corn. Or is that cheesy? I dunno. I need to think about it more, but I definitely need to spice up the ending.

Still thinking about the story she can tell herself while she’s lost in the field. I absolutely love that idea, but I haven’t landed on how to pull it off yet. I love the suggestions you just mentioned. That helps grease my brain wheels. Thanks!

Chuck Palahniuk: You went where I hoped you’d go. The end IS too pat, but I trusted you to recognize that (too many people would not).

At that closing dinner, it might be as simple as Sally asking, “Why did you tell me I was allergic? (brightly) I’m not allergic. Were you joshing me?”

In response, Sally’s mother or grandmother just glances at the Uncle and says, “Hush up and eat.” The Uncle is still there and more of a threat now that his rooster is dead.

Another option: If worse comes to worse, Sally tries to call her dog to dinner and nothing emerges from the night. Until the Uncle steps out of the darkness wiping his bloody hands on a bandanna. The accounts are balanced Dead rooster = dead dog. That’s a cold place to land, but the tension could launch a book, or at least impress the reader of the story.

Karin Kohlmeier: Ooooh! I hate the dead dog idea but also kinda love it?

But I do also like the more subdued threat just suggested by the characters’ actions and response to her question.

Lots to think about. Thanks!

Chuck Palahniuk: That love it & hate it reaction is solid gold. You want people to be shocked and enraged for Sally. She might not even realize the dog is dead, but the reader will, and the best trick is to make your reader feel smarter than your character.

After this ending the reader will adopt Sally and never rest until she’s safe and the dog’s death is avenged.

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Chuck Palahniuk: Hello Karin —

I’d like to go public with our exchange either tomorrow or Friday. Before that, do you have any questions regarding our discussion of the story? chuck

So far, no follow-up questions from Karin. Time for everyone else to see what we’ve been up to all week.

As for the Next Week’s House Call

To identify a new writing sample, I’ll look first to see who’s checking in to support the writers who’ve already had House Calls, Karin first and foremost, but Logan and Sean also. I’ll make a list of those players and check the list against the story links posted in the Call for Writing Samples on Nov. 8th.

The more you support your fellow writers, the more likely I’ll choose your sample for a House Call. Make sense?