Gloves Off: Craig's Up

The Horizontal v. The Vertical of a Story

Today We’ll Take a Longer Look at Don’t-It-Yourself-Er by Craig Father of Kittens

To read the story as originally published, please click here.

Don’t-Do-It-Yourself-Er

By Craig

There was my body, exposed to the night air, breeze blowing against my bare skin. My black hoodie with the enraged Pillsbury Dough Boy saying “Don’t Fuckin’ Poke Me!” was bunched up beneath my head, my left hand clasped my father’s Stanley Powerlock 25-foot tape measure to my chest, its cold metal heaviness slowed the beats of my heart. My pants rolled down to expose my pasty skin from seven-and-five-eighths inches below my navel, my pubic hairs displayed for the whole world to see. But no one was looking, no one was there.

My Input: So we’re starting with a static tableau? While I applaud you establishing your objects so quickly, can you see where such lucidity robs your story of some mystery and urgency? Your narrator is so articulate about the objects, the situation, the setting; can you see how that works against tension? Can you get inside the character’s physicality with some on-the-body detail? For example, how the nape of the character’s neck feels against the softness of the cushion? We don’t need to know the cushion is a sweatshirt, not right away, nor that it has the Dough Boy printed on it. If you establish the softness and the feel of the object, you can create more tension and mystery, then gradually morph the object with more details until it becomes the familiar sweatshirt. From the pocket of the sweatshirt, we extract the phone; thus the objects morph from one detail, and expands to become the world.

Again, how can you be less lucid and articulate? Less “writerly” in how you hook the reader? In particular “pasty skin” seems like what Lish would call “received text” and it suggests a writerly POV from outside the narrator. How can you put the awareness inside the narrator, but burn the language to suggest the trauma? You can still create the objects, but how can you create them less completely?

The tape measure is a nice device that allows for abstract measurements and the physical business of measuring. Can you expand those measurements to include metric?

My androgynous companion smiled, saying now is the time, no more delays. Saying, you can do this, I believe in you. Saying, you have to work fast, you won’t make it.

Nodding was painful, but they understood. The hardness of the recycled plastic bench against my back was my only support. And it would be my stage.

No one ever tells you that one day you might shoot a needle into your epidural space, pierce the ligamentum flavum which holds your vertebrae together at the back; but don’t pierce it too much, don’t paralyse yourself, don’t leak cerebrospinal fluid everywhere. And it’s harder, much harder, when you can’t even see your own spine.

My Input: I’m a little confused that the narrator is alone, yet has a companion. I’ll trust for this to come clear at some point. Lish might criticize you for using “Latinates”—in effect big words that explain too much, without allowing your reader to make the judgment about “androgynous.”

Part of my confusion—if the companion is the Dough Boy—comes from the sweatshirt being bunched behind the head. Is it only the hood portion that’s bunched? Is the narrator actually wearing the sweatshirt, or is the shirt folded into a pillow behind the head? Can you see that creating too many things too quickly might lead to confusion?

The recycled plastic bench seems to place this story outdoors, right?

“Is that high enough yet?” I said to my androgynous companion, my arm was twisted like a chicken wing behind my back, my hand tingling and twitching as I tried to guide the auto-injector needle to the right destination by feel alone.

They shake their head, saying, it’s too high, you better lower it if you don’t want to end up paralysed.

My Input: Noted, another important object: the needle. Where did the needle come from? If you want the needle to accrue meaning and help the story build its emotional, psychological weight—its vertical—how can you keep the needle present throughout the story? How can you reuse the needle as the story progresses?

Slumped over, my spine bent separating the bumps in my back—my lumbar spinous processes—I count down two vertebrae, or was it three?

“How is that now?” I said, not sure if my companion had enough surgical experience to rely on their opinion.

They shake their head, saying, it’s ok, but you aren’t in between the vertebra, find the gap above, or the needle will bend and break in your bone.

My Input: Can we have more detail about the nature of the companion? Also, if the narrator is sitting up now, slumped, what’s become of the tape measure on the narrator’s chest? If the needle is in one hand, is the other hand feeling the vertebrae? Are these cervical vertebrae? If they’re lower, how can a person maneuver both hands to their spine? I’m not saying this is impossible, but it’s got to be believable.

My finger slid up, and fell in to a fleshy space between the hard bumps of my third and fourth lumbar vertebrae (I hoped), and I placed the point of the auto-injector beside my fingertip, and my hand shook, and my finger turned purple and swelled from straining to grip and my finger was nothing but pain and sweat and I’m going to slip and I have to do this, and I pull the trigger and I scream.

BRAAAP! The smell of rotten cucumber turned to yellow goo filled my nostrils as the offensive gas fought for freedom from between my buttocks. The needle did not go in, my index must have slipped aside. I locate the gap again between my lumbar vertebrae, position the needle, and pull the trigger once more.

My Input: Be careful of the shift back and forth between present-tense verbs and past tense. Or is this intentional? Again, can you see how being so articulate with “the offensive gas fought for freedom…” sounds more like a writer than a real person? Would a person say “buttocks,” for instance?

Note, when did a phone come in as an object? Do you see how some quick attribution—for example, “With twisted fingers, I punched a number into my phone…” would establish the object?

Don’t Fuckin’ Poke Me!

“911, what’s your emergency?”

Suppose you’re having a real emergency, a real Jesus-fucking-Christ-snorting-coke I’m going to die emergency.

“My belly hurts so much I can’t move.”

My Input: The reader is aware of the tape measure, the sweatshirt with the Dough Boy, the injection needle, and the phone, and the pubic hair. Also the companion and the voice on the phone. The reader will be waiting for each element to come back for another purpose.

You do an excellent job of moving the story along the horizontal—the plot, the events—I applaud that. Here we’re going to focus on helping the vertical—the emotional, psychological aspect of the story. So far the missing father seems to be a setup for the vertical, what Tom Spanbauer would call the narrator’s “source of a broken heart.” The impetus for the story.

My apartment was a mess, but it didn’t stink; no scrap of food was wasted. Empty pizza boxes counterbalanced the drained wine bottles throughout my apartment. My fingernails still tasted like cheese and bacon and greasy cardboard, after stripping those boxes.

The voice of the dispatcher blurs and blends with the background noise from his desk, a funk thump of 1970s bass and exaggerated moaning, and I’m listening like I’m underwater, and he asked again where my pain was.

My Input: Can you create this world without judging it? Thus “was a mess,” which is a judgment and abstract, isn’t needed if instead you run with: “Empty pizza boxes stand in towers stacked around me…” And what does “counterbalanced” mean? In “recording angel” the goal is to turn the camera elsewhere and depict the world so that the reader will make judgments such as “mess” and “exaggerated.”

And is the narrator inside an apartment? Or outdoors on a park bench? What am I missing?

If your narrator is actually in pain and peril, can you see how this kind of articulate evaluation works against the tension you’re trying to build? Can you reflect the chaos in the language?

As for the tape measure, can you use it? Can we feel its weight and spring-loaded pull as the narrator measures things?

“The pain is three-and-a-quarter inches to the right of my belly button,” I said, “and one-and-seven-eighths of an inch down towards my foot.” The cold metallic edge of the tape measure against my smooth skin soothed the pain, if only for a few seconds.

The fake moaning gets louder and faster, and that poor actress sounds like she’s going to choke, and the dispatcher says some other bullshit.

“55 hours,” I said, as I checked my watch, “and 23-and-a-quarter minutes, but it’s gotten much worse, and last night I couldn’t even sleep at all because of it.”

My Input: What’s become of the needle?

My guess is that you’re overusing abstract measurements as a device. Just so long as you keep the device consistent and drill down on it so that your reader realizes its intentional.

“Ok…that’s very good,” he said.

But it wasn’t very good, not at all.

“We should send an ambulance, but they are not covered by the government anymore,” he said.

Even if it was a hundred bucks, I don’t have it.

“It’s $5,000,” he said, “with a $1,500 surcharge for after hours service. But most private plans cover…”

No insurance, no car, so fuck that, I was walking.

My Input: It’s great that you revisit the slogan on the sweatshirt, but keep in mind all of the objects you’ve created so far. Do you need all of them?

Don’t Fuckin’ Poke Me!

Hospital administrators think they’re so smart with their overpaid consultants and their “calming colours”, like these beige floor tiles that don’t even soften the cement, and the pink flamingo painted walls.

But you know what their clever colour schemes can’t hide? The smell. The whole damn hospital smells like two parts putrid flesh, mixed with three parts bleach, mixed with one part disappointment.

“Stop trying to kill me!” I half asked, half shouted at the intern as he mashed his sausage-sized, steel-reinforced fingertips, approximately two-and-a-quarter inches diagonally down and to the right of my navel. With my tape measure trapped in my pants pocket, I was forced to rely only on crude estimates.

My Input: If the narrator knows anatomical details about bones and spinal fluid, can you continue that knowledge into the examination? For example, “Palpates my lower, right abdomen…” or some such.

“Sorry.” He was oblivious to his role in my current suffering.

“You should ask for a refund on your medical degree.” The deep pain inside suggested my colon was intent on eating its way out of me.

“I’ll have to ask the surgeon what to do next.” He probably had to get a permission slip for every test, for every referral, for every bathroom break.

“And is the consult with the surgeon covered?” after the ambulance fiasco, I assumed nothing. He walked away; when he returned, I was informed that the surgical consult was not covered.

Of course.

“So, you think my appendix is infected and about to burst?” Lifting my head to talk was getting too painful. The intern with the sausage-sized-fingertips grinned. Maybe not the best reaction for something that might kill me?

“And diagnostic imaging isn’t covered, so you aren’t really sure what’s going on?” I said.

He paused, then nodded, his lips twitched and jumped.

My Input: What’s become of the companion? The tape measure? If the father’s death/funeral is the catalyst that’s set all of this in motion, can we touch on that in some subtle way?

“And you are certain that my appendix will kill me when it blows?” I said, trying to stare a hole through his eyeballs.

“That’s correct, unless the diagnosis is wrong, but we would need imaging...”

The tape measure was calling out, wanting to feel the crunch of his skull breaking against its steel frame.

“And even though the surgery will save my life, it’s not covered anymore,” I said, looking at the ceiling so I wouldn’t have to see his stupid grin.

“But private health insurance still covers it,” said Fake-Doctor-Sausage-Fingertips.

My Input: Can you see how you might be cutting your own tension? The character is concerned about money, and being clever. All while being very, very articulate. While this quality might be a fun way into the story, can you ease up on the lighteness as the conditions grow worse?

How did the father die?

My eyes rolled of their own will. “I have no health insurance, no guaranteed hours, no vacations, no sick days, and I just got fired for asking for a Saturday morning off to go to my father’s fucking funeral.”

Don’t Fuckin’ Poke Me!

Did you know how close the appendix is to the right ovary?

Was this operation going to make me infertile? If it didn’t kill me? I never wanted to have kids of my own—who would? They’re so needy, so expensive. Who wants to waste their years taking care of some whiny little human?

But I had two ovaries, and neither would be of any use if I was dead.

Two months ago, my biggest problem was that my right breast was one-and-three-quarters of an inch higher and seven-eighths of an inch narrower than my left. Even wearing a baggy sweatshirt, everyone noticed. Now I was exposing my breasts for anyone who might walk past my corpse before I rotted beyond recognition; I didn’t care anymore, the certainty of death made fear a waste of my last precious moments.

If I was going to die, I wanted my body to be seen, so every single self-absorbed, self-pitying asshole who came into that emergency room would see me bled and dead and wasted. Except no one was going to waste time trying to understand why a dead girl was half-naked at a hospital bus stop, especially a poor dead girl. No one would even slow down to read a sign explaining what happened if it was in flashing ten-foot-high letters.

My Input: So, is the androgynous friend the Dough Boy? Can you see that a slower build—create the feeling of the sweatshirt, create the sweatshirt, create the image of the Dough Boy—might make this more clear? By creating everything at once, can you see how you risk overwhelming the reader with too much too soon?

One slip up—the companion being the Dough Boy—might leave your reader confused. That, and the androgynous Dough Boy now risks being confused with the androgynous character in the surgical instructions. Careful.

At the risk of beating a dead horse, I’m going to ask, “What’s two months to this character?” Do you see how abstract measurements might be robbing your story of insight into the narrator?

Here we’ve arrived at a bus stop. Is this the recycled-plastic bench? Is this where the story began?

Maybe it was the divine protection emanating from my line-drawn androgynous friend, but I could feel my legs and belly losing sensation, the muscles getting weaker and weaker. Time to slice.

Don’t Fuckin’ Poke Me!

Were they just going to let me die?

No. They gave me a government covered Surgi-Self kit.

“How does that work? Is some automated robot going to remove my appendix?” I asked. How was I hearing about this for the first time? Lying-ass politicians and their rich criminal friends never have enough, and they will steal from you until you’re dead, then harvest your corpse.

“No, no, no, that would be far too expensive for government coverage,” said the intern. “A Surgi-Self kit has everything you need to do your own operation, with step-by-step instructions.”

Unbelievable. “You want me to take out my own appendix?” I asked. “Right here?” Why wouldn’t his eyeballs melt with my high-powered stare?

“Actually,” said the intern, he wouldn’t look in my eyes, or anywhere near my face, “the government plan doesn’t cover hospital clean-up costs, so we would much rather you went home first. And if you have trouble with the directions, there is a support line you can call for assistance.”

An automated support line, with a two hour wait time.

My Input: What’s “two hours” to this character?

Don’t Fuckin’ Poke Me!

The Surgi-Self kits were mass-produced for the world; the instructions contained no words, probably to save on translation costs. However, there were these helpful little pictures of all the tools and supplies, containing everything needed for do-it-yourself emergency surgery.

My Input: Again, please be careful about creating objects at the moment they’re needed. If you create the thing, use the thing, forget the thing, you risk the story not building its vertical. Minimalism isn’t about using fewer words, it’s about using fewer elements. Minimalism can be very wordy, but it uses and reuses the same objects and themes—called “horses”—so that the reader keeps recognizing them as they reappear. Those limited elements build the vertical power of the story.

The instructions contained a line-drawn androgynous cartoon person who kept smiling as they first injected anesthesia into their lower spinal cord, used a laser scalpel to cut through skin, fat, and muscle, and finally sliced free and extracted the offending appendix. There was even a helpful “X” over all of the nearby organs you weren’t supposed to cut.

With the antiseptic (pre-packaged for your convenience) I cleaned my hands and belly, donned a pair of disposable gloves (good thing they didn’t break, there weren’t any spares), held the laser scalpel (for cutting and cauterising as needed), and with the vague instructions in my other hand, cut.

“AGH!” The scream was reflexive, it didn’t hurt; I only knew it was working because I could smell my burning flesh. It should have made me want to vomit, but instead I was strangely reminded of how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since before my appendix began trying to murder me. My skin opened and exposed the layer of fat below, then muscle yielded and split with the kiss of the laser scalpel, and my nose filled with the smell of bacon wrapped steak, succulent and sizzling. My fingers attempted to poke around in the new opening, and got stuck.

“Shit-Squirts!” I shouted at my androgynous paper companion. “Do something, please!”

My Input: So is the androgynous paper person not the Dough Boy? Can the narrator—woozy on drugs—get sidetracked into correcting her breasts? Even if the narrator is dissassociating on drugs, can we see the horror of the situation reflected on the faces of passersby?

They shrugged, saying, look at my hands, they’re small and made from paper, I can’t save you. They looked down, then back up, met my eyes, saying, Use your tape measure.

How was that aging metal…oh, I locked the tape measure with a half inch of overhang, reached into my self-inflicted-surgical wound, pulled, and freed my fingers. Grasping the laser scalpel once more, and using the tape measure as an improvised retractor, I cut deeper and wider and pried an opening, and fished.

And there it was. My fingers grasped and brought it to the surface, certain it was my inflamed appendix. I asked my cartoon companion, and they vigorously nodded their approval.

The laser scalpel cut away the offending organ, cauterised the attached blood vessels, and stopped the bleeding.

And the fear started to burn out. It was not my night to die.

The anesthetic was wearing off. It stung as the surgical glue rejoined my flesh, applying antibiotic ointment and the bandage was more intense than the entire surgery. I couldn’t walk, and prepared to spend the night, and maybe more, on the bench outside the hospital. At least it wasn’t supposed to rain for several days.

Bringing the instructions to my face, I gave my androgynous cartoon companion a kiss on the cheek. They deserved at least as much for helping save my life. They winked back at me, appreciative, yet embarrassed by my emotions.

My Input: The fart was also a setup. Can you pay it off?

Also, now the appendix becomes an object that should be retained, morphed, and resolved.

Nothing left but antibiotics, pain pills, and waiting for my body to repair the damage. My real life was full of suffering, but it was chronic suffering, and it lacked any of the purpose, the excitement, or the satisfaction of saving myself from certain death.

Maybe I should go back to school and become a doctor?

Who needs school when you have practical, on the job, authentic life experience?

My Input: Careful, here. You’ve worked so hard to establish foils for the narrator to interact with—the medic, the Dough Boy, the cartoon illustration—does your narrator really have to argue and experience this epiphany alone? Why not revisit one of the foils?

But what a rush it would be doing cut-rate, black-market, under-a-bridge and down-the-back-alley surgeries. I’d be a humanitarian, bringing healthcare to the needy and destitute, just like Jesus, and one day the world will be full of statues praising me for my good deeds.

And if those sculptors don’t get my features perfectly proportioned, I’ll be there with my tape measure, even if I have to shove it up their pee holes.

My Input: How was this story related to the father’s death? One setup seems to be that death. Can you tie all of these threads together with the story of the father’s death?

Please consider how linear the story is. Can you bring it full circle?

As I’ve noted, the story has a thrilling, unrelenting horizontal. Events come at us thick and fast. Now, can you build the vertical? A confession: I struggle with creating a vertical in all of my fiction. As I read Hempel, she creates the on-going circumstances that force the vertical to occur within the reader. The reader is forced to suffer the emotion. With that in mind, I rationalize that “if the character cries, the reader won’t.” In other words, if the character dictates the emotion it doesn’t seem to affect the reader. That’s another reason for not have a character judge and be clever.

My guess is that the death of the off-stage father has set all of this chaos in motion, a plot similar to that of Bright Lights, Big City: A frazzled character careens between drugs and discos, avoiding his brother, stalking his ex-wife, and we finally come to know that his poor choices result from the death of his mother from cancer. All of his antics arise from that unprocessed pain. Thus the novel moves from a fun, wild romp to a tragedy, and finally to a redemptive end. A sort of new beginning, wherein the narrator trades away his sunglasses for a morsel of bread and begins to eat the warm bread. The emotional arc satisfies.

Craig, can you create a similar emotional arc in your world?

So This Is How Workshop Works

In Tom Spanbauer’s workshop, we paid out $20 per week. If we wanted to submit work for review, we brought it and battled—a little. Only so many writers could be heard in three hours, and not everyone wanted to put their work out for comment, even from Tom.

In future Gloves Off posts I’ll choose the link of the first paid subscriber to post, and take a look at their work. If it’s short enough to fit this format I’ll dig in. I’ll always favor a submission from someone who’s posting a link for the first time, or who hasn’t presented work for a while.

As in Tom’s workshop, we learn from the work each other submits. It doesn’t have to be your story for you to learn from it. My many thanks to Craig for submitting the above.