Short Story Writing

C >> Charles Raymond Barrett >> Short Story Writing

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Every perfect short story will contain a strong argument for good,
through its subtle exposition of the earning of the "wages of sin," but
any attempt to make it a medium for the spreading of ethical and
spiritual truths will entail ridicule upon the writer and failure upon
his work. The only legitimate purpose of the short story is to amuse,
and didacticism in literature is always inartistic. "Novels with a
purpose" may find publishers and readers; but no one, except the author,
cares for "polemic stories--such as set forth the wickedness of Free
Trade or of Protection, the Wrongs of Labor and the Rights of Capital,
the advantages of one sect over another, the beauties of Deism,
Agnosticism, and other unestablished tenets.... Genius will triumph over
most obstacles, and art can sugar-coat an unwelcome pill; but in
nineteen cases out of twenty the story which covers an apology for one
doctrine or an attack upon the other has no more chance than if it were
made up of offensive personalities."[40] "Though ordinary dramatic short
stories do not have a moral which shows itself, still under the surface
in every story is something which corresponds to the moral, and which we
shall call _the soul of the story_."[41] The short story cannot properly
be a mere sermon, such as are so often penned under the caption of "The
Drunkard's Wife," "The Orphan's Prayer," "The Wages of Sin," and other
similar titles. It must teach its moral lesson in its own way--its
artistic presentation of the great contrast between the sort of men who
work deeds of nobility and of shame. If it be saddled with didacticism
or tailed with a moral, it ceases to be a story and becomes an argument;
when it no longer concerns us.

Indirectly, and perhaps unintentionally, the short story is a great
factor for good. The world is weary of the bald sermons of the Puritans,
and of their endeavor to "point a tale" by every ordinary occurrence;
it is rather inclined to a Pharisaical self-righteousness; and needs
to have its sins, and the practical benefits of goodness, cunningly
insinuated; but it can never fail to admire and strive to emulate the
noble deeds of noble men, whether creatures of flesh or phantoms of the
brain. To be sure, many of our best short stories deal with events so
slight and really unimportant that they might be said to have no moral
influence; yet, if they simply provide us with innocent amusement for an
idle hour, their ethical value must not be overlooked; and when they do
involve some great moral question or soul crisis their influence is
invariably on the right side.

The point is that religion is not literature. The mere fact that the
heroine of a story is a poor milk and water creature, full of bald
platitudes and conventional righteousness, does not make that narrative
correct or readable; indeed, it is very apt to make it neither, for the
platitudes will be irrelevant and the righteousness uninteresting. When
this old world of ours becomes really moral we may be content to read
so-called stories in which goody-good characters parade their own
virtues and interlard their ordinary speech with prayers and hymns
and scriptural quotations; but while a tithe of the present sin and
crime exists our fiction will reflect them with the other phases of
our daily life.

Now by this I do not at all mean that religion has no place in
literature. Such a ruling would not only be contrary to the practice
of our best writers, but would also deprive us of a recognized and
important element in human life. The religious influence is one of the
most powerful to which man is subject, and as it plays so great a part
in our lives it must necessarily figure largely in our stories. But it
must be treated there because of the manner in which it influences human
life and action, and not from the ethical standpoint: it must be made
literature and not religious dogmatism. That it can be so treated and
yet retain the full strength of its power for good is best illustrated
in the works of Miss Wilkins. Nearly every one of her stories possesses
a strong element of New England Puritanism, but there is no attempt to
preach or moralize.

The short story must be well proportioned: those parts which are
essential differ materially in their importance, and they must be valued
and handled in accordance with their influence upon the plot. No scene,
however cleverly done, must be allowed to monopolize the space of the
story, except in so far as it is necessary to an understanding of what
follows; and no incident which furthers the plot, however trivial or
ordinary it may seem to you, must be slighted. The preservation of the
balance of the story is not wholly a matter of the number of words
involved: often a page of idle chatter by the characters makes less
impression on the reader than a single terse direct sentence by the
author himself; but in general the practice is to value the various
parts of the story by the word space accorded them. This rule will
not, however, hold good in the case of the climax, which is estimated
both by its position and by the manner in which it is worked up to.

The story proper is really only the preparation for the climax. Most
stories depend for their interest upon the pleasure with which we follow
the principal characters through various trying episodes, and the great
desire which we all experience to know "how it all comes out." It is
this innate sense, which seems to be a phase of curiosity, that affords
the pleasure that the average reader derives from fiction. One seldom
stops to consider how a story is written, but judges it by its power to
keep him absorbed in the fortunes of its hero and heroine. This is the
element of suspense.

However, there finally comes a point when the suspense cannot be longer
continued, and the strained attention of the reader is on the verge of
collapsing into indifference, when the curiosity must be gratified by at
least a partial revelation; and so the element of surprise enters. Too
long a strain on the interest is invariably fatal, and the thing is to
know when to relieve the tension. Just when this relief should occur
depends upon the plot and the length of the story, so that the question
must be settled separately for each particular case. As has already been
said, the plot of a short story should not be involved; yet it may be
permitted some degree of complexity. In such a case it is probable that
there must be some preliminary relief of suspense before the final
relief which the climax offers. However, because of the usual simplicity
of the plot, the length of the story has greater influence in regulating
the relief of the suspense. In a story of 3,000 words or less there is
neither room nor necessity for any preliminary surprise, and the most
effective method is to withhold all hints at the outcome until the
actual climax, as Hawthorne did in "The Ambitious Guest." But when the
story approaches or exceeds 10,000 words it is probable that there must
be some lessening of the tension previous to the climax, as in Henry
James' "The Lesson of the Master." This story, which contains 25,000
words, is divided into six parts, each representing a separate scene in
the progress of the story; and yet, so skillful is James, there is no
hiatus between the parts, and the story as a whole has unity of
impression. At the end of each part the reader has made a definite
advance toward the point of the story, through the preliminary relief of
suspense afforded by that part, as a study of this brief outline will
show:

I

At the end Paul Overt first sees Henry St. George, and the
reader receives a definite picture of the great author, who has
hitherto been only a name.

II

At the end the two meet, and the picture is given life.

III

All through this division St. George reveals to Overt his real
character, so that when the end comes Overt has a less exalted
idea of the master than that which he had cherished.

IV

At the end Marion Fancourt tells Overt of St. George's declared
intention to cease visiting her. This relieves suspense by
making Overt's position toward her more definite, but also
involves matters because of St. George's failure to give any
good reason for his action.

V

At the end Overt, by the advice of St. George, sacrifices in the
cause of true art all his natural desires for love and domestic
joys.

VI

In the first part Overt learns of St. George's engagement to
Miss Fancourt.

At the end St. George tells Overt that he has given up writing
to enjoy those very things which he advised Overt to renounce.

A study of this outline will show you the necessity, in the case of
this story, of these preliminary reliefs of the suspense. It would
have been absurdly impossible to have tried to hold in abeyance until
the climax all these matters; nor does the solving of any of these
minor perplexities at all lessen the interest in the denouement. Each
bit of information comes out at the proper time as a matter of
course, just as it would come to our knowledge if we were observing a
similar drama in real life.

When the outcome of the writer's meanderings is finally revealed, it
should be a veritable surprise--_i. e._, be unexpected. This is a matter
that is rather easily managed, for it is a poor plot that does not
afford at least two settlements--either the heroine marries the hero, or
she marries the villain; and often there is a third possibility, that
she marries neither. If he has provided a proper plot, the author has
but little to do with making the surprise genuine, and that little is
rather negative. He opens the possibility of the hero doing any one of a
number of things, and he may even give rather broad hints, but he should
take care never to give a clue to the outcome of the story, unless he
purposely gives a misleading clue. The most artistic method is to make
these hints progressive and culminative, so that though each one adds to
the knowledge of the reader, it is only when they all culminate in the
climax that the mystery is completely solved.

This preparation for the climax is one of the most delicate tasks
required of the short story writer. The climax must seem the logical
result of events and personal characteristics already recited. If it is
too startling or unexpected it will be a strain on the credulity of the
reader, and will be dubbed "unnatural;" for though fiction allows great
license in the employment of strange people and situations, it demands
that they be used with some regard for plausibility. The ending must
appear inevitable--but its inevitableness must not be apparent until the
end has come. It is only after the story has been read that the reader
should be able to look back through the narrative and pick out the
preparatory touches. They must have influenced him when first he read
them and prepared him for what was to come, but without his being
conscious of their influence.

The novice usually prepares the way for his climax so carefully that he
gives it away long before he should. This he does either by means of
anticipatory side remarks, or by making the outcome of his story so
obvious at the start that he really has no story to tell, and a climax
or surprise is impossible. The first fault is much the easier to
correct: most of the side remarks can be cut out bodily without injury
to the story, and those which are really necessary can be so modified
and slurred over that they will prepare the way for the climax without
revealing it. The other fault is usually radical: it is the result of a
conventional plot treated in the conventional manner. It is beyond help
so far as concerns that particular story, for it requires a new plot
handled in an original manner; but its recurrence can be prevented if
the writer will be more exacting in his selection of plots, and more
individual in his methods. It can usually be detected in the beginning,
as in the case of the last example quoted in Chapter VIII.

In "The Ambitious Guest" the climax is led up to most skillfully by
Hawthorne; indeed, his preparation is so clever that it is not always
easy to trace. Throughout the story there are an air of gloom and a
strange turning to thoughts of death that seem to portend a catastrophe;
and I believe the following passages are intentional notes of warning:

1 ... a cold spot and a dangerous one.... stones would often
rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight.

2 ... the wind came through the Notch and seemed to pause before
their cottage, ... wailing and lamentation.... For a moment it
saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones.

3 ... whose fate was linked with theirs.

8 (Entire.)

9 (Entire.)

10 ... a prophetic sympathy ... the kindred of a common
fate....

12 (Entire.)

14 "... a noble pedestal for a man's statue." (Doubtful.)

16 "... things that are pretty certain never to come to pass."

17 "... when he is a widower."

18 "When I think of your death, Esther, I think of mine too. But
I was wishing we had a good farm ... round the White Mountains,
but not where they could tumble on our heads.... I might die
happy enough in my bed.... A slate gravestone would suit me as
well as a marble one...."

20 "They say it's a sign of something when folk's minds go
a-wandering so."

22 "... go and take a drink out of the basin of the Flume."
(Doubtful; unless regarded as the result of some subtle warning
to fly the spot.)

26 ... though their music and mirth came back drearily from the
heart of the mountain.

28 ... a light cloud passed over the daughter's spirit....

32 ... it might blossom in Paradise, since it could not be
matured on earth ... the wind through the Notch took a
deeper and drearier sound.... There was a wail along the
road as if a funeral were passing.

36 (Entire.)

38 (Entire.)

39 (Entire.)

A novice writing the same story would hardly have refrained from
introducing some very bald hints concerning the fate of the ambitious
stranger; for the novice has a mistaken idea that wordy and flowery
exclamations make sad events all the sadder, forgetting that silent
grief is the keenest. Thus the novice would have interlarded his
narrative with such exclamations as:

¶ 12.

Ah! could the unfortunate stranger but have guessed the
culmination of his bright dreams, how would he have bewailed
his fate!

¶ 19.

Unhappy youth! _his_ grave was to be unmarked, his very death
in doubt!

¶ 28.

Poor girl! had she a premonition of her awful death?

Such interpolations are very exasperating to the reader, for he much
prefers to learn for himself the outcome of the tale; and they also
greatly offend against the rhetorical correctness of the story, for
they are always utterly irrelevant and obstructive.

The only stories which may properly anticipate their own denouements are
what might be called "stories of premonition," in which the interest
depends upon comparing actual events to the prophecy of dreams or some
other mystical agency. In such tales the real interest is usually in the
weirdness of the whole affair--though, to be sure, they do not always
turn out as they are expected to. For, after all, this introduction of
surprise into fiction is simply an imitation of nature, and "it is the
unexpected that always happens."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 37: See Chapter X.]

[Footnote 38: See Chapter VIII for the best methods of introducing
foundation facts.]

[Footnote 39: "The Art of Fiction." A lecture by Gilbert Parker. _The
Critic._ Dec., '98.]

[Footnote 40: "Magazine Fiction and How Not to Write It," by Frederick
M. Bird. _Lippincott's._ Nov., '94.]

[Footnote 41: "How to Write Fiction." Published anonymously by Bellaires
& Co., London. Part I, Chapter V.]

X

CLIMAX AND CONCLUSION

If the overworked editor, hastily skimming the heap of MSS. before
him, comes upon one which promises well in the opening paragraphs, he
will turn to its conclusion, to learn how well the author has kept
his promise; and if he finds there equal evidence of a good story, he
will put the MS. by for more careful reading and possible purchase.
Experience has taught him that the end of a story is second only to
the beginning as a practical test of the narrative; and therefore to
the author as well the conclusion is of extreme importance.

The end of a short story comprises the climax and the conclusion. The
climax is the chief surprise, the relief of the suspense, or the
greatest relief, if there is more than one; it is the apex of
interest and emotion; it is the point of the story; it is really
_the_ story. The conclusion is the solving of all problems, the
termination of the narrative itself, and the artistic severing of
all relations between narrator and reader.

The climax, in spite of its importance, is but a small part of the
story, so far as mere words are concerned. In a properly constructed
narrative its influence is felt throughout the whole story, which, as
already stated, is but one long preparation for it. But in itself the
climax is usually confined to a single paragraph of ordinary length; and
the climax proper, the real point of the story, is usually conveyed in a
half dozen words. For the climax, and particularly the climax proper, is
the story concentrated in a single phrase. It must have been prepared
for carefully and worked up to at some length; but when it does come it
must be expressed so directly and so forcefully that it will make the
reader jump mentally, if not physically. It is the desire to produce
this startling effect that leads some writers to endeavor to gain
artificial force by printing their climax proper in italics, or even in
capitals. In "The Ambitious Guest" we have an unusually strong and
perfect climax in ¶ 40, 41:

... a sound abroad in the night, rising like the roar of a
blast, had grown broad, deep and terrible before the fated group
were conscious of it. The house and all within it trembled; the
foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful
sound was the peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged
one wild glance and remained an instant pale, affrighted,
without utterance or power to move. Then the same shriek burst
simultaneously from all their lips:

"The slide! The slide!"

while the climax proper--the climax of the climax--occurs in the four
words which compose ¶ 41.

"The slide! The slide!"

It is hardly necessary to say that the climax should be very near the
end of the story, for even those stories which attempt to begin in
the middle and go both ways at once place the climax properly. But
there is a danger that the climax will come too soon. After they have
reached what is properly a central point in their story, amateurs
often become lazy or in too great a hurry, and rush the latter part
of the narrative through unceremoniously. In the first part they may
have been inclined to go into needless detail; but when once they
come in sight of the finish, they forget everything except that their
task is nearly ended; they plunge ahead regardless, treat important
matters most superficially, neglect those skillful little touches
which go to make a story natural and literary, and reach the end to
find that they have skeletonized an important part of the narrative.
In such a case the reader is very apt to come upon the climax
unexpectedly, and so to find it forced and illogical; whereas if
the author had preserved the proportions of his narrative, and led
up to his climax properly, it would have been accounted strong and
inevitable.

The climax of a story must be a genuine climax--that is, it must be
the culmination of the interest of the story, and it must definitely
end and eliminate the element of suspense. The climax, or its immediate
consequences, must decide the destinies of all your characters, and the
fate of all their schemes. If the heroine is hesitating between her two
lovers she must decide in the climax or on account of it; if the hero is
in a position of great danger he must be killed or saved. The revelation
need not be couched in the bald phrase, "And so John married Kate;" but
it may be hinted at or suggested in the most subtle manner; but settled
in some way it must be. Stockton did otherwise in "The Lady, or the
Tiger?" but he sought for humorous effect, and all things are fair in
the funny story. Stories which are meant to be serious, but which leave
the reader still puzzling over the possibilities of the plot, are likely
to get their author into serious difficulties with the reading public,
even if the editors can be persuaded to overlook his idiosyncracies.

The amateur is prone to the conviction, deduced, I fear, from the
practice of the cheap melodrama and the cheaper novel, that "climax"
and "tragedy" are synonymous terms, and that he is violating sacred
traditions unless he ends his tale with a violent death. But it is by no
means necessary that the climax of a short story should be or should
contain a catastrophe or a tragedy. Its nature depends entirely upon the
character of the tale in which it appears, and it may be just as strong
and just as thrilling if it consists only of the "Yes" with which the
heroine answers the hero's wooing. Indeed, it not infrequently happens
that the tragedy or the catastrophe which appears in the climax is only
an accessory to the real climax, a cause or a result of it. The climax
of "The Ambitious Guest" is a tragedy; but the climax of Irving's "The
Legend of Sleepy Hollow," though certainly a catastrophe, is anything
but tragic, if read in the ironic spirit in which it was written:

Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang
upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he
gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to
see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash
of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his
stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him.
Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late.
It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash; he was
tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed,
and the goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind.

While in Poe's "The Black Cat," one tragedy is a preliminary of the
climax and another is in a manner the result of it; but the real climax
is the discovery of the cat:

... a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily.
The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood
erect before the eyes of the spectators. On its head, with red
extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast
whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing
voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster
up within the tomb!

Nor does the mere introduction of a tragedy make a climax, for though
the following paragraphs contain two tragedies, there is no climactic
force:

Joseph, who had been sitting with his head on his knees, and
wondering what in the world was going to happen, raised his
head, and exclaimed, on seeing his brother, "You have come after
me--" At this instant some one struck him on the head with a
pistol, which brought him to the floor. But Harry, hearing the
familiar voice, and seeing the man also, knew too well who it
was. He shouted at the top of his voice, "Stop! Wait! This thing
must be investigated!" Telling them who the prisoner was, and
pleading with them, he was finally able to disperse the mob,
though against their own will.

The next morning, when Mamie was brought to consciousness again,
she begged that he should not be punished.

On learning the truth he was immediately released, but the
bitter grief, mingled with so much excitement, was more than he
could endure. He died that night at ten.

The bitterness occasioned by this catastrophe remained in the
bosom of Mamie, and she too died of a broken heart.

The plot of a certain type of story requires subordinate and preliminary
climaxes to relieve the tension or advance the action, as already
stated.[42] Such periods, when given genuine climactic force, are
antagonistic to the spirit of the short story, in that they violate the
unity, and a story containing them is usually faulty otherwise; but such
stories have been written by good writers and so must be recognized
here. The preliminary climaxes must be sufficiently few, sufficiently
subordinate and sufficiently distant not to detract from the force of
the chief climax. The main point is to see that one of the preliminary
climaxes is not really _the_ climax, for inexperienced writers sometimes
allow their stories to run on longer than they should; or they confuse
what is merely an incident with what should be made the main crisis. In
"The Ambitious Guest" there is only one climax; but in Hawthorne's "Mr.
Higginbotham's Catastrophe" I find no less than five critical points,
which I here subpend with the numbers of the paragraphs in which they
occur:

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