SHORT STORY WRITING: WE’RE ALL IN THE CONSPIRACY TOGETHER

“I’m still writing about what an author needs to do before he gets going on a short story,” I say.

Nige raises his eyebrows, apparently not surprised to hear this.

We’re in the Tavern, even though neither of us really approves of its new look. The old look was actually a new made to look old look but at least it had tatty appeal. Now it’s a new made to look old but not quite as old as before and probably erring on the side of new because that should bring in more of ‘the kids’ look. Nige is also suspicious of the uniform white shirts the bar staff have to wear. Before, they also had a uniform but it was one that wasn’t meant to look like one: kind of slightly sloppy cool. After a few pints, you could pretend they were ordinary folk, just like us punters.

“When Cristiano Ronaldo picks up the ball on the half way line,” he says, “what do you think he’s got in mind?”

“Running like fury through the other team’s defence and banging it into the back of the net?”

He smiles; we both know what he’s getting at.

We’re leaning against the counter and Nige has his end of night three pints of lager before him. Well, two now, since he’s just finished the last half of the first while I’m pondering what to say next.

“But, come on,” I say, “scoring goals in football is a very obvious objective.”

“Tell that to Charlton,” he says. “Their forwards need a satnav to get anywhere near the posts this season.”

“But you don’t necessarily know where a story’s going to end when you start it.”

“Bit like going on a date with someone new, then,” he says.

“Well, yeah; I guess so. You wouldn’t want to presume it’s going to end in the bedroom, even if that’s what you wanted.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “But if you don’t presume, Tel, you definitely won’t end up anywhere interesting. Because what you presume is where all the power is, mate. And it’s power – positivity and charm, in this case – what will lead to the mattress of infinite possibility.”

“Again, that’s just another rather obvious kind of score, though, isn’t it?” I say. “Anyone reading you at the start of the night, Nige, is going to see mattresses bouncing in your irises. But a reader shouldn’t find it so easy to guess the ending.”

He reaches for pint number two and downs half of it. He’s frowning at the same time, however, so I know he won’t have fully appreciated the taste.

“You’re missing the point,” he says. “I know you don’t want to telegraph the ending of your story before it’s even got going. But what I’m saying is that the writer needs to have his head and balls fully charged up with passion when he leaps over the half way line, or through the bedroom door, depending on the analogy of your choice.”

I think I know what he means and order two more pints.

“Okay,” I say, “so a writer needs be full of passion, drive, mesmerising ball skills and a clear idea of where the net is, but kind of disguise it from the reader. Because unlike with footy where the ending is obvious, with a short story, as a reader you want to be deliberately misled and distracted before the, um, spermatozoa lands.”

“Yeah, it’d be like Ronaldo not running straight for the goal; instead he sits on the ball and has a chat with his marker about Nietzsche’s concept of the superman translated into the modern footy game.”

“But Ronaldo will only get away with that kind of diversion if he goes on to put the ball in the net.”

He swallows another half a pint and says, “So, what’s stopping you running for the net, Tel?”

“Nothing, really. I mean, I write plenty of stories. I just feel that every story should have a point; not just be about some character experiencing conflict and over-coming it. Or not.”

“But didn’t some bloke once say there’s nothing new; that every bleedin’ story’s been told?”

And with that, I realise I don’t really know what I’m trying to say. Perhaps Nige sees my problem because he appears to change the subject now.

“As it happens, ” he says, “I’m quite fond of conspiracy theories, but here’s the thing: what most of us theorists don’t like to admit is that the objects of our theories – the establishment, the royals, the government, Simon Cowell – are just as trapped in the conspiracy as we are.”

He’s grinning at me knowingly, so I say, “Are you saying that the writer and the reader are trapped together in the limitations of the story form?”

“Yeah. Because they kind of dance around each other like a couple of courting mallards: one of them is all shiny feathers, showing off, and the other’s kind of brown and dull-looking, but they’re both the same species. Which is how eggs get produced, of course, but we aren’t talking plain old, always the same, eggs here, Tel, are we?”

“We aren’t?”

“What I’m saying is: the writer has to be bigger than the story.”

I don’t reply because my neck is tingling with the truth of this statement, even if I might not like what it portends.

“You’re going to have to elaborate on that,” I say.

But the bell for drinking up has just sounded and Nige has more pressing matters to deal with.

Still, there’s always tomorrow.

 


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