On Proportion

Hi, friends.

I hope you are well as we stumble our way into November.

Yesterday, I got to thinking about proportions in writing. In what seems like the last days of twitter, someone shared that in the book they were reading the backstory was more compelling than the present narrative. I think we’ve all read books where this is the case. Sometimes it’s more successful than others. The problem this reader surmised was that the present and the past were given equal footing. The past was out of proportion to the present. The past cast a shadow over the present’s potential for conflict, the pacing was thrown off.

This idea of proportion is one that I’m struggling with in  my own manuscript where I’m juggling two storylines: Story A informs Story B. I wonder how much of Story A is absolutely necessary for Story B. Less than what I have. But somewhere along the way Story A has become more compelling to me. I keep adding to it. I’ve asked myself time and again if this is really two stories or just one. I keep coming back to no. And yet, here I am working on Story A, expanding it when I need to cut, laboring under the potential fallacy that I need to make Story A big and messy so that I can trim it down. All the while, Story B languishes.

Story.

I clicked around on a lot of stories for today, absolutely determined to find us a good piece of fiction that would pack a wallop. But nothing really grabbed my attention until I found Luminescence, an essay by Steve Edwards.

Craft tidbits.

Why did this opening pull me in when so many others left me wanting? I think it’s the proximity to the narrator. There is, I think, a lot of cynicism and indifference in contemporary lit. It is probably a reflection of where we are in the world. But with all the possible things to distract us, all those other stories out there literally one click away, readers and writers need to care about what’s happening, even if the narrator doesn’t. We need to be invested or intrigued or curious right out of the gate.

In the backseat on long car rides home from my grandmother’s house in southern Illinois, I cataloged light sources in the dark: gazing at flare towers burning above oil wells, watching the taillights of faster cars shrink to pinpoints, following the sweep of flood lamps up the domes of concrete grain silos. The orange glow of the radio dial tuned to an oldies station bled into the beams of our headlights on the road. Bright kitchen windows in passing houses gave way to fireflies in fields.

Kobayashi Kiyochika Fireflies at Ochanomizu

Edwards could’ve gone in several different directions in this essay. But one thing that stuck with me was the sense of proportion between present and past—the story of his grandmother and his son’s grandmother—and the balance between the internal and the external—bringing in Thoreau and ending with the neighbors and their grandkids.

Too, I love the way he reconciles opposites here between the light and the dark, the known and unknown, the child’s eye and the adult’s knowledge. And of course, it’s a story about writing too. Those headlights become

a steady stream of stories I would never know.

Perhaps its fitting to think about all of these ideas—proportion and time, permanence and impermanence—as the days grow shorter and darker and we’re all looking for meaning in the light. What is there to do?

Nothing to do now but watch and wait and write. There are worlds I want back, and, like my grandmother, all I have are these words.

Sparks.

Start with light. A flashlight. A headlight. A roaring fire. The last firefly.

Or consider a grandmother with a diary. What might she put in it that her family doesn’t know about?

Revision. Consider the proportions of your own work. Is there enough backstory? Too much? Is there enough internal conflict? Too much? Is there enough scene compared to summary? Too much? What is out of balance?

Other tidbits.

Looking for more writerly podcasts in your life? Here’s a good list.

In the Querying Trenches? Some good advice in this thead where an agent tweets what she sees reading 50 queries.

Adroit and Split Lip are both looking for more reviews and interviews. New Delta, Normal School, Ninth Letter, and Washington Square Review have all recently opened. The Rumpus is looking for essays by adoptees through Dec. 31. Conjunctions is open for work on the Ways of Water until Nov. 10. If you’ve got something related to the folklore of motherhood, MER is looking for those until Nov. 15.

Substack has a new chat feature on their app. I’m kind of curious about how it works. So, I’m going to head over there and open up a chat space for us to talk about writing and books. Come tell me what you’re working on and what you’d really like to see in a future newsletter.

Okay friends, that’s it from here. You’ve got an extra hour somewhere in this day. Pencil’s up~

Marsha

We’re officially out of spooky season, but it’s always a little dark over here and I had a flash up as part of Longleaf Review’s 13 Nights of Horror. (It took a while for this one to get picked up. It was getting some close calls but no bites. And then, when I saw calls for spooky stories, a lightbulb went off. Themed submissions can be great that way.)