Hi, friends.
I’ve been thinking of time again. (Always and forever.) Trying to make the most of this time between semesters. Time is at the heart of this novel I’m writing. The shortness of it. The distortion of it. Aware of how much $%#@ time I’ve spent writing it…wondering where that finish line is. It. Is. Time. And yet. There is still work to be done. Pages and scenes to write before we reach that wonderful day. The end.
Recently someone posited that all fiction is really a story about time. (I think it was Matthew Salesses—but can’t find the original tweet and must rely on memory. Which is itself a form of timetravel.) If it’s true of fiction, then time is even more central to memoir and cnf. Any attempt to reframe an event that happened must use the tools of time to do so. So, for our purposes we’ll say all storytelling is a study of time. Why? Because when you strip the adornments of life away, you’re left with the kernel of time.
Every story we write is a slice of time. This one moment in this one character’s life. As we write, we decide where to linger. Where to condense. The spots to leave out. Where to flashback.
Consider the ways time hovers over everything we do. It’s at the root of memory. Of stress. Of repetition. Of future goals. It seems that this time of year we presented with the dichotomy of time more than ever. The year is winding down. At the same, there is the anticipation of holidays. So many things to do to prepare. Thinking of this year’s holiday, yes, but we’ll also remember the ghosts of holidays past. We’re inundated with year-end lists. Compelled to reflect on our own time spent. To measure it. To decide if we had a “good” year or not. We’re invited to set goals for the next year. To think about how we’ll spend our time differently. How to harvest more of it.
This week and next, time will be wonky. Some days will move too quickly, some too slowly. We will forget what day it actually is. Maybe we’ll write. Maybe we won’t. And then the slate will be wiped clean and we’ll begin again. Sort of.
Story.
It occurs to me that James Joyce’s The Dead is a fantastic example of this dichotomy. It is, afterall, a story of December.
Craft tidbits.
For me, the story is of two parts—the Christmas party, which I think goes on a little too long, and the ending, which I think is hands down, the best ending in literature. And in these two parts, Joyce has rendered the dichotomy of the season. The hustling and bustling. The busyness of holiday gatherings. Contrast this with the ending. The seemingly small moments that sneak up on us. The revelations and contemplations.
Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, was literally run off her feet. Hardly had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat than the wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest.
It is the annual dance, given by Miss Kate and Miss Julia who are in the meridian of their lives.
Not once had it fallen flat. For years and years it had gone off in splendid style as long as anyone could remember.
One of the guests is drunk. It’s after ten, the hostesses are anxiously awaiting Gabriel and his wife, who have not yet made an appearance. When they do show, Gabriel is frustrated that his wife has taken so long to get ready.
Already we have so many references to time.
The party goes on, and on, many of the conversations revolve around Irish nationalism, the Protestant / Catholic divide, and political issues of the day. [I am reminded of advice from Charles Baxter, that every story should fold in the concerns of the day as subtext for the way we live.] But Gabriel wishes he were elsewhere. His
warm trembling fingers trapped the cold pane of the window. How cool it must be outside! How pleasant it would be to walk out alone, first along by the river and then through the park! The snow would be lying on the branches of the trees and forming a bright cap on the top of the Wellington Monument. How much more pleasant it would be there than at the supper-table!
Have we not been at this party wishing we were not? Instead, Gabriel must stay and carve the goose and listen to everyone chatter and fuss and sing.
The second part of the story begins when Gabriel and his wife leave the party for their hotel. They’ve left their children with a sitter. Gabriel can’t wait for this stolen time alone with his wife.
She leaned lightly on his arm, as lightly as when she had danced with him a few hours before. He had felt proud and happy then, happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage.
Except.
She’s distracted. Lost in thought. One of the songs they have sung has reminded her of a boy who she was in love with.
He died when he was only seventeen. Isn’t it a terrible thing to die so young as that?
I think he died for me.
It’s at this point she begins to tell the tale of Michael Furey, to reveal this secret love after all of these years of their marriage. It’s no small thing, this revelation. Not only does Gabriel realize he doesn’t actually know his wife at all, BUT he realizes he’s not the love of her life. Oof.
So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life. He watched her while she slept as though he and she had never lived together as man and wife.
How much can we ever really know about another person? It’s a question I pose to my writing students all the time. Even those closest to us may not know our truest selves. The hurt we hide away from them. The secret shame we carry.
Time slows down in these pages. Gabriel feels foolish, thinking about all the things he’d said and done at the party. Thinking about his own mortality. And how he hadn’t loved anyone, not even his wife, as much as Michael Furey had. This ghost of Michael Furey hangs over him now. He’s a wee bit jealous. Why has she revealed this now after all these years?
One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
The revelation. The epiphany. The snow.
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
Sparks.
Write a party scene. Make it loud and crowded. Have someone reveal something they shouldn’t.
Or. Write about a character who believes they’ve caused the death of someone else.
Revision. Think about how you can focus on the external to convey a sense of busyiness. Action after action. And then, how you can slow things down and linger through memory and description.
Other tidbits.
Do you know about Shepherd? Writers and readers can recommend booklists on a certain subject or theme.
Fictive Dream is looking for flash under 850 words to feature in Flash February. Deadline Dec. 31. Jelly Bucket is open for fiction and cnf until Dec. 31, including a special call for non-binary and trans writers. Likewise, Kenyon has a call for pieces exploring gender through Jan. 5. Cease, Cows is open for microfiction up to 500 words through Jan. 21. Tin House will be open for debut novels (including graphic novels) Jan. 7 & 8th. No agent needed.
If you want to ponder more about time in writing, Graywolf has two books in their Art of Series: Joan Silber’s The Art of Time in Fiction (which I have read) and Sven Birkerts’ The Art of Time in Memoir (which I haven’t).
One of you asked me for book recs earlier and my mind drew an absolute blank about what I’d read this year. But I consulted my Goodreads list and here are some recommendations (though most are not new): The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey, The Upstairs House by Julia Fine, White Tears by Hari Kunzru, The Woman Upstairs by Claire Messud, All’s Well by Mona Awad, You Remind me of Me by Dan Chaon, The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters, and I Am, I Am, I Am by Maggie O’Farrell. What did you read this year that you loved? Drop us some recs in the comments.
Okay, Scribblers that’s it for this year. I hope you have a lovely, peaceful few weeks. May you scratch a few words out. I’ll see you in the New Year~
Marsha
It's not fiction, but I recently read and loved "She Said" by Jodi Kantor & Megan Twohey. Great telling of the story behind the NY Times article that helped bring down Weinstein.
Also, yes, The Dead. It's my favorite short story and I always revisit it this time of year.