Marisa Silver on Short Fiction

8/9/2019 Marisa Silver on Short Fiction

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Marisa Silver on the Short Story

Synecdoche in Short Fiction

Havent you heard the short story collection is dead? And yet

you keep turning them out (with distinction, I might add).

What keeps bringing you back for more?

Yeah, the short story and its multiple deaths. All those

pronouncements about things being over - the hula hoop, say,

or having non-mediated conversations with actual human

beings - they're usually wrong. Every time I read a great short

story - a William Trevor, a Deborah Eisenberg - I'm brought

back to why I wanted to write in the first place. The short

story, to me, carries the essence of what is magical about

writing: that a full human being can be conjured in a sentence,

that an emotional state can be suggested with two or three

behavioral gestures, that something ineffable but essential

about life can be conveyed in a mere twenty. Sometimes you

stand in front of a painting at a museum and the image just

hits you. It transports you. With one gaze, an entire narrative

opens up and you are enlarged. That's what a great short story

can do.

The Negative Space in Fiction

If you have to write a lot more is the most obvious

difference, what would you say is the least obvious and most

interesting difference between writing a short story and

writing a novel?
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The least obvious difference between writing short stories and

writing novels is that what you decide not to say is as

important as what you decide to say. A story should suggest

all that you decided not to tell within its pages. It shouldsuggest relationships and history that you don't go into, rooms

that you don't describe. The negative space of a story is half

the story you're writing.

The Antagonist's Truth

This weekend I basked, once again, in Jean Renoir's

sensational film, "The Rules of the Game." If you've seen it, I

won't bore you with a re-cap. If you haven't seen it, rent it

immediately. It is one of the all time great films - an elegant,

subtly subversive film that is both hilarious and utterly

affecting. Renoir himself plays a major role, a sort of

Falstaffian character named Octave, and he utters what isprobably the films most famous line:

"The most awful thing about life is this: everybody has their

reasons."

I heard that and, after suppressing my schoolmarm desire to

correct the grammar, thought about a question I am often

asked: how do I feel about my characters when they do

terrible things or make awful decision? And the truth is,

although I know that many characters I've written have made

bad decisions, I have never thought of any of them as being

"bad" people. As a matter of fact, except for a sociopath, who

one could argue is not fully in control of his moral compass,

I'm not even sure I really know what a "bad person" is in any
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objective sense. I think the key to writing real, credible, and

palpable characters is to understand exactly what Renoir

means with this line of dialogue - that everyone, even those

who do awful things to others, acts on a set of needs anddesires that are subjectively authentic. We want what we want

because we are driven by some genuine emotion, and even if

we act cruelly, that compelling emotion does not become any

less genuine.

So, what ends up being true, all the time, (and I think this is

one of the reasons Renoir gives himself, the film's director,that very authorial piece of dialogue,) is that, in terms of

character, a writer's job is twofold: first, he or she has to do

the very hard work of feeling a character deeply, of

understanding what happiness or hurt drives that character, so

that it becomes impossible to lay superficial judgment on any

behavior. A writer has to get to a point where it never occurs

to him or her that what the character is doing is "bad" or"good" only that it is necessary and inevitable and it is the

only thing the character can do. And then the second part of

the writer's job is to figure out how to convey that character to

a reader.

Character: Part Two

How is it that fictional characters made of words typed on

paper become real in a reader's mind? How does that alchemy

happen? I'm always surprised each time it happens for me -

when I realize that I have fully accepted a character I'm

reading, that I've made that little leap of faith that allows me

not to question the artifice that is fiction but to surrender to
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the invention. I know that fiction is not "real", that the

characters I'm reading don't exist. But they have become real

for me, and so are as real as my dreams are, as real as my

thoughts.

It's hard for me to put into words how I work to convey

character because, as I'm sure is true for many writers, the

process of working is such a subconscious and associative

one. Things just sort of "happen." Characters feel like they

arrive on the page. But they don't simply arrive, they are

arrived at, even if the journey towards them happensunconsciously, while you're asleep or driving in your car or

thinking about a grocery list. I think about creating character

much the same way I think about getting to know a person. At

first, I might seize on some superficial information to try to

get a grasp on who a person is - the way he wears his hair, the

way she smokes her cigarette. I listen to speech, I listen for

accents, I look a the lines on someone's face and try to guessat his age. There's a scar? I think, what's that about? I'm just

grasping for things to hold on to as I begin to formulate an

idea of who this new person is. Then, if I get to know the

person better, I also get more information - personal history,

emotional responses to given situations. I experience how that

person behaves, how they respond in certain situations. And

the more information I get, the more I reformulate my

understanding of who this person might be.

It's the same with a character in a story. I start off with a tiny

shred of a thing about a character - the texture of her hair, the

way she walks across a street, a sense in my mind of how her

voice might sound. Then I start writing scenes and I give her

words to say. Sometimes the words feel wrong to me and I


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know that this is not what she would say and so I'm beginning

to eliminate possible ways she might be. And when I give her

words that feel right, I get a sense of her attitude, of what she

wants to reveal about herself, what she's hiding, what sheknows and doesn't know about the world.

It's an old trope that action is character. In some ways I agree

with this, in that one of the sharpest ways to convey who a

person is is to see how they respond to a situation. So, I throw

action in the way of my character. I create problems for her

that she has to work her way out of. What's maybe not trueabout the trope is that there is always the possibility that a

person is acting uncharacteristically, that something has

provoked her to behave in a way that is unnatural to her. And

then when this is explored, character is revealed in yet another

way.

The thing I always try to remind myself of is that people don'treally know themselves perfectly, and that much of how we

perceive of our own characters has to do with a certain

mythology that we have created about ourselves and where

we stand in the world. So I think about this as I construct a

character, that there is no perfect "truth", no absolute

definition of a person. And I remember that a person is only

as she is perceived by another, and so, once again, there is a

level of ambiguity.

Once I'm besetting my character with all sorts of problems

and situations she has to behave in, I begin to focus on the

tiny things. The way she moves her hands around a cup, the

way she might feel about the rain, the way her skin might feel

when she's standing next to another person. All these tiny


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details, the real existential experiences of her every moment,

are, I think what finally drives a character home for a reader.

The idea is to be as specific as possible, to realize that one

person's taste of salt differs from another, that it mightengender specific associations that tell us about who she is.

Every single detail I use gives me a chance to create

resonance, to engage with a character's history, with her

emotional state, with her expectations. So I choose the

particular details to focus on that will convey the most, that

will round her out and make her flesh.

How is it that fictional characters made of words typed on paper become real in a reader's mind? How

does that alchemy happen? I'm always surprised each time it happens for me - when I realize that I y

accepted a character I'm reading, that I've made that little leap of faith that allows me not to question

the artifice that is fiction but to surrender to the invention. I know that fiction is not "real", that the cters

I'm reading don't exist. But they have become real for me, and so are as real as my dreams are, as

real as my thoughts.

How is it that fictional characters made of words typed on paper become real in a reader's mind? How

does that alchemy happen? I'm always surprised each time it happens for me - when I realize that I

have fully accepted a character I'm reading, that I've made that little leap of faith that allows me not to

question the artifice that is fiction but to surrender to the invention. I know that fiction is not "real", that

the characters I'm reading don't exist. But they have become real for me, and so are as real as my

dreams are, as real as my thoughts.

It's hard for me to put into words how I work to convey character because, as I'm sure is true for many

writers, the process of working is such a subconscious and associative one. Things just sort of

"happen." Characters feel like they arrive on the page. But they don't simply arrive, they are arrived at,

even if the journey towards them happens unconsciously, while you're asleep or driving in your car or

thinking about a grocery list. I think about creating character much the same way I think about getting

to know a person. At first, I might seize on some superficial information to try to get a grasp on who a

person is - the way he wears his hair, the way she smokes her cigarette. I listen to speech, I listen for

accents, I look a the lines on someone's face and try to guess at his age. There's a scar? I think,

what's that about? I'm just grasping for things to hold on to as I begin to formulate an idea of who this


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new person is. Then, if I get to know the person better, I also get more information - personal history,

emotional responses to given situations. I experience how that person behaves, how they respond in

certain situations. And the more information I get, the more I reformulate my understanding of who

this person might be.

It's the same with a character in a story. I start off with a tiny shred of a thing about a character - the

texture of her hair, the way she walks across a street, a sense in my mind of how her voice might

sound. Then I start writing scenes and I give her words to say. Sometimes the words feel wrong to me

and I know that this is not what she would say and so I'm beginning to eliminate possible ways she

might be. And when I give her words that feel right, I get a sense of her attitude, of what she wants to

reveal about herself, what she's hiding, what she knows and doesn't know about the world.

It's an old trope that action is character. In some ways I agree with this, in that one of the sharpest

ways to convey who a person is is to see how they respond to a situation. So, I throw action in the

way of my character. I create problems for her that she has to work her way out of. What's maybe not

true about the trope is that there is always the possibility that a person is acting uncharacteristically,

that something has provoked her to behave in a way that is unnatural to her. And then when this is

explored, character is revealed in yet another way.

The thing I always try to remind myself of is that people don't really know themselves perfectly, and

that much of how we perceive of our own characters has to do with a certain mythology that we have

created about ourselves and where we stand in the world. So I think about this as I construct a

character, that there is no perfect "truth", no absolute definition of a person. And I remember that a

person is only as she is perceived by another, and so, once again, there is a level of ambiguity.

Once I'm besetting my character with all sorts of problems and situations she has to behave in, I

begin to focus on the tiny things. The way she moves her hands around a cup, the way she might feel

about the rain, the way her skin might feel when she's standing next to another person. All these tiny

details, the real existential experiences of her every moment, are, I think what finally drives a

character home for a reader. The idea is to be as specific as possible, to realize that one person's

taste of salt differs from another, that it might engender specific associations that tell us about who

she is. Every single detail I use gives me a chance to create resonance, to engage with a character's

history, with her emotional state, with her expectations. So I choose the particular details to focus on

that will convey the most, that will round her out and make her flesh.

It's hard for me to put into words how I work to convey character because, as I'm sure is true for many

writers, the process of working is such a subconscious and associative one. Things just sort of


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"happen." Characters feel like they arrive on the page. But they don't simply arrive, they are arrived at,

even if the journey towards them happens unconsciously, while you're asleep or driving in your car or

thinking about a grocery list. I think about creating character much the same way I think about getting

to know a person. At first, I might seize on some superficial information to try to get a grasp on who a

person is - the way he wears his ha

ir, the way she smokes her cigarette. I listen to speech, I listen for accents, I look a the lines on

someone's face and try to guess at his age. There's a scar? I think, what's that about? I'm just

grasping for things to hold on to as I begin to formulate an idea of who this new person is. Then, if I

get to know the person better, I also get more information - personal history, emotional responses to

given situations. I experience how that person behaves, how they respond in certain situations. And

the more information I get, the more I reformulate my understanding of who this person might be.

It's the same with a character in a story. I start off with a tiny shred of a thing about a character - the

texture of her hair, the way she walks across a street, a sense in my mind of how her voice might

sound. Then I start writing scenes and I give her words to say. Sometimes the words feel wrong to me

and I know that this is not what she would say and so I'm beginning to eliminate possible ways she

might be. And when I give her words that feel right, I get a sense of her attitude, of what she wants to

reveal about herself, what she's hiding, what she knows and doesn't know about the world.

It's an old trope that action is character. In some ways I agree with this, in that one of the sharpest

ways to convey who a person is is to see how they respond to a situation. So, I throw action in the

way of my character. I create problems for her that she has to work her way out of. What's maybe not

true about the trope is that there is always the possibility that a person is acting uncharacteristically,

that something has provoked her to behave in a way that is unnatural to her. And then when this is

explored, character is revealed in yet another way.

The thing I always try to remind myself of is that people don't really know themselves perfectly, and

that much of how we perceive of our own characters has to do with a certain mythology that we have

created about ourselves and where we stand in the world. So I think about this as I construct a

character, that there is no perfect "truth", no absolute definition of a person. And I remember that a

person is only as she is perceived by another, and so, once again, there is a level of ambiguity.

Once I'm besetting my character with all sorts of problems and situations she has to behave in, I

begin to focus on the tiny things. The way she moves her hands around a cup, the way she might feel

about the rain, the way her skin might feel when she's standing next to another person. All these tiny

details, the real existential experiences of her every moment, are, I think what finally drives a


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character home for a reader. The idea is to be as specific as possible, to realize that one person's

taste of salt differs from another, that it might engender specific associations that tell us about who

she is. Every single detail I use gives me a chance to create resonance, to engage with a character's

history, with her emotional state, with her expectations. So I choose the particular details to focus on

that will convey the most, that will round her out and make her flesh.

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Marisa Silver on Short Fiction