passagesnorth.com

by Tom Rich

Let’s go three in a row on Tom’s Tortured Metaphor Theater. Tonight’s episode: Chess!

I don’t play chess very often, despite enjoying it quite a bit. The problem I have is the same with most games: while my opponent and I are playing by the same set of rules, we’re very seldom playing the same game. For some people, as an example, psychological warfare is part of the fun, a necessary and enjoyable aspect of the contest. For me, though, that sort of thing isn’t fun at all. Same rules, different game.

Recently, though, my friend Matt dragged me into a series of chess games, and it turned out to be a lot of fun. Both us were interested mainly in the strategy and aesthetics of the game, rather than in winning or even really playing all that well. We’ve had a great deal of fun with it, and it’s almost entirely, I think, because we’re playing the same game.

Having spent a lot of time around clever people for whom stories are very important, I sometimes wonder if we’re all playing by the same rules, let alone the same game. Frequently, I would make a criticism in a writing class only to have the author tell me that the element in question was a feature, not a bug. Sometimes they were misguided, but just as often all I could say was “oh. Never mind, then.” The story works, and works well, but only if you approach it from the right angle.

Or let’s pick on my lit crit buddies again. I got to listen to some of their MA theses last year and left impressed, but also moderately confused. Great stuff, but if you read my work in terms of evolving attitudes toward animal rights or post-Freudian psychoanalysis… well, you’d have something interesting, but it wouldn’t be the story I had in mind when I wrote it.

Or, hey, what about readers who don’t spend all their time hanging about college English departments? I’ve showed my dad my stories, and his usual question is “great, but are you gonna finish it?” We’re both reading the same words, but not necessarily the same story. (As an aside, Dad is batting around .750 in terms of “hey, I actually do need to rework the ending.” Don’t tell him; there’ll be no living with the man.)

And you can’t really fault anyone here. Just like with the chess game: for some people, playing the psychological element is genuinely fun, and the game isn’t good without it. For some people, stories aren’t enjoyable without supremely dense symbolism; for others, they’re not enjoyable with it. The diversity of readers and readings is one of the many double-edged swords of story writing: it makes things more fun and more frustrating at the same time.

As for me, I write for a reader looking for the same things I am in a story—moderate weirdness, bittersweet endings, and, preferably, Antarctica—and politely bow to the rest. I know of no other way to do it. May you find a good reader, and happy writing!

Tom Rich is a writer, itinerant academic, and flannel enthusiast. His work has appeared in the Midwest Literary Magazine. Since graduating from Northern Michigan University in 2011, he has gone professional in filling out applications.

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by Tom Rich

I took up fencing in college. It was a great way to stay active, gave me some moderately interesting stories, and allowed me to strike other students with swords without getting in trouble. I also met my girlfriend there, so hey, added bonus. By my senior year, I was president of the club and helping to teach new members the very basic principles of fencing, like how to hold your weapon or where to put your feet. I got to wear a cool black jacket and everything.

One night, several weeks into a fall semester, I was reviewing how to do an advance, which is fencing talk for taking one step toward your opponent. “Ok,” I said, “so you want to make sure you’re in a good en garde stance, keep your upper body still—back straight, foil in line, knees  loose—and move your front foot forward, just a little, then draw your back foot up so you’re right back how you started. Make sure your off hand is out of the way, too. Now just remember all of that while somebody’s trying to poke you with a sword.”

Time after time, I ran into fencers who could do each movement fine in isolation: their advances and retreats were crisp, their bladework precise, their distance maintained. Yet when we finally got them to the point where they could actually fence, it all went out the window. Once they tried to put the pieces together, it all fell apart. Of course, I’m using the third person here when I should be using the first-plural: I can remember struggling with the same thing myself.

In writing, like in fencing, we’re juggling a pile of different skills at once. Describing setting is a different trick than narrating action than illustrating character: they call on different clusters of memories and demand different things of the writer. Yet at the same time, if our stories are to have some sort of coherent wholeness to them, we have to consider everything together all at once. The setting has to reinforce character has to explain action. And that’s assuming my breakdown here is even accurate, which it isn’t. There’s a lot to juggle while we write, and it certainly isn’t easy.

And that’s just within the story. Beyond its confines there are readers to consider, with all of their irritating habits. Too, I imagine most of us consider our own ultimate goals as writers, whether we want to amuse, entertain, instruct, educate, illustrate, demonstrate, obfuscate, or simply delight. It can be a bit overwhelming, and probably helps to explain the number of distractions we cultivate.

Fortunately for my analogy, those new fencers offer us a glimmer of hope. If they stuck around, and if they listened to their wise and witty instructor, eventually most had a match where things clicked: they maintained distance with their opponents, advance-lunged with a beat-disengage, and scored a touch (I wonder how many readers have Wikipedia’s fencing article open at this point). After that it usually fell apart again, and we all kept working and having a good time, reviewing the pieces so they’d be better at each one when everything clicked again.

In writing, like fencing, everything clicks only every so often, and hopefully if you keep at it, and keep working on whichever pieces you can, the clicks come a little more frequently. May you never face anyone with a fast balestra, and happy writing!

Tom Rich is a writer, itinerant academic, and flannel enthusiast. His work has appeared in the Midwest Literary Magazine. Since graduating from Northern Michigan University in 2011, he has gone professional in filling out applications.

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