When Stories Talk Back: How Flash Helps Writers Revise

Sometimes a story tells you what it’s about; you just have to be listening.

 

A few weeks ago, I wrote a piece of flash fiction. As I advise my students, I let the piece sit before revising it. Also, as I advise people, I went to a different venue to reread the work before tinkering with it. I suggest this because it’s surprising how much you’ll see in your writing when you read it somewhere else. It’s also surprising, especially in flash, how changing a word can change the story.

 

Before I changed any words, I opened a new Word document. With a hardcopy of the original story on the table, I retyped each word into the blank document, thinking as I wrote how the meaning of the piece might change if I selected a different word instead of what I had. In taking each word slowly and making the revision mentally before making it on the page, I could hear internally how the piece changed along with the word change. This worked especially well with flash because of the compact nature of the genre.

 

Word by word, or bird by bird, I revised the piece. Although it was one of those stories that was largely intact when I first conceptualized it, taking it a word at a time and letting the story tell itself made a tighter, more precise piece than I started with. Even more important, the meaning was richer for the careful word choices.

 

If you’re interested in honing your precision with prose, take this lesson to heart, learn your story by ear and practice your art with flash.

A Compelling Case: Lessons From Law & Order

Law and Order has much to teach writers about dialogue, raising the stakes in a story and plot twists. Recently, four words grabbed my attention — the importance of a compelling case.

Compelling scenes draw readers

As the district attorney, the order side of the process, lamented the lack of evidence from the law side, I saw the parallel to writing. It's not necessary to convince readers of a concept or theme, merely to make a compelling case for the plausibility of the world and the people the writer created.

Al though the key word is "compelling," there's a world of difference between convincingly presenting a story and grabbing readers by the collar.

Consider these examples:

"If I've told you once," he said, waving his hands, "I've told you a thousand times — you must come with me. I'm telling you, it's life or death we're talking."

"I've asked before," he said, "I know, but I've got to ask again — come with me. Don't make me beg."

Notice that the word "you" is used four times in some form in the first example, not once in second. Which is more compelling?

Exercise: For inspiration, visit your local café, and write a scene that's over the top, dramatic. Put it aside for a week, and work on other stories, then return, do a save-as and pare the scene to its essentials. Which is more compelling?

Advanced Exercise: To take the edited scene to the next level, consolidate long phrases, replace ambiguous words with precise ones, and revise every cliché. This can be a first step to solid flash fiction. If you prefer the first example above, consider this:

"I've told you a thousand times — you must come. It's life and death we're talking."

Resources: For more on writing compelling scenes, visit WritingWorld.com and "Components of a Good Opening Scene."

Charles Rafferty: Poetic Journey From Craft to Art

Charles Rafferty, poet

Award-winning poet Charles Rafferty has a new chapbook entitled Appetites with Clemson University Press. Head of the low-residency Master of Fine Arts program at Albertus Magnus College, and a consummate professional, Charles speaks candidly of diligence in the revision process and of patience — two nearly lost qualities, but essential for the journey from craft to art.

Appetites, poetry

AA: What was the inspiration for this book of poems?

CR: I don't think there was one particular inspiration. Some of the poems in this collection are more than 10 years old; others were written in the past year or so. I've been steadily working on them. I'm not someone who puts much stock in inspiration anyway. Yes, there are those moments when we're "hot," but most of the work in finishing a poem (at least for me) comes with revision — and the willingness to let poems sit around until the mistakes float to the surface. One of the oldest, "The Lesson of Less Light," was started from an "actual moment" back in 1988 or 1989. I generally don't write autobiographical poems, at least not explicitly, but this one did start that way. I couldn't get it to work though and put it aside until about 2003, at which time I started working on a cycle of "state poems" — one poem for every state in the country. This was my Oklahoma poem. Ultimately, though, that collection proved to be a bad idea, but I was able to salvage this poem from it.


AA: How did you select which poems to use?

CR: I basically tried to have each of the poems touch on the notion of appetite or desire. And many of these poems are persona poems or dramatic monologues. So they seemed to cohere together fairly well. It was really just a matter of me deciding that "Appetites" was a good title, and then spreading all of my poems on the basement floor. Then I put a check mark on anything that seemed to talk about appetite or desire. It was really just a matter of sifting.

AA: What was the biggest obstacle to completing the work?

CR: Having a life, I suppose.:-) It's just difficult to find time to write when I have a busy job and family life. I make a point of writing every day though — even if it's just for small amount of time. If I can finish a draft of something every day, I feel like I've done good. One of these poems — "The Man Explains His Sourvenirs" — started back in 1989 when I found an actual pig's tooth in the woods. It didn't exist as more than a handful of lines, though, none of which are still in the poem. Then, about five years ago, I was working on a cycle of poems based on the White Album by the Beatles. I resurrected this poem as the one that would make people think of Harrison's song "Piggies." Obviously, they have little in common, and the poem sequence was ultimately a terrible idea. But I got a few good poems out of it.

AA: What would you say is different about this compilation, compared with your past work?

CR: I'm struck by the similarities to my other work, rather than to the differences. My first book, The Man on the Tower, employed many similar techniques — persona poems, dramatic monologues, poems with speakers who are obviously flawed. The difference in this book, I suppose, is that the desire that drives them is more mature, and maybe more desperate.

Charles Rafferty heads the low-residency Master of Fine Arts program at Albertus Magnus College. He has authored four collections of poetry: The Man on the Tower (winner of the Arkansas Poetry Award), Where the Glories of April Lead, During the Beauty Shortage and A Less Fabulous Infinity. His poems have appeared in The Southern Review, TriQuarterly, Quarterly West, Poetry East, Connecticut Review, Massachusetts Review, and DoubleTake. His work also appeared in several anthologies, including Carnegie Mellon University Press: American Poetry: The Next Generation. He received the Robinson Jeffers Tor House Prize for Poetry, the Brodine/Brodinsky Poetry Prize, a grant from the Connecticut Commission on the Arts, and a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. His "The Man Explains His Souvenirs," appeared in The New Yorker.