life is very blurry, very bright, very fast, very beautiful. my name is Stuart, and I am eight years old. in a few years, this memory will
be nothing but an old faded videotape reel playing at superfast speeds, the
colours frantic and bright and quick, the motions blurry, the faces indistinct, but for now it’s my unconscious, speaking directly to you. like a phantom from the blue
beyond.
I am on
a ride at a funfair. it has just started moving, slowly at first, then faster, up and down, up and down, in big sweeps, I am thrown lightly from the bucket of
my seat, the lights in the centre are big and bright, bulbs, like studs
running up a trunk, the ride swings in and out, there are three arms, like it’s
a big insect that’s trapped littler ones in its claws and is spinning them up
in its silk, it’s quick, and my dad is next to me, breathless now, full of wind, I try to anchor myself down,
holding on so tightly that my knuckles glow like the white-hot embers of old
coals, my daddy does the same, only he seems less frightened, I hope he doesn't crush me. but I seem to be being thrown violently, everything is a-blur, blurred into one like God has shaken my small universe,
blurred like a snow globe, blurred like a winter scene stitched white in snow, blurred like a smack to the head, blurred like the vision of the dead.
I am
feeling sick now, I am upside down, I think, but I can’t be, I am one of the
lights, in the lights, a bright light flickering like a yellow warning, red
danger, tubes of light, angels streaming in neon, fluorescent blurs rubbing
across my eyes and entering down into my queasy core, the night is breaking through the light, black and stars and red and yellow and white, the night music, the sounds of joy and laughter, all merging into the centre of these sweeping arms, into me, a small bright point in the centre of my head about to break open in a shower of colour.
the
ride slows down, slower, slower, then it stops. I slowly get out. I wobble, I am not
sick, I do not fall or trip. my daddy takes me to the candyfloss stall because
I ask him, puts one in my hand, it’s spun like an insect weaving a feathery
home, like a bird’s feathery dome, it sticks to my lips and nose, gets caught
in the back of my throat, congeals to a sticky singularity.
life is
very blurry, very bright, very fast, very beautiful. it fills me up like a
balloon, full of helium, about to burst out of my skin. it dims with age: the
blur clears to a seedy numbness, so you have to speed up life around you to counter it. and
then you stop suddenly, the world careening around you slowly – in place,
perfect – and you smile before you’re sucked back into the vortex of all those
colours and the movement and the pain and the heal.
my name
is Stuart, and I am eight years old. make a wish, wish me on my way, but make it bold, send me out to light of day.
I think you need to re-edit it this so it's more linguistically accurate to an eight year old child. I also get the feeling that this story lacks a central point - I think it's central description of the ride needs to be strengthened, highlighted and made more nightmarish for it to have an effect. I think then that would give the story a better overall feel. Like that story from the pack of the boy jumping off the diving board being an extended metaphor about diving into adult life, I think a similar thing need to be made here, otherwise as an event there isn't something to it. There isn't a consequence - it isn't even a memory for Stuart I don't see how the reader will want to remember it.
ReplyDeleteThe central idea, the dazed experiences of an eight year old on a fairground ride, is a strong one though; I think you just need to milk it a bit more.
Why does there HAVE to be a central point? Why can't it be taken for what it is? I'm not being argumentative - I'm just wondering why. Hmm.... I'll certainly think it over, though. You have some good points, most of which (like the syntax and the flow) I've already been thinking about. Just wanted to bash something out!
ReplyDeleteDude. That's a helluva question. i'll have a crack at answering it.
ReplyDeleteIn general, I'm in agreement. Much as it is to Sam's annoyance, subtext and theme don't interest me as much as images and character. They are more interesting to me, and though subtext and theme imply a point, image and character don't.
Take Mr. Joop's Hatful of Rain for example, my story I showed you recently. Now, if you were to ask me what the point of that story was, I'd look a bit confused and say it was just a story. There isn't really much more to that. But as a writer, I would hope that the story was emotionally satisfying, so that by the end of it I felt like I could walk away from Saif and Joop and say that the heart of the story has been resolved, even if the actual plot of the story is pointless.
Sam would probably argue in favour of stories being satisfying on a metatextual level, and he's not wrong there either. Though I don't write to include them specifically in a story, they're an inevitable part of the writing, and come naturally. As a writer, it's your decision whether to highlight them (as Sam does) or to focus on the story (me me me me me me) (me too).
What I felt with the story was that it wasn't emotionally satisfying, but ti did have the potential to do so. I think it needs an edit, where, as well as what I've mentioned previously, you sit down and ask yourself why you need to tell us this story. What can we learn about Stuart that we can recognise in ourselves that will make reading the story an emotionally gratifying experience for the reader? Where they can relate to Stuart and say? even if the situation is totally removed from their sphere of experience 'Yeah, I totally get what Stuart's going through.' Story to me is ultimately about making a connection with the reader and saying that though he may be someone else, he is still very like you. You haven't failed at this with this story, I just don't think you've achieved the best you can do with a strong story idea behind it.
If you listen to our latest episode of FBL with Gavin, his second story The Iron Rod isn't really resolved in a plot sense or emotional sense for the character. But in its conclusion (trying to remain spoiler free for your benefit boyo!), a journey has been finished wherein as the reader, or this case listener, we can relate utterly what the character has gone through. We get the feeling that this small event impacts him, and therefore impacts us.
Excuse me, I'm thinking through my point while I type, so this is incredibly rambling and almost certainly contradictory, so you'll have to excuse me while I figure it out too.
In this story, you've already said that Stuart doesn't remember this. It doesn't emotionally resonate with him, which makes it harder to resonate with the reader. Now, I'm sure there are examples out there of such a case where the character doesn't remember the story,* but the reader is impacted by the story, but that's done to the strength of the writing. I know you're a good writer, so it pains me to say this isn't good enough from what I've seen you do previously.
This story needs to be a big night for the eight year old Stuart. Even if later he can't recall it, there, right in the moment he's thrown out of his seat and feels sick and eats the cotton candy and holds his Dad's hand it's visceral. It's the most intense experience of his little life, and we as the reader need to feel that. We need to feel the point you're trying to make, even if the point is that there isn't one.
*After I wrote this, a perfect example of a story with no point popped into my head - Waiting For Godot, which I know you've read. It's solved emotionally for the audience, because we know it isn't for Estragon and Vladimer, if you see what I mean. We are satisfied that they aren't.
Blimey. Apologies for the length.
ReplyDelete