Hybrid Interview: Kiare Ladner
Essay by April Yee • How do we reconstruct a self that has been erased? Whether the erasure is the result of forces macro (a police state) or micro (an abusive parent), what remains is the need to fill…
Essay by April Yee • How do we reconstruct a self that has been erased? Whether the erasure is the result of forces macro (a police state) or micro (an abusive parent), what remains is the need to fill…
In high school, you know a girl who disappears months before graduation. One day, she stops coming to school, and you never see her again. Usually, you avoid the other Muslim kids—the ones who dance to bhangra music during…
She had become clumsy. She’d dropped the mug she loved, the green one the color of an aspen leaf, with its fluted skirt at the bottom. Either she’d knocked it to the floor, or worse, forgotten it was in…
Kate had been huffing around the house since our dad died, and now she was convinced our dead dad was inhabiting a fly she found stuck buzzing between her bedroom blinds the morning of the funeral. Also, she had…
Most nights, Morgan lies awake thinking about cutting off her sister’s finger. The extra one on Angela’s left hand, the one she calls her angel finger. It could be said these thoughts make Morgan a bad person. Sinning in…
At nine years old you pin him to the soil, knees around ribs, center your two fingers together between his eyes and shout bang, bang, you’re dead, you’re fucking dead. He is writhing, trying to escape you; your sounds…
In five years, on Space Mountain, we’ll blast asteroids to clear a path through the Milky Way, buckle up and hold our breath as we journey into the void of darkness. When we disembark through adverts of outer space…
By Geoffrey Miller • A different woman character narrates each of the trio of novellas in Yoko Ogawa’s collection The Diving Pool. In the opening, titular piece there’s Aya, a school-aged girl living at a countryside orphanage run by…
Iris Garr rose at four every day before school to feed and water the dogs in the barn. They weren’t hers. They would never be hers. She used to beg—how old had she been then? She didn’t remember it,…
On a warm, wet November day like this one, I saw what I thought was some drunk, some ambitious drunk, stumbling up Route 376 with his takeout. It was the sort of thing I might have been tempted to ignore.…
“Trees Go to Heaven” got a revise-and-resubmit request from the very first journal I sent it to. The editors suggested two things: tighten up the dialogue, and expand on the relationship between the brothers, Marty and Vayne. Both suggestions made sense to me, but the latter seemed particularly astute. When I had first started jotting down notes for the story, there was no Vayne, just the narrator (Saul) and Marty. It was only later, as the full story began to take shape, that I realized a character like Vayne was necessary to make it work.
And so I tightened up the dialogue and expanded on the Marty-Vayne relationship, mostly in the first section, and sent it back in. The story was rejected again. When I looked back at it a few months later, I realized that the Marty-Vayne additions had actually cluttered the action. It wasn’t a bad exercise to have gone through; among other things, fleshing out the brothers’ relationship led to some important tweaks later in the story. But I deleted probably 75% of the new material before sending the story out again. (That said, some of my favorite lines are in the bits I kept!)
I think this experience raises some interesting questions. First and foremost: Whose story is it? I think what I decided—what the experience of revising and partly un-revising sedimented for me—was that it’s Saul’s story. The brothers are important, of course; Marty’s gesture at the climax is the reason I wanted to write the story in the first place. In this sense, I may “want” it to be Marty’s story; Marty may be the character I feel closest to. But Saul’s response—his hesitation, his leaving the scene, his conflicted feelings and anger afterward—these are really the key to the story.
The above also raises broader questions about first-person observer (or observer-participant, or whatever) narration. Is it as much an oxymoron as “limited omniscient”? Why would an author choose to tell a story through a character’s eyes if not to reveal something about them as much as about the ostensible protagonist? And if the lens, and the reader’s attention, are turned back onto the narrator… well, whose story is it?
Is observer-participant narration a sort of double-bind, with the focus helpless but to oscillate across the hyphen? Can a story have its cake and eat it, too? (If not in fiction, then where?)
CRAIG BERNARDINI’s fiction has appeared most recently in Conjunctions, Juked, and Puerto del Sol. He teaches English at Hostos Community College, a City University of New York school in the Bronx, and occasionally blogs about music at Helldriver’s Pit Stop, on the CUNY Academic Commons. He lives in the hills of Dutchess County, New York with his partner, dogs, cats, and chickens.