The Transition To Short Story Submission

Illustration of short story Unspoken.

Short stories have never been my favorite storytelling form. Many are sharp and to the point; gone before you really get to know them. In recent years short stories for some writers have become synonymous with an opportunity to market a novel or series, resulting in weird, incomplete chunks of text that leave a sour aftertaste.

But having decided to accept the challenge of producing and submitting three short stories, I figured I should travel back in time and take a closer look at the ones that embedded themselves in my mind while growing up.

The first was The Garden Party by Katherine Mansfield. I ADORE it. In terms of my usual tastes, this is surprisingly left of field. The appeal is partly in the way she writes: the pace and the atmosphere. I love how the girl in the story, who is rich in an old-fashioned country house way, learns of a nearby laborer's death while her family are organizing a garden party. (Talk about juxtaposition.)

She is disturbed on an almost subconscious level. When she tries to vocalize her reaction, the family’s instinctive response is to dismiss her with a lot of tally-ho old school flippancy.

In hindsight, the indelible impression is primarily because the narrative focuses on the moment where you begin to transition into an individual—developing a social conscience, becoming aware of social practices. The story amplifies how disconcerting that sense of displacement can be; death, as a reminder of mortality, makes the experience more jarring.

The second story that stuck was Ray Bradbury’s The Pedestrian. In extreme summary, this futuristic tale follows a guy who likes to walk at night while everyone else is watching tv. Eventually he's arrested, not because he did anything wrong, but because the act of thinking differently becomes wrong in the eyes of society.

Clearly there are parallels between the two tales. Both are about individualism, and going against the traditional flow of society—even just in thought.

Turns out my subconscious stuck with relatively similar themes in my three short story submissions:

-The Event is set in a future society where bad memories can be removed and stored externally. A memory is bad if the “colors" i.e. the information stream that flows along the walls and floors, changes intensely in response to a person's bio-readings. 

Survivors of The Event wear memory keys on neck chains. The storyline follows a girl who explores the idea of visiting the vault and unlocking her memories; some part of her psyche yearns to know the impact of the extreme experience. Only the knowledge the memories cannot be removed a second time holds her back.

-The next story is an adaptation of an old short film script, Unspoken. Set in a world where each word is specifically defined, a "plague" is killing citizens; or more accurately, they’re killing themselves after experiencing an undefined emotion.

Attempts to create a new term fail, and the current wordsmith council visit a retired master of the craft for help. He tries to save the city, but only when he feels the emotion, in the depths of despair before death, does he understand.

(What I liked about the short film format was the entire film took place in the wordsmith's room, high in a tower. You saw him looking out at the city, but instead of seeing the outside world, definitions of his dialogue flashed onscreen.)

-The third story, Lily, is a prequel to my speculative fiction novel Sound. (As previously mentioned, I consider this to be a risky avenue to take, especially if it falls flat. Fingers crossed!)

In a future experimental city, people with a particular gene can turn sounds into a form of energy. I wanted to introduce the reader to Lily before feeding on music drove her insane, and also reveal secrets in the backstory of iconic musicians Jesse and Michael. It’s a bittersweet tale; the signs are there for the dark path the novel eventually treads.

Whether or not any of the stories are accepted is kind of irrelevant. Having fewer words to play with, capturing complex themes in a tighter word count: the whole experience was a fascinating challenge.

The Conceptualist: An Excerpt

My novel The Conceptualist is one of my faves, and scheduled for release in 2016. 

Set in the near future, the story is split between two perspectives: that of Grey, the famous Conceptualist struggling to hold onto her sanity while navigating a shifting cultural landscape on the brink of war, and Byre, the charismatic son of the President who lives to party, has a clone bodyguard, and enjoys twin lovers. At least, that's the persona he cultivates.

I won't ramble on about the concept (bound to happen next year) but I will leave this sample here, lifted from Byre's first chapter.

...Nearly falling, it takes my tired mind a split second to deal with the derailing. Across the room Jarred sits up almost on cue, metallic pupils glinting in the dim light.

“Heard you were somewhere on the left side.” He slides out of input phase and the gaming vision folds back from each iris, returning his eyes to their standard blue.

“Grav levels?” I wade across the room, my breath on the security panel of the cupboard almost a sigh. Grabbing clean threads, I turn around to face the latest issue on a long list.

“Any second, info freak. Conceptual kick?”

“Scape sounds.” My head’s cracking from fast flights, too many thoughts, and a serious lack of sleep.

“Where?” He gets up off the floor, pausing for balance. “Glacier? Volcano? Or will it filter through later?"

“Don’t remember.”

"Not surprising." Wired tight, it’s obvious he’s been hooked in for a while. 

I head for the sonic, moving faster now the gravity’s balancing.

“Trying to make this scene play a little smoother?” The mild tone is laced with a whisper of tension he can’t quite subdue.

“Are you holding?”

“What are you wanting?”

“Nutrients, maybe a low adrenaline. Alert, but not-”

“-So she can tell you needed a helping hand?” He throws a few slips across. “Kind of clear from the clothes you picked. They’re a little muted.” Moving to his setup he slides into the chair. “Besides, you’ve got that look you always get before you’re reeled in. Hail the conquered hero. Jaz is back, by the way.”

I pause mid-step. “Why?”

“Lives here, doesn’t she?”

The words are gently mocking, but I’m not in the mood for games. “And?” Leaning against the wall, I slide one slip under my tongue, another under the nail. “Is she here?”

A quick scan of the premises doesn’t read anything. He kicks the system on, and streaming visuals fill the air. From what I can decipher, he’s lining up status reviews for pre-submersion.

“Jaz was here this morning, but she’s out now.” The clipped sentence say a lot, but not enough.

“She’s meant to be on a high velocity tour for at least three more rotations.”

“Well, things change.”

“Not a scaled tour. Takes a lot to get out of that kind of contract.”

“Yes, it does.” Suddenly my features float across a dozen different holoscreens, alongside another face. “Source the transience, hey?” Haunting eyes hover at face level, over and over.

I try to control my reaction because that’s one thing he’s always monitoring. “It’s not what you think,” is all I have—the truth. I'm too tired to come up with a lie shaded in enough facts.

“You know what I’m thinking?” An ironic twist of his mouth almost becomes a smile. “Interesting how the pattern’s unfolding. Odd, actually.” He spins to face me, expression unreadable. “But I’m just a rich gamer who doesn’t like to think too much, especially in dangerous directions.” The images disappear.

“Probably best,” I manage.

“But Jaz panicked. Because for her, there really is only the surface.”

‘It’s her beauty,” I feel compelled to point out. “If you don’t see the depths, you can’t see the shadows.”

“She panicked because?”

I sigh. “Because she thinks she understands me.”

“A little,” he agrees. “But she has no idea, does she?”

The flood of visuals light up again, back to flowing unintelligible graphics, droning gamer stats, and analytic streams of code. Haloed by the information, he spins, attention split between the complication in the room and the neural seduction of the game.

 “Let me guess: she was worried she wouldn’t get to read me, but Legal had to be in person.”

And since I’m here…” He leaves the rest unsaid.

“She’ll get a clear contract. Or at the very least, a delay.” A reprieve is the best I can offer, because it’s all I can offer, and we both know it.

“You‘re going to be late.” He turns his head to meet my eyes. The tone tries for mellow, but the look is cold.

“Glacier,” I point out distractedly. “It was a glacier.”

Locked in that gaze, it’s like her pain is here in the room. My heart feels seared by it.

“Can’t believe I thought the whole emotive connection you two transmit was a kick.” I shrug, trying to shake off the wild, uncontrolled feed.

A lazy grin spreads across his face. “It’s all hers?”

Too much already, I can’t help thinking. I need a break.

“So do I.”

He scores a dirty look for that illegal read. “Got to clean up.”
Not that he offers to join me, but I slam the door anyway. Fucking telepaths.

The Allure Of The Unreliable Narrator (& Why I Couldn't Resist)

Note: This blog was first posted on March 28th, 2015.

Everyone has a moment when the world breaks. At its core, life is about perception. Veils lift, and an accepted truth transforms into nothing more than illusion. Those times are chaotic, even brutal, but in a way, freeing. Fiction-wise, a truly great unreliable narrator evokes a similar sensation in the reader.

Life is full of liars (even unwitting ones). Who hasn’t listened to a fabricated version of events from a friend who forgot you were at the party/dinner they’re describing? Narrative distortion, textually or otherwise, is endlessly fascinating. I’m not the only one who thinks so: #unreliablenarrator appeared on my social media feed repeatedly while this blog was coming together.

For those unfamiliar with the idea, at its core an unreliable narrator is pretty much what it sounds like: a narrator who, by the end of the novel, you realize cannot be trusted in some way. And it seems, in the fictional world at least, we’ll never tire of people who can’t be trusted.

What makes the unreliable narrator such a powerful tool is our tendency to blindly trust in the perspective of the storyteller; readers invariably become invested in the protagonist (who is more often than not the unreliable narrator). Not even consciously choosing to place our faith in said character, we just assume the person steering the story is telling the truth. In a way, on some level, the narrator and the reader merge: after all, they’re our gateway to the experience. Who else would we trust?

Gone Girl is a recent example of this type of storytelling, as is Life of Pi. For many, Fight Club was a one-two knockout introduction to the wonder of an unreliable narrator. My eye-opening (or should that be mind-opening?) reading experience was A Scanner Darkly by Philip K. Dick.

To say I was blown away by the reveal in that book would be an understatement. (Maybe I should say spoiler alert, but come on, ASD was written in the seventies!) The novel reveals drug user Bob Archer is also Agent Fred working undercover in narcotics. Substance D has screwed with his brain so badly he’s completely unaware he’s living a double life, to the point where the protagonist investigates himself without knowing it.

For me, Bob/Fred will always be the ultimate unreliable narrator.

Before A Scanner Darkly, manipulating conventional literary expectations to mess with the reader had never occurred to me. The novel opened my mind to the possibilities fiction offers when you’re both (narratively) brave, and clever enough to pull off a wild idea. Challengingly left of field, the novel imprinted deeply on my psyche, forcing me to re-evaluate my entire understanding of fiction, and  inspiring a lifelong hunt for “unusual” novels that would expand my (mental) horizons.

Safe to say, as a teenage reader, it changed the fiction I was exposed to, and as a writer, it changed the direction/style of my prose. Looking back, I don’t think it’s a coincidence my favorite Charles De Lint novel at university was Memory and Dream: once again, a story with a beautifully conceived unreliable narrator at the centre.

No surprise, then, that my novel Sound has an unreliable narrator. I’m proud of the book, and glad I tackled a literary trope that has always enthralled me, but creating the lead character was harder than expected. Turns out, from the other end of the spectrum (writer rather than reader), the unreliable narrator messes with your head just as effectively.

Think about it: you’re writing a story with knowledge about the narrator the reader doesn’t have, and isn’t supposed to have, until late in the game. The character has to feel true, but post-reveal, in retrospect, the inferred “truth” has to feel believably unreliable. No simple task.

Some would argue the best way to work this trope is to use a storyline that seems obvious (in some sense) from the outset. I didn’t do this. Fiction in a futuristic setting that sweeps the reader along and isn’t overly expositional is my preference, but that’s a stylistic choice; whether it works in conjunction with an unreliable narrator, well that’s the reader’s call.

To compensate, I did plant a smattering of clues throughout, ensuring the narrator (and therefore the reader) was imbued with a growing sense of unease. I think it’s important the person following the story is already a little unsettled when the unreliable narrator element becomes obvious. I played with a distorted perception of reality in more ways than one in my novel, which probably adds to the jarring impact; maybe that’s ambitious, but it’s the kind of fiction I like.*

To segue: Finishing a blog with tunes I’ve been listening to while writing is my favorite way to sign off. New artist Ty is my current musical preference. Tracks of electronic origin that feel organic, lyrics that feel like poetry. You sense layers and emotions, shadows and slivers of light; music sourced internally that makes my own potential wake up and flow onto the page (in word form). This is a demo, with the album still to come, but the track Bubbleguns is my go-to song so far. http://www.tysmusic.com/

*On a side note: If you’re into novels with an unreliable narrator, I recommend Memoirs OF A Master Forger. The author is listed as William Heaney, the name of the protagonist, but it’s actually written by Graham Joyce. One of the few novels I’ve read in the last couple of years that managed to echo the sudden sense of confusion I felt when reading A Scanner Darkly. The character of Heaney isn’t as extreme an example as Archer, but you still feel sucker punched in that moment where it’s revealed what you believe to be true is in fact a misrepresentation, and it’s beautifully done.

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