Story: “The Midwife” by Erin Pringle-Toungate, published at Glint Literary Journal
The trouble with blocking the past and present into separate chunks, set off by space breaks, is that the structure can begin to feel unwieldy. To avoid that problem, Pringle-Toungate does two things.
Essay: “His Living Room’s a Jungle” by Victor Giannini, published at Narratively
There are hundreds of ways to transition from one moment in time to another, but in almost all of them, the transition works like a chain link: the transitional phrase touches upon a phrase or idea that precedes it and also a phrase or idea that follows it. In “His Room’s a Jungle,” Victor Giannini uses at least three different kinds of chain link.
Novel: Above the East China Sea by Sarah Bird, published by Knopf
At some point in almost every story, characters will move from one place to another. This change in scene ought to be simple, but it can be one of the most aggravating problems writers face. Too often, we try to mimic the actual experience of driving or walking, the way our minds wander across subject and time. Not infrequently, we use a car ride as an opportunity to insert backstory. Maybe this works—and if it does, that’s great. But if it doesn’t—if the reader begins to skim—then perhaps a more succinct strategy is required.
Story: “Hot N’ Spicy” by Juliana Goodman, published in BLACKBERRY
Anyone who’s tried to write flash fiction knows how fast it must move. There’s no time for context or explanation. You’re illuminating a few minutes or seconds of a character’s story, and, if it works, the readers feel as though they’ve peered into Borges’aleph and seen a much larger world. But how do you create that dizzying sense of speed?
Novel: Song of the Shank by Jeffrey Renard Allen, published by Graywolf
The present action is stretched so much that we almost forget what is happening and, instead, focus on what is happening around the action. This is often where the most interesting parts of any novel lie. The difference is that Allen has found a way to direct our attention to them.
Novel: If I Knew You Were Going to Be This Beautiful, I Never Would Have Let You Go by Judy Chicurel, published by Putnam
A narrative clock “starts ticking when dramatic action happens” and the clock stops “when the dramatic action ends, regardless of what it is. The clock’s out of time, so you can’t add overtime.” So, the clock is connected to dramatic action, which seems obvious and easy until you try it. Sometimes, what is needed is an artificial clock, one that you consciously set at the beginning of a story or chapter.
Novel: 10:04 by Ben Lerner, published by Faber & Faber
Odds are, if you’re a living, breathing writer, then you have a smart phone. You’re probably on it more than you’d like, checking Facebook and Twitter and doing research via Wikipedia. And yet how often does any of this technology show up in our writing?
Novel: Under the Udala Trees by Chinelo Okparanta, published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Chronology is something most writers and readers take for granted. Time moves forward, and so does narrative. There are exceptions, of course. Memory isn’t constrained by the inexorable march of time. It can leap backward at will, or against it—and can even get stuck in the past. But we understand memory to be unusual, unlike the rest of our lives, which move forward. This fact highlights the extraordinary achievement of fictions that move differently. Most writers will never attempt such ambitious structures. But it can be useful to try them in miniature.
Novel: Call Me Home by Megan Kruse, published by Hawthorne Books
Dialogue involving only one person might seem, on its face, impossible. In plays, a character can talk to no one, and there are terms for this: monologue, soliloquy, or (if the character is talking to the audience) aside. This can be accomplished in prose through narration. After all, first-person narration is really just a series of scenes with bits of soliloquy in between. But that kind of narration still suggests a single speaker, and this isn’t always the case. We have many voices in our heads. Some belong to other people, but others are different versions of ourselves, and these versions can, at times, talk to one another.
Novel: Seeing Off the Johns by Rene S. Perez II, published by Cinco Puntos
Some famous writer or another once said that stories and novels don’t portray a life but, rather, a glimpse of one part of the life that suggests the entirety of the whole. This is all well and good until you try it. You find yourself wondering, “Which snapshot is the right one?” or “What part of my life suggests the whole thing? I hope it’s not the part where I forgot to put on deodorant.” It can be an impossible question to answer. A better question might be this: How can a particular scene or moment reveal the constant process of change that is part of any life?