The Nature of Story

Movies are stories. Of course, many movies are based on the work of writers in the form of novels or, sometimes, short stories. Borrowing the plot, a director and screenwriter take over and retell the story visually. Often the original written form is better.

Serial television shows are the same. Since writers of television programs can’t know season-by-season whether their program will be renewed, it has to be, almost by definition, open-ended. When a new season begins a character may have shifted or become someone else, and we, the viewers must play along.

My current television story is Sleepy Hollow. It is very different, of course, than the tale written by Washington Irving. By the end of season one, even, it was clear that the writers had changed their minds as to who some of the characters were. Henry Parrish was not originally the horseman of war.

I have no way of knowing that, but as a writer I can sense it. As I sit down to write out a story, I seldom have an outline. Some successful writers (among which I am not) write this way. They “make it up as they go along.” When they’re done, the editing comes.

Recently I returned to a story rejected by a journal. Re-reading, I could see that I’d set up an obvious direction for the action to go, and had dropped it in the flow of convoluted thoughts that are my mind. I had shifted the protagonist from what it clearly should have been to something else. Something far less satisfying.

Writers rely on their friends to point such things out. I have few friends, and even fewer who write. Those who do are reluctant to talk about their craft. Some who’ve read my work, simply get too busy to get back to me. They can never know how much it hurts.

Some know my true name and yet they never visit my pseudonymous blog. They never comment on my efforts.

Writing can be a lonely business, filled with self-doubt and remorse. I peer deep into the joys and horrors of life, and I feel them tingling so profoundly that I must call that hidden place a soul. I try to express it in words, knowing that few will ever be read. The story, however, is authentic.

Perhaps a screenwriter is what I’m meant to be. Maybe that’s what all of us who struggle to find readers already are.

Comments

Dusty

My, this thing is dusty. My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic. No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third. With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give. Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out. I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again. I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut? My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago. Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction. Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up. I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best. When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

Too Much Writing?

Has this ever happened to you? Have you written a story that you’ve completely forgot? Not only completely forgotten, but made unfindable? I play games with my stories and sometimes the joke’s on me. Okay, I suffer from graphomania. I write constantly. I do try to keep organized—I use a spreadsheet that has all my submissions on it. It has rejection/acceptance dates (mostly rejection). Lots of information. I decided to list on it every story, whether finished or in process. There are far too many (mostly in process). When I finish a story I often submit it. If I get burned, I’m shy about resubmitting. I often rewrite at this stage. Then, when I feel brave enough, I try again. The spreadsheet is color-coded. There, in the color that indicates finished and ready to submit is a story cryptically titled “The Password.” I don’t remember this story. I can’t recall what it was about or why I thought it was ready to publish. Looking through my electronic files,

Gothica

The other day I asked a friend to define “gothic.” Heavy, dark, supernatural—these were a few of the words suggested. When autumn comes my thoughts turn gothic, and I’m always looking for good gothic things to read. I have blogged in the past about how reading literature that isn’t great is good. I’m serious about that. You can learn a lot by reading poor writing. Some gothic literature is more the former than the latter. Like Dark Shadows novels. Dark Shadows was running on daytime television when I was a child. As a teen I began to read the novelizations, by Marilyn Ross, whenever I could find them. Belles lettres they’re not. Gothic, most decidedly so. That’s why I keep coming back to them. They aren’t scary. In fact, they’re formulaic and predictable. But so, so gothic. Spooky mansions, the Maine woods, forlorn vampire, faded wealth. Even, yes, dark shadows. The stories create a mood I find difficult to locate elsewhere. Inspired by the most r

K. Marvin Bruce

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