"Virginia City" by Claire Vaye Watkins

T: “Virginia City”

A: Clarie Vaye Watkins

B: Battleborn, 2012

“Virginia City” does a lot that I want to do, including make a reader gasp out loud at the last sentence while reading on a fully packed subway.  Towards the end of the story (4/5ths through), the first person narrator leaves the particulars of her story for what sound like some generalities (I’m sure there’s a name for this narrative tone… anyone?): “There are plenty of good reasons to find yourself in Virginia City” (258).  In the next sentence the narrator goes immediately back into the context of the story with a flashback: “The first time we came, we came because Jules wanted to stand in the spot where Mark Twain stood.”  This paragraph more or less initiates the final, climatic scene of the main plot, in which the conflict between the characters explodes and all is lost (page 261). 

In the resolution after the climax, Watkins repeats the phrase at the start of the penultimate paragraph: “There are plenty of good reasons to find yourself in Virginia City, if you need one” (262).  It’s a brilliant move, because 1. it relieves some of the tension of the dramatic climax, 2. it makes the sense of change palatable—the phrase does not feel the same after the drama has unfolded, and 3. it alerts the reader that something poignant is coming, something you should pay attention to because this might just be the point, that we’ve entered the realm of poetry, so watch out.  In a subtle story, and what good stories aren’t subtle, such signposts are tricky and welcome.  This time the narrator lingers in the realm of the general for a few sentences then concludes with this beautiful iteration of the theme: “There are plenty of good reasons to find yourself in Virginia City, but there’s only one reason.  We came to time-travel.” I love the way that second sentence (“We came to time travel”) is both personal and character-specific (Jules, for example) and, in the context of the paragraph, general enough to apply to anyone (any tourist who wants to stand where Mark Twain stood).  (Also, this is the first explicit mention of “time-travel” and it’s at once completely a shock and completely perfect for the context—at once inevitable and unguessable.) 

"If I Loved You" by Robin Black and (briefly) "The Last Thing We Need" by Claire Vaye Watkins

T: “The Last Thing We Need”

A: Clarie Vaye Watkins

B: Battleborn, 2012

T: “If I Loved You”

A: Robin Black

B: If I Loved You, I Would Tell You This, 2010

Q: How do these writers use the epistolary form successfully?

Background: Recently a friend I workshop and write exercises with has been composing an epistolary short story.  It’s a form I’m not inclined towards, but his efforts have piqued my interest.  Because his story is one neighbor writing to another, I’ve been reminded of Robin Black’s beautiful short story “If I Loved You” a number of times.  Watkin’s short story, “The Last Thing We Need,” is also an epistolary short story and, like my friend’s piece and Robin Black’s, is written from only one side of the epistolary exchange (in other words, we only see one side of the letter writing, no letters are exchanged).     

A: Robin Black’s story is key—as the title suggests, her narrator doesn’t mail the letter, doesn’t even write one (in other words, I remembered wrongly) so it becomes a 2^nd person narrative without the awkwardness of a second person narrative.  That awkwardness stems from the ambiguity of the “you”—generally we might think it’s the reader or, when done expertly, the narrator herself.  However, the way both Black and Watkins use the form, the “you” is a clearly defined person, a silent listener, who is also a character in the piece without becoming a generic category.    

"Rondine Al Nido" by Claire Vaye Watkins

T: “Rondine Al Nido”

A: Claire Vaye Watkins

B: Battleborn, 2012

A: There’s a lot to learn from this story, on a lot of levels.  Here I’ll just point out the first moment that struck me hard during my first read through.  (Please note that I read this on a Kindle, which I love, but which makes citing awkward.)  The passage is towards the beginning of the story (Loc 604).  Watkins lists three concrete things that the protagonist remembers doing that she (the protagonist) thinks are morally questionable.  After the concrete list, we get this transition to the figurative, “These she’ll have been carrying since girlhood like very small stones in her pocket.”  The next sentence brings us back to the context of the story: “The sensible man will be waiting.”  And the final sentence, of both the paragraph and the first section of the story, moves us to the abstract and philosophical, “Who can say why we offer the parts of ourselves we do, and when?”  In this beautiful paragraph, Watkins moves from a list of concrete and literal memories to a figurative description of these memories, reminds us of the story’s plot context, and ends with an abstract, philosophical question.  

"Buffalo Gals, Won't You Come out Tonight" by Ursual K. Le Guin

In a new year's resolve to make more use of the short stories I read (at least one a day for years now) and do something with this blog, I present the first of weekly short studies of craft in a story. I'm going to try to keep the writing around 200 words, without which constraint I can go one forever (as I did in the Karen Brown studies I did last year, two of which I posted), get burned out, and consume lots of time.  I'm not going to review the work or author.  I'm not going to give plot synopsis.  I not going to give a lot of in-depth analysis of the symbolic significance/achievements of certain techniques.  I am going to focus on the surface level of literary craft.  My goal is to have these posted on Sunday each week. 

T: “Buffalo Gals, Won’t You Come out Tonight”

A: Ursual K. Le Guin

B: The Year’s Best Fantasy: First Annual Collection, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, 1988

Q: What makes Coyote such an instantly intriguing and memorable character? 

A: Coyote does extreme, unpredictable things that one would think demand one kind of reaction, but elicit a different response from reliable characters.  Coyote talks to her shit.  The shit talks back.  In one scene, the main child scoops up and buries all of coyote’s crap while coyote’s asleep.  When she wakes up, Coyote notices the turds are missing, calls out for them, and when they answer back: “Coyote trotted over, squatted down, raked out every turd, and talked with them for a long time” (13).  Sleeping in her flee-ridden bed, pissing and shitting anywhere, having sex with many old coyotes, including her own sons, Coyote is presented at once as both a leading figure in a community of animals and disgusting. The main character of the story (the human girl who fell out of a plane and was discovered by coyote) chooses coyote as her surrogate mother.  The formula here for Coyote’s character, then, is to compound noble thoughts and actions with disgusting ones—making for a well rounded character that verges on the repulsive side of likable—and then demonstrate how other (relatively normal) characters feel about her, balancing out the heaviness of the repulsive side of likable with characters’ affection and respect.    

Comments, thoughts, suggestions are always welcome in the comments below.  

Is there a short story that helped you understand a specific writing technique more clearly?  Please share!