My new literary style.

My new literary style, and the resulting format, evolved over some time. It eliminates dialogue tags, adverbs, and things like semi-colons. Scattered through this blog are bits of short fiction. Some of them are in the older style.

“Run!” John shouted suddenly.

“Why?” she asked. “What’s up?”

She looked wildly around but could see nothing.

That’s the older style, and we can still find plenty of it out there. There are brand-new books being released by highly-regarded authors using this style every day. The books come from respectable mass-market publishers.

The new style, which I did not invent, looks more like this:

“Run!” John grabbed her arm.

“Why? What’s up?” Mary looked wildly around, but saw nothing.

Basically it just saves a lot of words. I never have to use ‘he said, she said’ again. Any number of other authors advise against adverbs, like ‘suddenly,’ especially in dialogue tags. I still use adverbs in the exposition. I used to use too many semi-colons; not that I haven’t found semi-colons in the work of mainstream authors living and dead. I’m not contradicting anybody, but I have a certain goal in mind.

I don’t care if I’m better than a bunch of not very good authors. I would prefer not to be ‘just as good’ as a whole bunch of mediocre or unremarkable authors. I want my work to stand up in comparison to the very best authors, no matter what style they may write in. It has nothing to do with overall sales numbers, but the work itself. This must hold true not just at the sentence and paragraph level, where I’m actually pretty good, not just the ability to write a good chapter that looks all right on its own, but the overall story. Have I put in enough to link it all together into one coherent whole?

This is where I stand right now—I’m just on the brink of a higher level and I don’t really know the answers to certain things. That’s one reason why I don’t rush the thing so much these days. It has to be right above all else. Let’s assume a person could conceivably write in Impressionistic style, or Surrealist style, or ‘write like Michelangelo.’ It still has to be complete—saying you’re a Fauvist writer isn’t going to get you too far if there are holes in the plot, flaws or contradictions in the logic, and at the end of the story the reader just doesn’t get it. Assuming they even got that far.

I’m reading a book now, and it’s not my favourite genre. It’s not particularly well written. Yet I can’t help thinking that the average reader wouldn’t care anyway. I haven’t abandoned the thing yet. I’m still reading it. But most readers simply wouldn’t notice the style or the writing. In that sense, the author did succeed in that the writing would be invisible to the majority of the readers. But I’m not there as a fan, I’m a writer with an analytical eye.

I want my work to adhere to the highest international literary standards. The work stands a better chance of meeting the test of time. It can be read and understood by the greatest number of people. It still makes sense fifty or a hundred years later. It's not an instant antique.

The considerations, I think, are artistic. The notion that writers should ‘just learn to tell a story’ and ignore style is ludicrous. You must have a basic level of competence. I don’t care how many major authors couldn’t spell. Some of them couldn’t even write—they hired ghost writers. I don’t have that luxury. Neither do I have that level of vanity. If I couldn't do it, then it's just a lie and we're all better off if I quit.

***

In the fine arts there are three types or levels of content. There is the actual content of the picture—whether it’s a still life of flowers, or a naked lady, or a guy on a horse with a big sword. Then there is the meaning of a picture. The artist had the intention of conveying some theme or message. The third level of content is what it meant to the viewer—how it made them feel or what they thought upon viewing the work.

The same is true for literature. In terms of editing for content, I do the very best I can in telling a good story. Content is not just what I put into it, but what the reader gets out of it. What that means is that style really doesn’t matter as long as it remains unobtrusive and gets the story across.

With the new style, the challenge the author faces is attribution. Who said what?

“This is conveyed by the format as much as anything else.” John looked up at the reader. “If you don’t get it, you’re not paying attention.”

I couldn’t have said it any better myself.

Here’s something you will never find in a Shalako book—although you might still see it in ‘mainstream’ books put out by major publishers even today.

“Run!” John grabbed Jane’s arm. Together they took off running. Jane’s shoe came off. Bill and what he said yesterday still dominated her thoughts. Dale wasn't there that day, as he'd called in sick. Larry’s breathing was harsh and loud in his chest. Ed was so frightened he couldn’t speak. Virginia, unfortunately, for reasons unknown, wasn’t there to share the terror of her creation run amok. “That thing’s fast!”

There is a reason for everything I do. Sometimes it’s a reaction to something I saw that I didn’t like. The above (fictitious) example was done for one reason and one reason only. The designer of the book preferred big, square blocks of text. It saves paper, and this used to be, (and might still be,) a mass-market industry. Saving one page of paper per book did in fact add up to significant cost savings over a large print run. It’s just that simple. (Funny thing is, I've probably achieved the same thing.)

But we are no longer bound by these considerations.

We are within our rights as writers to experiment with something new, even if it steps on the toes of the old, the shopworn, the outmoded, or the obsolete.


Photo: Franz Marc, 'Deer in the Woods.' A coherent whole.

Alien Invasion.

They looked like four-legged brains with kitty-cat faces and claws. No one ever did figure out where they came from. Not for sure. Proxima is just a guess.

When their ship crashed—purely coincidentally in the Tunguska region of Russia, where the big explosion occurred in 1908, authorities not unnaturally approached the artifact with caution.

The justification was there, for the alien starship was massive. It had been extensively documented in its slow trajectory as it nosed over and took a dive into Earth’s atmosphere, yet still restrained by some form of gravimetric system. It landed safely, with only minor damage. The sheer bulk and our gravity caused the ship to sag after landing, and ultimately to crack, and settle to less than half its former diameter. The inference was that Earth wasn't the ship's original destination. With the hull compromised, the cargo was unloaded for safety reasons by authorities. The site was quarantined for a 100-kilometre radius, due to unknown hazards from its operating systems, motors, and other possible contaminants. Scientific investigation continued under tight wraps.

There was much self-congratulation among world governments on the new spirit of cooperation and the notion that the ship was a trust, to be used for the benefit of all humanity. It justified their own claims, perhaps.

The windfall technology was one thing. The cargo was another, especially when it was found that independent systems were still keeping the bulk of the occupants alive in the less damaged inner sections.

For the first time humans had encountered proof that they were not alone in the universe. The basic theory was that it was a commercial shipment—possibly livestock, or even pets for some vast and distant consumer society not unlike our own.

One theory even went so far as to suggest the animals were part of a planet-forming process that corresponded to terra-forming. That might account for the sheer size of the cargo. It was meant to be a huge gene pool, or so the idea went. Other species would no doubt have been dispatched on their own millennial journeys. The alien planet-builders would have started small, using microorganisms and simpler forms at first, making the atmosphere and water necessary to larger creatures, then built up to a higher, more complex ecology that mirrored the home world.

When the first one hatched, no one thought very much about it, although the media were rife with stories that left viewers literally in awe.

People said that.

“Aw.” That was the universal reaction.

The alien invaders from Proxima Centauri were just so darned cute…

They also ate a lot, pooped a lot and tore the upholstery off a couch faster than creatures of a more mundane origin could ever dream of.

Once it was determined that they didn’t carry exotic parasites or disease, it was only a matter of time before DNA samples of one or more were smuggled out of the lab.

It was like everybody wanted one and weren’t exactly shy about asking. Sooner or later someone cracked under the pressure of just a whole pile of money and brought one out.

If only the Proxies hadn’t been so darned cute. The fate of the world might have been a lot different.

The Island.

Doctor Malcolm stood in the hallway, pausing for a long moment while the group shuffled in closer.

“The story of Mister Walter Lee is a strange one indeed. In my case book, perhaps the only incident of true insanity, although we should learn to hate that word, which was brought on by trauma followed by isolation. Incidents of this type are quite rare. It was undoubtedly the long-term isolation that did it. Lots of victims of the recent tsunami on the southern and eastern coasts of Thailand and other nations survived loss, shock, trauma, heartache; the loss of everything that people hold dear. But they still had other survivors around them, and once the initial cycle of wave action was over, the rescue and relief efforts began.”

The students paid rapt attention.

“Walter’s story is different. Walter Lee was swept out to sea by the first big wave, and he is extremely fortunate to have survived the tsunami. It seems he held on to a tree, and only let go, completely exhausted, when the surge was receding rapidly off the shore again. He fell into the water, and was sucked out to sea. How he survived amongst the maelstrom of debris, broken tree-trunks, shattered building materials, dead bodies and smashed boats, is beyond speculation. Survive he did. He found himself clinging onto a large log, which had a bit of other detritus, flotsam and jetsam, tangled up in some wire caught in the roots. Mister Lee was on vacation, and lost his wife and young family, three small children, in the flood and tidal wave that day.”

There were gasps of sympathy and dismay.

“Understandably, he was traumatized by all of this, as he was conscious, although dazed and disoriented. He did not actually see what happened to them. He didn’t know they were dead, or it seems unlikely that he would have survived. He seems to have hallucinated quite freely. Their images were the only thing that sustained him…for over six months,” explained the doctor. “He believed that they must have survived, in spite of all evidence to the contrary. He still believes, in some ways…this is what we call, delusional.”

A small buzz of mutterings and whispers, half-heard and half articulated, went through the small group.

“What is extremely unusual about Mister Lee’s case is that he somehow managed to survive something like thirty-one days, floating on a log at sea. His recollection is hazy. The man collected dew on a plastic tarp, drank rain water collected in a cutaway plastic bleach bottle. Ultimately, he drank his own urine, and ate flying fish snagged in the net-like contraption that he built, or even just batted them out of the air in sheer reflex. Unbelievable; a real triumph of human fortitude and dogged stubbornness, in that he wasn’t even rescued by a ship or a plane, as a number of extremely fortunate individuals somehow managed. At last count, quite a number of them have been accounted for in this way. They were mostly picked up in the first few days of the aftermath.”

There was nothing to be said about all this on the part of the assorted students. They peered in through the hallway window, de rigeur on every ward of this award-winning mental institution.

“Walter is about thirty-four years old. He was born an American, but had become a naturalized Canadian citizen, and was a successful sales manager in Hamilton at a well-known steel supplier. The family went to Southeast Asia on a two-week holiday vacation.”

Doctor Malcolm studied the semi-circle of faces around him. Although he never would have admitted it, his students were objects of study to him. It was a habit he couldn’t shake.

The group of students had absorbed all this without comment.

“Mister Lee is the only known survivor to have drifted to an uninhabited island in the Nicobar chain. And then he managed to live off the land for over five months. He apparently ate crabs, coconuts, seaweed and all the mosquitoes and biting flies he could get. I admire him in many ways, to be honest with you. How many of us would have survived a similar ordeal? Mister Lee just sits there staring at the window, not even really seeing out through it. He’s quite lucky to be here, but then he purchased health insurance coverage for himself and his family prior to going away.”

He thought for a moment.

“It seems to me that if he had been reunited with his family upon his return, he probably would have made a full recovery, and he would have gone on with his life,” said the doctor. “But Mister Lee simply doesn’t want to recover. He would in fact, prefer to die. But it’s just not that easy, is it?”

There was a stark silence in the room while they all digested this.

“That’s not exactly my job, is it? To choose for Mister Lee, who is temporarily incompetent to choose for himself. He’s simply too healthy. After five months on the island, his physical condition was quite extraordinary. The diet, fresh air, and exercise seemed to quite agree with him, although he’s softening up here in the hospital.”

“So he’s depressed and delusional?” This was a fellow on the left end of the group.

This individual seemed to think they already knew everything, and merely had to put in a stipulated amount of time in order to get his degree automatically.

“Something like that.” Doctor Malcolm nodded thoughtfully.

The doctor paused for a minute with his hand on the doorknob.

“Now ladies and gentlemen, if you promise to be quiet, and observe objectively, you can take some notes and study this case further, a little later on.”

The teaching doctor looked at the students and saw a lot of bright, chipper, blank looks. Some of them looked a little hung over or very tired. Rumour had it there had been a big party at Ursula Mason’s place last night. That was their problem. Mister Lee was his.

He opened the door and led them in, going to the far end and taking a moment to fully pull the curtains wide. The students clustered round as he dragged a smooth, fake-leather covered chair around and sat beside Mister Lee, who was sitting in a chair at bedside. An unopened book lay on the table by the bed, along with a glass of water, and a pair of reading glasses.

“Hello, Mister Lee. How are you today?”

“How do I look?” The question was not asked in hostility, or menace.

Walter just didn’t seem to care anymore.

Clearly this wasn’t going too far.

“Can you tell us about the island?” The doctor was aware of the intent concentration of most of those students in the room.

“Why?”

“It’s just that it sounds like an interesting place.” The doctor projected calm, placid friendliness. “These are my students. I’ve told them all about your amazing story. But they would just like to hear more from you.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Well, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s amazing that you survived your ordeal.”

Walter looked up at all the gleaming eyes, and lowered his head. His chin began to come out, and he looked like he was going to be stubborn.

“Tell us about them, Walter. We want to hear about the ghosts, Walter!”

The doctor suddenly slapped Walter on the shoulder and giggled insanely, which acted instantly with its intended effect.

Walter’s almost catatonic calm was broken.

“You don’t believe the ghosts.” He hissed at the doctor, only fully seeming to see the students for the first time. “He doesn’t believe about the ghosts. But I saw them, I talked to them. I heard them. I watched them, and I followed them. They’re real.”

Walter sat there, glowering at the ring of faces, all with their mouths slightly open in some breathless state of suspended animation. Suddenly there was a little giggle, and Walter clammed up again; glaring fixedly at an suddenly embarrassed young woman, taller than most, with a florid complexion and long dark hair, standing at the back.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” His eyes fell back to the floor.

“What about the others, Walter? Believe me, we’re very interested in what happened to you. We’d like to help you if we could. If we may? Please, Walter?”

“Who were the others, Mister Lee?” A patient voice came from one of the students in the front row, a small, buck-toothed blonde girl, about five feet tall and wearing thick glasses.

The doctor was about to shush her when Walter spoke up.

“I don’t know. Sailors, soldiers, people like that, native boys, old people, dead people; women in long skirts.” Walter spoke in a sudden rush. “No one believes me, and so they won’t let me go home.”

“Where do you want to go, Walter?”

“I want to go home."

“No, Walter, you want to go back to the island, don’t you?”
“My wife…my little girls…they’re there.” Suddenly Walter was weeping inconsolably. “They saved me. They were with me every minute, every second. I could see them…they were there with me…all the time…Oh, God.”

Walter wept, as the doctor looked at the ashen faces of the students, eyeing them one by one.

Some would crack. Some would transfer, perhaps to other fields or to other branches of medicine. Some would become quacks, pill-pushing charlatans. Some…one or two might succeed.

“What about the others?” Someone asked, but Walter was in no shape to continue. “Sailors, and soldiers? What’s that about?” the voice continued peevishly.

“The man’s obviously delusional.” Malcolm's remark brought gasps and muttering in the back of the group.

The beginnings of some kind of revolutionary movement, back there, he thought. Someone pushed forward and the group parted.

“I believe about the ghosts, Walter.” A slender young man of medium height stood there, with dark sideburns and longish hair hanging over the wide, pointed collar of his paisley shirt.

The young man glared at the doctor. He stood there blinking back a moist sheen of tears in his eyes, then he pushed his way forward, and standing close at Mister Lee’s side, awkwardly patted him on the shoulder.

Yes, that one. Victor. The revolutionary. That one might succeed.