Katherine Heiny, Leviathan, Glimmer Train, Spring/Summer 2014

(Spoiler alert: If you haven’t read the story yet, please wait to read this. If you can’t wait to read it, please know that the ending, such as it is, is discussed.)

I love Katherine Heiny’s fiction. I first discovered her last year when she published the short story, “Andorra,” in Ploughshares spring 2013 issue under the pseudonym Szidonia Molnar. When I came upon her short story, Leviathan, in Glimmer Train’s spring/summer 2014 issue, I was thrilled. Heiny writes about marriage and modern life with a light touch, but there is always a dark undercurrent to her work---she writes about the unrest and infidelity that can sabotage a relationship, though in her work it generally doesn’t. Her couples tend to soldier on despite the earthquake happening beneath their marriages. It is very common in modern fiction to read about couples breaking up, but it is far more interesting and original to read and write about couples who stay together. Heiny is funny and her dialogue will make you laugh, and possibly shudder too. This combination of dark and light, humor and grief, loyalty and betrayal, gives her work a nice friction and tension. She has a book of short stories coming out in 2014 called, “Single Carefree Mellow: Stories.”

Leviathan is an excerpt from a novel Heiny is working on but it reads like a short story so we will treat it as such here. In this story, we have three main characters Audra, Graham and the doorman, Julio, who lives with the couple and acts as a sort of Greek chorus to their marriage. Right away, Heiny raises the stakes for Graham. Something has happened, something “unimaginable.” We read on to find out what. “The post-apocalyptic world was inside him but no one seemed to notice.” As readers, our curiosity is piqued so we read on to find out what apocalypse has taken place.

On page 247, we learn what it is that Graham is so upset about: Audra might be having an affair. You can get a lot of mileage out of an affair---real or imaginary----in fiction, and though it turns out that Audra isn’t having an affair, she did think about it and whatever went on between her and the photographer now threatens to undermine her marriage. What will happen? Will Graham stand by her? There is a wonderful sentence on page 248, that effectively sums up the essence of the story: “And then she let herself out of his study, very quietly, closing the door gently behind her, like a nurse leaving a patient alone to deal with a difficult diagnosis.” We, the reader, are the patient, and we are grappling with the difficulties this marriage presents.

Graham and Audra also have a child, Matthew, who has Asperger’s (p.251) and a passion for origami. The scene (on page 255) in which Audra takes Graham to an origami workshop in a diner is terrific---funny, frightening, completely believable.

There is some funny, light banter between Audra and Graham, concerning United Nations Day at their child’s school. There is great detail: an anecdote about Audra having an assistant to the Italian ambassador stuff a rolled-up dollar bill between her breasts, the details of decorating the rooms so that they kind of, sort of represent various countries in the UN. Why is Audra so busy with this? The question isn’t answered, but God is in the details, and the details of how she spends her days makes us believe that this is an authentic character, and we start to believe we are reading about a real person, or else we believe that the writer is writing with confidence and authority. Heiny makes Audra seem even more believable when she sums up on page 251 some memorably awful experiences from her “life”: food poisoning, the gas (literally) running out during another affair, an unexpected French kiss from Grandpa, etc. All these strange, unsettling experiences give Audra the air of authenticity. She is complicated and problematic, as all interesting protagonists are, busy making decisions that the average reader would not necessarily do in real life, but is very happy to read about in fiction.

There is more authentic detail when Graham and Julio drive around picking up food, and “one woman handed Graham a bag full of cylindrical objects wrapped in plastic and then leaned in the window and gave them a long blast of information about rolling out the dough and brushing it with butter, then each individual roll with egg wash, and afterward sprinkling a little pearl sugar or possibly almonds unless that was a danger due to nut allergies, which schools were way too paranoid about inher opinion.” You read this and feel as if you are in the car with them, listening to this woman drone on.

There is also what I like to call a lovely resting moment, when Audra is described in all her glory and we can see why Graham loves her. On page 252, Heiny writes: “She was wearing her short swingy green coat and a little green beret and just the ends of her hair curled from beneath it. Julio and Graham were stuck at a light so they watched as Audra finally decided on both bunches of flowers. She tucked them under one arm and took Matthew’s hand and began walking. Their clasped hands swung easily between them.” Both Julio and Graham are a bit love-struck at the sight of her, and so are we, despite her arguably bad behavior.

So where is the turning point of the story, the moment where the story opens up and turns around, where we suddenly feel invested in the fates of the characters, where the plot heats up and the tension mounts and the author manages to rivet us to the story’s resolution? I think it is on page 257. This is a sad, tender moment, where Graham is left to decide his own fate. He envies Julio: “Julio could drift in and out, partaking of family life, and yet leading his own romantic life (he was frequently out all night). Julio could stay on the surface, where everything was fine, where the happy family watched movies and ate dinner and sat around in cozy clusters. Julio never had to look deeper and examine the foundation, never had to realize that the foundation was damaged and unsafe.” Graham has a quiet epiphany here. He is vulnerable as he realizes his life has changed, irrevocably and not for the better, and he is worse off than he realized. Whether he decides to stay in the marriage remains to be seen, though we are led to believe that he does. Graham has another unpleasant epiphany on page 261, when Heiny writes: “Suddenly he realize why life went on: because, unfortunately, that was the only direction it moved. You could keep running afer former happiness like a boulder rolling away from you, but it was pointless because that existence, the one you want, is gone forever.”

Adding to the complications of this plot is the doorman, Julio, who notices the dynamics between Audra and Graham, and has a few choice, funny observations about their marriage: Essentially, he tells Graham to “man up,” and not make such a big deal about Audra’s dalliance. This is tough advice to take, but Graham does, at least for the duration of this story.

Finally, there is some fabulous writing here, specifically when Heiny gives Graham gestures and writes about him watching Audra: “He kept cutting the skin off the sides of the pineapple, concentrating on making the knife follow the curve. He could tell she was still standing in the doorway. But when he finished with the pineapple and looked up at her, she had already turned to go, her shirt leaving an after image of red that hurt his eyes.” Notice the use of food, color, and gesture here---we see the pineapple being cut and the color red stays with us.

I’m curious what you think the outcome of this story is. Is this a couple you want to continue to read about? What about Graham’s dilemma interests you? What makes Audra such an intriguing character? Would you have liked to read more about Matthew? (I would have.) Is Julio a convincing character? What do you think happens next?

Ann Hood, Tomato Pie, Tin House, Spring 2014 (elevation of object, our hero goes on a journey, looks back at her past)

I have to admit that what initially attracted me to this story was the idea of reading about and possibly making potato pie. But I also like Ann Hood, especially her essays, and when I read the first paragraph in which Hood writes about the great, late food writer and novelist, Laurie Colwin, I knew I would want to read this piece through.

This essay is a bit long but there is some wonderful, vivid writing here. “The recipe got splattered with tomato guys and mayonnaise..” is an excellent example---we have the funny, violent and refreshingly original phrase, “tomato guts.” 

Hood writes about the mechanics of making the pie: “You place a layer of biscuit crust in a pie pan, cover it with sliced fresh tomatoes, sprinkle with chopped basil and top with cheddar cheese…” As Frank Conroy once said, process is always interesting and that includes the process of cooking. The mechanics of doing anything that requires concentration---planting flowers, climbing a mountain, sewing on a button, decorating a cake---can be made to symbolize an entire life’s effort and the object itself can go on the journey that the protagonist is also making. In fact, sometimes the object’s journey is more magnificent and vivid than the character’s and we end up loving and longing for that object as if it were a character. 

Hood made that tomato pie over and over until she got it just right. Hood ends that paragraph (on page 210) by writing, “The smells of that pie on a hot summer day make you feel dizzy, so intoxicating are they.” You’ve probably heard me say this before in class, and I know it sounds cynical, but your reader wants the experience of being drunk/intoxicated/high and you will give him/her a vicarious thrill by describing the effect of being intoxicated by food/drink/smokes/drugs/love in your work.

But of course, this piece is not just about getting tomato pie just right or the joys of making it and eating it. If that’s all it were, it would appear in Bon Appetit or Cook’s Illustrated.  This piece is about Hood’s evolution as a writer, her family’s vacations at the shore, her desire to emulate Laurie Colwin and become a published author, and most of it all, it is about Hood’s past, how she got through it and what she made of it. But one writer’s desire to emulate another writer is an old story. Hood cleverly gives the story a twist by inserting the making of tomato pie into it. She elevates the pie as an object and uses the pie to expand and narrate her story. 

And though her infatuation with Colwin is interesting, it is her description of her own family, specifically on page 212, that brings this piece to life. Notice the details of food, weather, books, the specifics of what her mother did at work. This is rich, thick writing: “Growing up, I spent most of my summers sweating in our backyard or watching game shows on TV, sitting in front of a fan and eating root beer popsicles. My mother worked at a candy factory, stuffing plastic Christmas stockings with cheap toys and candy all summer. But she got Fridays off, and she and my aunt would load us kids into one of their station wagons and drive down to Scarborough Beach, where my cousin Gloria Jean and I sat on a separate blanket and pretended not to know the rest of the family. We had plans, big plans. To leave Rhode Island and our blue collar, immigrant Italian roots behind. Even at the beach, we toted Dickens or Austen, big fat books that helped the hot humid summer pass.”

Hood also deftly uses smells in this piece. Notice on page 213: “I also remember the smells of steam heat and wet wool, the way the audience listened, rapt.” Don’t forget to use smell in your own work.

Finally, Hood beautifully writes about her family in this piece, and this is ultimately what gives the piece some heft: She is writing about loss here, the loss of family, the fading feeling of safety and happiness that children feel when their parents are nearby, and she writes about it beautifully even as she casually writes about food. On page 213, she writes: “We ate tomato pies with grilled cheeseburgers and hot dogs, and Italian sausages, my father manning the grill with a cold beer in his hand..” She mentions her mother’s poker club, Auntie Dora’s Italian meatloaf, etc. By page 214, she has killed all these characters off, and though that sounds callous and blunt, please notice that this loss of the people/characters she loves (and we have come to love) moves us as readers. We have come to know these characters and feel attached to them because Hood wrote about them with fondness and in detail, and she makes us feel sad about the characters she’s lost and prompts us to think about our own families and friends, perhaps prompting us to revisit the art of spending time with and remembering the people (and characters if we are writing and reading about them) we love(d). 

Hood writes these beautiful lines on page 214: “There are have been so many things I didn’t take good enough care of, or hold on to tight enough, because we don’t really believe we will lose them, do we? Somehow, we are always stunned that things go away, disappear, die. People too. They leave us and despite knowing better, their leaving is always a surprise.” 

Don’t be afraid to write movingly and slowly about people/place/things and pets that you have lost. Your reader wants to share that loss with you. Killing off a vital, vibrant character is an effective way to move your reader.

Colum McCann, The Journey Home, Tin House, Spring 2014 (Our hero goes on a journey…)

I love Colum McCann. His novel, Let the Great World Spin, was sad, riveting and beautifully written. Though it was billed as a novel, in my mind it was really a book of short stories about inter-connected characters, as Jennifer Egan did in A Visit from the Goon Squad and Elizabeth Strout did in Mrs. Kitteridge.

In the essay, The Journey Home, McCann writes about a trip he took with his father to see a soccer (aka football) game when he was a boy. The trip magnifies the relationship between father and son, England and Ireland, and soccer players and soccer. There is passion and violence, love and disappointment in all these relationships.

All great heroes go on a journey, and in this piece, McCann leaves Dublin, crosses a “…choppy sea. Huge and gray…” to go to England to see his first soccer game. The sea is a scary place and so is the ship. “Some men were arguing over a bottle. Thick Irish accents. They sat under a blanket of cigarette smoke. Others intent at the slot machines. The boat tilted and rolled.” Note what McCann has done: The stakes are raised, the child’s life might be at risk. There is vice everywhere---drink, smoke, gambling, dissent. Will the men get into a fight? Will the ship tip over? Will our hero get out alive? We read on to find out.

McCann continues to raise the tension. “The boat pitched and rolled. The sound of the slot machines jangled in the air. Shouts rang out .Fighting. Laughter.” They reach land and there, literally, is the light: “…with rumor of lights already in the sky.” It’s always lovely to read about light in a story. As readers, we are always looking for the light. 

Then the Dad warns the son about his accent: Not everyone likes the Irish, especially in England. There is a hint of violence. We worry some more for the safety of our young traveller. “Gray smoke poured across the sky.” Great, colorful, ominous details of the weather, always a great thing to include for your reader. It makes s/he feel as if s/he is really there with you in your story.

Note there are also a few food details here: A ham sandwich packed by Mom, the taste of “my first ever hamburger.” If you ever run out of things to write about, write about your first time ever doing something. It can be anything: The novelty of it will give your writing a jolt and push the reader along. When you try something new, you (and the reader) don’t know what will happen. We readers love this kind of suspense.

This is also the first time the narrator “lies” about something: He tells his father he likes the hamburger, when he doesn’t. To write, and read about, lies, is always satisfying.

Also note the use of the many lovely and(literally) colorful details: “England wasn’t very green..” “Gray smoke poured across the sky...” “Club Orange drink…” “red-brick houses… “a sea of moving red..” Readers love reading about light and color and these details will bring your story to life.

McCann then turns to the details of the soccer game. It was exhilarating, the boy roots for his hero, the English goal keeper Gordon Banks. Politics don’t matter when a little boy feels passionate about a ball game. There is a bit of play-by-play, which always makes the reader feel as if s/he is there.

McCann and his father leave the game and “started the long journey home.” Our hero has completed his journey---a seemingly dangerous boat ride, the taste of new food, the hostility of strangers, followed by a soccer game in potentially hostile territory---and lived to tell his tale without losing his innocence.

Cheryl Strayed, My Uniform, Tin House, Spring 2014 (elevation of object)

Cheryl Strayed is a deft and gifted writer. She elevates an object beautifully in this piece and lets a pair of sport pants  tell the story of her marriage to her husband (similar to what Stephen King did with his wedding ring.) She is the author of the wonderful memoir Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, which I highly recommend, if you haven’t read it already.

Strayed knows, almost better than any writer except Mary Karr, how to take a small object or a seemingly unimportant incident and give it life and death significance. She did this extremely well in her book, Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love andLife from Dear Sugar, which is a series of essays that stemmed from her time as an advice columnist on the TheRumpus. In this piece, Strayed writes about a black negligee and a pair of sport pants and uses them to magnify her relationship with her husband.  Do we want to know how she aroused her husband when he first saw her in a cheap negligee? Not really. But do we want to know how she uses clothing to dramatize the erotic nature of her marriage? Yes, as writers, we do. Especially, if there is a lesson about resourcefulness, not standing on ceremony or buying into conventional attitudes about what makes women sexy in the process.

Let’s look at how Strayed does this. She starts by describing her “sport pants…sturdy cotton twill rather than jersey material. Cut comfortably loose, the elastic waistband was the only place where the pants made any contact with my body. Anything could happen inside those pants without detection. I could be fat or less fat or kind of slender. They were extraordinarily utilitarian and patently unsexy. Nuns might opt to wear them. Or park rangers. Or seventy-year old piano teachers. Or butch lesbians who captained Ultimate Frisbee teams. Or me. I wore them so often my husband took to referring to them as my uniform.” We can all see this pair of pants; we probably all own a pair. It’s a great choice to write about a common object that is well known and understood and then give it new meaning.  Strayed deftly establishes herself as a no-nonsense, practical woman, someone who wears pants that would be beloved by a wide range of people.

Then she flips this image on its head and tells us that the first time she slept with her husband, she wore something entirely different. This is great writing---she does a 180-degree turn and surprises her reader with this “confession.” First, we get the titillating news that she slept with her then boyfriend the second night they knew each other. Oh my! That’s a little risqué---and intriguing. Clever of her to insert that here---readers always want to read about bad behavior. On that night, she writes she “wore a black lace getup that’s called a baby doll nightie. It was a little handful of a thing I’d purchased at Goodwill just before I met him, when I was twenty-seven and constantly roaming thrift stores on the hunt for something that would help me project the image of myself I was hoping for…” In the next graph, she continues to describe the nightie: “I grabbed the just purchased nightie from the top drawer of my dresser, a gob of cheap black lace in my hand...The nightie had thin shoulder straps, a form-fitting see-through bodice that gently mashed my breasts upward, and a flouncy short-skirted bottom…a black lack thingamajig that scarcely covered her rear… and then I got into bed with him and he pulled the damn thing off.” 

This is great, vivid, detailed writing, with a little sex play thrown in to keep us interested. We can see the lingerie, and the verbs she uses---“grabbed” and “”mashed” and “pulled” hint at violence and aggression. The verbs go well with the sexual tension she’s trying to build. As potentially exciting as it might be to read about black lingerie, there’s a limit to how much time a reader can spend reading about black lingerie if nothing sexy is going to come of it.

Then Strayed does another flip: she goes from being earnest and transparent in her desire to seduce her boyfriend to looking back at her young, foolish eager-to-please self with humorous disdain. In a sentence, her protagonist—the narrator, Strayed the writer---has been transformed. This is what every protagonist has to do—change, for better or worse.

Strayed returns to describing the sport pants. “I wore them so long and so often they’d become threadbare. The elastic of the waist had given way; the hemline had frayed.” She resolves to thrown them out; the pants had come to the end of their journey. She spells out their meaning: “My uniform. Our history. So I fished them out of the garbage and cut out the crotch with a pair of scissors. It was a neat black rectangle of fabric that only two people on the planet would recognize for what it is.” Then she adds another erotic note:  She mails the crotch of the pants to her husband, who is out of town. This is a risky, pushing-the-limits, bad girl, sexy, feminist, courageous, in-your-face act. It’s kind of a crazy, finn  bold thing to do. Strayed lets us imagine her husband’s hoped for reaction: He smells the crotch of her sport pants.  Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t, but it’s a powerful, erotic image to leave the reader with, as we contemplate the end of the sports pants’ “life.”