Smoke and Mirrors, and Other Things
I'm moving by the end of this month. I really haven't packed much of anything yet; honestly, I've only begun today. I've lived on my own, alone, in an attic for eight years now, but I'm moving in with my grandfather and cousin. In other words, I have to remember how to live with other people again.
I think I've been so slow at beginning the actual process of moving because I want to cherish the last moments I have of living alone. I don't mind my grandfather or my cousin, and it'll be saving me money. But there's something I'll deeply miss about living alone. I love being social, but I hate people coming into my space, I suppose (to the point where, when sitting down and seriously thinking about it, I wonder if I'm aromantic of some sorts because I absolutely do not want anyone living with me later on).
There's a certain sense of melancholy in the air. Maybe it's just the variable weather. Maybe it's the impending hassle of moving and living with others again.
Anyway, I did start today, once I got home from a doctor's appointment. I had bought a bunch of boxes weeks ago. After all, I've known since early December this was going to be a thing. I struggled to get them in the trunk of my car, but no one came to ask if I needed help. Comparatively, they were much easier to remove.
Normally I like to listen to something when I clean or do things otherwise similar to putting things I haven't thought about in years into a box, from out of the closet. When I stopped using Spotify, I stopped listening to podcasts, but I was considering asking my friends for recommendations for this very moment. But then I remembered: It's a new month, which means a new book for the casual book club I'm in (which I really haven't been keeping up with lately, so I want to do it this time).
This month's pick was The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker. I've never heard of it, admittedly, which is all the more to read it. While my library does seem to have it, all the copies of the audiobook have been taken out, which didn't really help me in the moment. Placing a hold, I went back to the main page and perused the "collections" that the librarians put together, but there was nothing really catching my eye, until I saw American Gods, by Neil Gaiman.
I have a physical copy of that one, and I do hope to read it some day. But this made me remember I wanted to read one of his collections of short stories, so I looked to see if any were available to listen to immediately.
Luckily, Smoke and Mirrors was. And I didn't even realize that the author was reading it himself, until he said so. What a nice bonus. He does have a nice voice.
The collection starts out with Reading the Entrails, which honestly just kind of washed over me. Chivalry and The Price also really interesting. Well, all of them so far have been really interesting to me, even though I've only heard a few.
I fell in love with her like a suicide from a bridge.
What a potent line, from Troll Bridge. Something about it is just so telling of the main character's mindset that leads into all the rest of his mannerisms.
There's something to be said about Neil Gaiman's writing style. Though he can expertly vary the voice, the style always remains distinctly his own. He's always been evocative but not overly so. Always easy to digest but always dealing with some hard to swallow subjects.
Thus, I feel inspired.
I have never been good at short stories. I have always had grandiose thoughts in my mind, of long epics and novels and sometimes even trilogies. And nothing ever gets done, and nothing is ever written, and ever am I dreaming of the next thing that follows suit. Long have I realized that short stories would be excellent to curb this—a meager attempt to wrangle in my thoughts.
At the very least, the ink would dry.
But where do I start? How do I condense the ideas I've had, the ideas I will have, into a short story, short enough to be read in one session but long enough to have substance? Such thoughts rattle along the epics and the novels and the trilogies, along different tracks.
Smoke and Mirrors made me realize something. Which is, despite knowing this abstractly, short stories don't have any definable lengths (mostly). There are things in this audiobook that take him a minute to read. The Goldfish is seventy minutes. And they have all been interesting, thought provoking, and charming!
Another thing it's made me realize is that there doesn't have to be a discernible "development" like I'm so used to. The Hero's Journey is lauded as one of the best writing tools in English speaking spaces, but you can't apply that to many shorter stories. They don't have any "grand" things to tell (unless you think hard about them) (or unless the author wants to tell a grand thing).
There is still conflict, and there is still a resolution. In The Price, the narrator sets out to find just what is torturing the black cat that sleeps on his porch, and he gets the resolution by witnessing it himself as he stays up one night. And then it ends, simple as that, complex as that.
You get a condensed glimpse into the lives of the characters in short stories. For a moment, however long, you see what they are seeing and experiencing what they are, too.
And, really, isn't that the basis of every story, long and short?
So shall I write.
With Love, Byleth