As someone more used to critiquing longer works, it's definitely
an interesting experiencing going through short stories.
The thing with novels, especially when you go chapter by
chapter, like I used to (in excruciating detail, natch),
you get to comment on things like plot and character development,
things that you can watch evolve over the course of the
story and, depending on what kind of Svengali you perceive
yourself to be, attempt to influence as best one's eldritch
powers allow. Which is why the standard agreement for posting
on this site has that clause in tiny print that I get your
soul. Didn't see that part? Oh well. Want it back? I think
my characters will be making a lot more appearances in the
stories around here, eh?
The thing is, in all seriousness, short stories are an
absolutely different beast from the novel. Novels are the
equivalent of a cinematic masterpiece, or perhaps a child,
something you sort of nurture and let grow and flourish
into something possibly glorious. Short stories, on the
other hand, are the literary equivalent of a hit and run
accident. They make their point and get the heck out before
you know what you hit you. Everything is ten times more
compressed, there's little room to waste on lengthy introductions,
you have to hit the floor running and just sort of go with
it and hope the reader catches up. Plots are simpler, too,
nothing too epic that will drag on and on and on.
All of this makes critiquing short stories a bit of a pain
sometimes because the things I like to harp on, namely character
development and plot and all that wacky thematic stuff that
I like throwing in my own stories . . . it's less relevant
here. So when going through a short story you tend to focus
purely on two things, form or content. Form tends to be
more objective and deals primarily with things like structure.
Comments about content can be boiled down to simply "I
like it" or "I don't like it" (well, we elaborate
more than that . . . you don't want people to think that
just anyone can do this, right . . . what a revolution that
would start). Being no master of the classical short story
and not one to wed myself to conventional story structure
(or make anyone else do it) I'm probably not too qualified
to comment on things like "rising action" and
the like without sounding like I'm just quoting from notes
from an old English lecture I was only half-awake for. Thus,
I tend to restrict my comments to "I like . . ."
which is a dangerous road to walk down as well because,
as we all know, everyone's mileage is different. My goal,
I guess, is to try to mix the objective with the subjective,
enough so that it doesn't sound dry and scholarly ("the
classicist rhythm of two verbs matched with two adverbs
per sentence allows for evenly spaced paragraphs . . .")
but I want to throw some formal notes in there as well so
this doesn't come across as something that a high school
journal keeper might have written ("and it was like,
SO awesome, the way, like, the story was just, you know,
like awesome . . ."). I've explained all of this before
in some fashion or another, I'm not sure why I felt like
explaining it again. Everyone needs a refresher once in
a while, I guess. Enough. I'll move on.
For the first time I'm reviewing a story by someone not
involved with the site (yay!), though that doesn't mean
that they haven't been given my address so they can drive
over and beat the crap out of me if I go too overboard.
This time out, we're going through Susan Bross' "The
Pedophile", with a title that should be fairly self-explanatory.
Before we start, I have to give Susan credit for attempting
to tackle a subject that is about as unpleasant as they
come. Let's face it, nobody likes pedophiles. If they send
you to prison for it, none of the prisoners think you're
cool. They want to kill you (among other things). Once you're
convicted of it, or even suspected, your life is over, nobody
will want to even come near you without wanting to put a
bullet in you. The things that pedophiles do (or contemplate
doing) most rational people can't even conceive in any form
at all. So to write a story about a pedophile, especially
from his point of view (an interesting point I just want
to throw up in the air . . . I tend to assume the male pronoun
in cases like this . . . I've never seen any news coverage
of female pedophiles, unless you count those scattered reports
of teachers who sleep with their students . . . is it because
pedophilia predominantly a crime committed by men for whatever
reason or are incidences involving women just not reported
or maybe even better hid) means that you have to, in some
fashion, actually get inside the head of a pedophile and
"be" him in some respect, an experience I don't
think any normal person would particularly relish. You do
the job a little too well and make the story a little too
convincing, and people start to wonder about you (for the
same logic that says if I write about serial killers, I
must be one myself) . . . don't do the job well enough and
the story remains little more than a static exercise, never
really coming alive.
This story, to me at least, falls somewhere in the middle.
I know it's billed as a "horror" story, probably
because the very concept of pedophilia is in itself inherently
frightening . . . but I didn't really find it that scary.
The main component of a good horror story is atmosphere,
which is one of those intangible things that are like souls,
you don't really know when it's there but you recognize
it all too well when it's gone. Suspense and atmosphere
are what drive a good horror story, a sense of the "not-normal"
that something is utterly, terribly wrong even as everything
seems right and it's only as the story winds on that you
see what that wrong really is. What makes a horror story
frightening isn't for what it tells, but for what it leaves
out and lets the reader ponder. The ending of this story
is perfect in that respect by ending with our "protagonist"
driving away with his new prize, never hinting to the reader
one way or another how things will turn out. That, to me,
is exactly how the story should have ended and I was praying
that the author would have the guts to do that, which she
did and I commend her for it. We all like nice, tidy endings
where things end happily, or at the very least where everything
is accounted for. An ending like the one we see here is
a fist clenched around air, helpless. We want to know what
happens next, we try to extend the story in our heads for
just a few more lines, but it's just guesswork, we'll never
truly know. Perhaps the author knows. Perhaps she doesn't.
It doesn't matter. The poor child will either emerge from
the experience okay, or she won't. All our speculation means
nothing, it's shouting into the dark, without a response.
And in a way, it's the only way the story can end, anything
else does a disservice to the reader, waters down the monstrosity
of the crime and belittles the trauma that is about to unfold.
That said, while I find the ending brilliantly subtle in
that respect, I think the overall execution tends to stray
toward the obvious side of things, which I think removes
some of the tension from the story itself. Personally I
think giving the story a title as declaratory as "The
Pedophile" might be tipping the hand too early. The
thing with a true horror story (and I have no idea whether
this was intended as a horror story or not, but since it's
been put in this section, we'll run with that concept) is
that you don't want to give too much away too early. By
starting the story off with a title like that, you've already
told the story, we know what it's going to be about, there's
no surprise in there for us, in the sense that as we read
we feel this creeping dread, this "Oh God, is that
about what I think it's about". There's a reason that
Stephen King titles never really give anything away, although
most of them are famous enough now that they conjure images
of the terror even without actually reading the story. After
all it's "Cujo" not "Mad Killer Dog"
and "Salem's Lot" not "Run Away! It's Vampires!".
I like titles that are more allusive, that don't clue the
reader in until it's too late. My favorite story title of
all time is probably Samuel Delany's "We, in Some Strange
Power's Employ, Move in a Rigorous Line" which makes
the reader think "What the hell?" until you read
the story and realize that the title explains everything
you need to know, the themes and everything. A good title
only adds to the mystery, not to the revelation. Once you
start to shed light on things, the horror is gone. There's
a reason few horror movies take place in the daylight. Most
things aren't that scary when you can see them. But when
you give the reader a chance to brace themselves, to prepare
themselves for what's coming, then you've lost half the
game already.
And with the title in mind, it becomes far too easy to
explain the main character's action, even right from the
start. "Oh, he's looking through that peephole at the
little girl . . . of course he is, he's a pedophile, it
says so right in the title". I think the story would
be more effective by dropping the title and showing the
character going about his day, his thoughts lingering on
the little girl, watching her every move, plotting how he
can get closer to her . . . in the beginning it might seem
innocent (heck, everyone likes to watch kids at play . .
. they have more fun than we do) but then as the story winds
on the reader should get the sinking sensation that something
is not right here. The man's attention seems too focused,
his thoughts taking him in a direction that doesn't feel
right. And by the time he buys the puppy and starts to lure
the girl away, the reader knows the horrible truth and now
we know exactly what we're dealing with, and those seemingly
innocent behaviors we excused in the beginning now sit in
our stomachs like grease-laden lunch, too heavy to even
contemplate. A good, subtle twist is like a punch to the
gut and leaves the reader wondering why they didn't see
it coming.
I think the portrayal of David is well done here, especially
since his character has to essentially carry the story on
his own (Lydia, for all her cuteness, is never intended
to be anything other than a catalyst and her mother remains
a cipher, barely heard or seen) and it's fitting, given
that for David, the world seems to literally revolve around
the two of them. The author does a decent job getting us
into his thoughts . . . this is where the plain, rather
matter of fact nature of the prose here really helps . .
. it frames his actions as something almost normal on the
surface and it's only when you sit back and think about
them that you realize how utterly sick his actions here.
David is presented here as a man going about his day and
while the lack of any really flashy passages tends to keep
the story on a bit of an even keel . . . I think it also
helps to convey how David perceives himself. There's one
moment of self-reflection where he thinks that maybe these
thoughts are leading him into anything good . . . but that's
it, that's all we get. And maybe those thoughts are a daily
ritual with him or maybe we as the readers just happened
to be witnesses to a fluke of his diseased thoughts . .
. we'll never know. All David knows is that everything he
does is justified by how he feels and I'd say that's an
accurate and entirely realistic depiction of the mind of
a pedophile. Some I imagine are more wracked by guilt than
others, to the point where they know they are doing something
terribly wrong, but the desire is so strong they can't (or
don't want to) help themselves. David may be less motivated
by conscience than most. It's a valid point.
But with looking into the mind of anyone criminally ill,
it's hard to say where the line should be drawn. As a reader,
it's hard to be drawn into the story . . . as I said, the
descriptions are well done and the writing is smooth and
reads easy . . . but considering the subject matter that
we're dealing with here, it may not be enough, and as much
as I hesitate to say this, the descriptions may not go far
enough. I'm not saying this should be a prose form of child
pornography . . . but it one idea would have been to push
this right up against the boundaries, to not dance around
what David might be thinking and get into the heart of his
sickness. He doesn't just think Lydia is a cute kid he wants
to spend time with, he wants her the same way a typical
hot blooded American college-age male would want another
attractive college-age female . . . there's a sexual component
to it and even more there's a component of control to it
. . . he wants her for the same reason she wanted that doll
in the store . . . it's something he can pose and do whatever
he wants with and in end she's nothing more than a doll
to him, a means to vent the churning desire within him.
The writer Andrew Vachss, who I think is a lawyer who deals
specifically in cases where children are the victims, has
a tendency to pull no punches when describing these unpleasant
things . . . and in a story about pedophilia, I don't think
words should be minced. If the reader doesn't feel just
a little bit grimy, a little bit dirty after this romp through
the head of a man who almost no one admires, then something
isn't right. And I guess that's my biggest comment about
the story . . . as readers we're only observers, held at
arm's length, when we should be right there, with the dirt
getting into our faces, our eyes, choking us so that it
can't be ignored.
Obviously a story like this isn't written to be entertaining,
so the point must be to make the reader stop and think.
And to that end the story needs something to make it stand
out . . . at the moment it's almost painfully plain, a point
A to point B type of tale. And with subject matter like
this you need an angle, especially in today's world where
a subject like pedophilia has been hammered into our heads
by the media and television, with news reports getting wall
to wall coverage and articles trying to explain why people
are like this and so on. If you're going to add your story
onto the pile you need to bring something different to the
table . . . as it stands the story is not much different
than what we might read in the newspapers, even David's
eventual method of abduction is a ploy we've seen many times
in movies and in real life. And to me, if you wanted to
make it stand out, I would alter the prose to effect a more
hazy, dream-like quality to it and imbue a more perverse
form of subtle eroticism to it, floating in and out between
the drama bubbling up beneath the story and the desolate
quiet horror that are David's thoughts. In fact I wouldn't
even reveal that Lydia is a child until later in the story,
just to make the reader feel worse about it, if you really
wanted to be cruel. The other possibility would be to tackle
the plot from a different angle, maybe tell it in a first
person narration, maybe a round robin sort of thing between
the different characters (each would tell their part in
their own voice . . . keeping in mind that any of them might
be unreliable) or even add an unconventional angle to the
story, something to keep the reader alert and aware that
this isn't the usual "man takes advantage of child"
story. Maybe David is married and has kids himself, but
isn't interested in them. Maybe he's trying to convince
himself that he's perfectly okay and that by kidnapping
Lydia and not doing anything to her, that'll show everyone
(even as it's quite possible he's in denial). The trick
isn't to be unique and innovative, certainly not every story
has to be, but to find some aspect that hasn't been explored
before and try to run with it. That's the best writing to
me, the kind that takes chances and tries to do something
that hasn't been done before. And even if it's not successful,
at least it was tried.
As I mentioned before, the art of writing short stories
is not an easy one and the best writers in the short story
format are so good at it that it's nearly impossible to
dissect their writing and pick apart where exactly their
skill comes from. A short story only has a short time to
get the reader's attention and the best stories involve
some sort of "hook" to draw the reader in and
render the story a permanent spot in the reader's mind.
This is a good story, well written, about a subject that
we should never ignore. But this isn't a topic that is swept
under the carpet like it used to be and to write about it
these days you need to bring a different viewpoint, a different
angle to separate yourself out from the pack and justify
to the reader why they're reading it. Because, to put it
bluntly, if it's the same sort of thing they can get elsewhere,
from movies, from newspapers, from other writers, why should
they be getting it here, why not go to those other places?
The subject matter alone is enough to get the reader's attention,
but it's not enough on its own to keep that attention and
if you're not careful and not ready with a quick answer
to "Why should I be reading it?" their all too
fickle minds might wander to other mediums and other stories.
But if you've got an answer to that dreaded question, one
they can't form a rebuttal to with any sort of ease, then
you've got them and, having succeeded in doing all the hard
work, you only need to sit back and let them take it from
there.
- MB
3.13.04
"When you need her love so badly, but she's trying
to relax, you can't work it with your fingers, so you try
it with an axe, and he taps you on the shoulder, looking
out for number one, it's like drilling for a rainbow, or
an iceberg in the sun . . ." - Robyn Hitchcock, "The
Man Who Invented Himself"
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