TABLE OF CONTENTS
Page
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS…………………………………………………………………........iii
PART I: CRITICAL ANALYSIS…………………………………………………………………1
Speaking in Silence: White Space and Black Ink……………………………………..2
Works Cited………………………………………………………………………….17
PART II: SHORT STORIES…………………………………………………………………….18
North and West………………………………………………………………………19
Dirge…………………………………………………………………………………37
Who Prays for the Devil?.............................................................................................41
No Paper Cowboys…………………………………………………………………..54
What Happened to the Gar…………………………………………………………...64
A Better Trail………………………………………………………………………...74
Witching Graves……………………………………………………………………..94
The Better Part of Fishing…………………………………………………………..104
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PART I
CRITICAL ANALYSIS
2
Speaking in Silence: White Space and Black Ink
When we think of literary fiction, we don’t think of works that spell everything out for
the reader. Literary fiction has a particular set of values: a richness of character over the
manipulative hand of plot, a quality of language that elevates the mundane, and a depth of
feeling that results from emotional involvement of the reader. Work is required of the reader.
Some would label this work interpretation. To an extent, this is true, but there are connotations
that surround the word interpretation that we need to address. For example, some would read a
story and say, “What is this story about?” Granted, this is a general question that could be
answered with a plot summary or a statement of themes or ideas present within the story. What
is particularly alarming is that some would answer this question as if it were a math problem. As
if there is one true answer or meaning. Literary fiction defies this type of narrow interpretations.
This is because literary fiction uses not only the black ink of words on the page, but also the
white spaces between to convey messages (intelligible and otherwise) to the reader.
So, what’s the difference between these two parts: the black ink and white space? We
have to start with the words themselves, the black ink, the machinery that composes a story.
They are the bones and muscles and tendons. Fiction writing is a series of choices. Every word
is a choice of the author’s. And with every choice, the writer forms a consciousness of narration
to accompany the characters and scenes the author creates. Not only is every nuance of character
or peculiarity of scene a choice of the writer’s, but also how these nuances or peculiarities are
communicated to the reader as a conscious choice. And if we look at writing as a series of
choices—a stream of chosen words—we have to ask the questions, “What is said?” and, “What
is not said?” The words themselves are the dividing line between ink and white space. This is
because words both denote and connote. In his text S/Z, Roland Barthes defines denotation and
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connotation in one fell swoop, writing, “…connotation is a secondary meaning, whose signifier
is itself constituted by a sign or system of primary signification, which is denotation” (7). Thus,
denotation indicates the primary meaning of a word, while connotation refers to the surrounding
meanings. This word surrounding is of particular importance. Connotation doesn’t operate in
any sense of linearity of meanings. There is the primary meaning (denotation) and then all of the
other meanings occupy a nebulous space, as opposed to any linear hierarchy of meanings. This
isn’t to say that some meanings are not closer to the central, denoted meaning of a word.
Denotation works within the words on the page, primary meanings driving the gears of the story,
doing their work from within the ink. On the other hand, a word’s connotations swirl in the
white space, building on the connotations of the words that surround it. These connotations
build to a feeling or a sense of atmosphere within the reader. Barthes makes an interesting
comparison, writing, “…connotation makes possible a (limited) dissemination of meanings,
spread like gold dust on the apparent surface of the text (meaning is golden)” (8-9). Connotation
creates a nebula of signified meanings. As such, connotation becomes one of the fiction writer’s
most valued tools.
There is a necessary interplay between the ink and the white space, a bond that must be
managed. Simplicity and directness are the key to managing this bond. With more denotation,
there can only be less connotation. Verlyn Klinkenborg speaks to this point in his book Several
Short Sentences About Writing when he writes, “Without extraneous words or phrases or clauses,
there will be room for implication. The longer the sentence, the less it’s able to imply, and
writing by implication should be one of your goals” (12). Rick Bass echoes this sentiment in his
essay “When to Keep it Simple” when he writes, “My own preference is toward the small notes
and the disproportionately large amounts of emotion and information they can contain, as well as
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the utility of their accumulated force, neatly fitted as if into a stone wall that seems simply or
even crudely constructed from afar, but potentially dazzling when viewed up close” (33). Bass
and Klinkenborg praise the use of short simple sentences, whose collective effect speak a silent
volume in connotation and implication. As each sentence is formed, the surrounding meanings
build an invisible tapestry for the reader to interpret and experience.
Hemingway’s iceberg theory is another way of explicating the interplay between the
words on the page and the white space. The iceberg theory gets its name from Hemingway
comparing the construction of a story to an iceberg. It is a theory based on omission. In his
book Death in the Afternoon, Hemingway writes, “If a writer of prose knows enough about what
he is writing about, he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly
enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The
dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer
who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing”
(192). Hemingway writes that proper omission strengthens a story. Yet, this does not
necessarily condone omission for omission’s sake. Writers must know what they are omitting,
that way they can properly omit. The invisible substructure—the submerged seven-eighths of
the iceberg—requires crafting as well, and the only way to craft this substructure is for the writer
to know what he is omitting. The omitted or unsaid only receives its invisible structure by the
proper use of language—by saying the right things. According to Hemingway’s theory, only the
bare essentials should be shown (more on showing and telling to come) to the reader, while what
cannot be said should be left submerged for the reader to intuit and feel. The facts—dialogue
and action, all composed in scene—float above the surface, while feelings, symbolism, and
thoughts are submerged. In her essay, “Imagist Interpretation of the Bullfight-Text,” Beatriz
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Penas Ibáñez writes, “The unsaid, the invisible, the part omitted from the linguistic surface of the
text is truer to life than the actually said. In other words, unreadability, like invisibility, does not
entail inexistence. The watcher’s and the reader’s imaginations, activated by an incomplete
form, can infer the missing portions which, although invisible, exist and can be retrieved or
inferred or reappropriated through personal interpretation. Hemingway’s iceberg theory of
writing is also a theory of reading, one that seeks to engage readers in a creative kind of reading
that matches his own creativity as a writer” (157). From this passage we can infer that what is
not said is the most important part of a story. It is the part that is alive within both the reader and
the writer. This also hearkens back to the notion of literary fiction requiring work of the
reader—the work of interpretation. It is the writer’s job to craft a story in such a way that “the
reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as
though the writer had stated them” (Hemingway 192).
The paramount example of this theory is Hemingway’s oft-anthologized story “Hills Like
White Elephants.” In this story, Hemingway presents the reader with a very simple scene
between a man and a woman awaiting a train. They are never given names. Why? Names are
not needed to tell the story. The two discuss an abortion, though the abortion is only referred to
as “an operation.” The man is in favor of the abortion because having a baby worries him, while
the woman is very conflicted about going through with the abortion. The abortion and the
characters’ feelings about the abortion are left completely submerged and invisible. Hemingway
crafts a scene (and particularly dialogue) that offers insight into the interior of the characters and
story. Take this bit for an example:
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