An explanation of my short story which is longer than the short story itself.
Thanks to Funhouse Magazine for publishing my short fiction Minimum Page. Usually I like it when work speaks for itself, but in this case I’m going to share a story on how this tale came together.
When we got back from Paris in January I was fat and depressed so I decided to read Proust again. And just like the last time I almost read this 3,000 page novel I found myself almost more engaged by the plot synopsis than by the novel itself. If you’ve ever picked up a Proust volume you’ve probably noticed there are 4-5 pages in the back of the book which break it all down. It’s not a Sparks Notes summary, and usually nothing is happening in Proust, so synopsis becomes a kind of poetry on its own. And I don’t mean this in an infuriating David Shields sort of way, but rather how the synopsis of a masterpiece will likely, on its own, also be a masterpiece. The Iliad, in which a shit-ton of stuff happens, would also have an impressionistic synopsis. I got to wondering, would this be true for all works? If any work is minimized enough, will it still be a masterpiece? Can a bad work become a good work if it’s short enough? What if I tried to write a short story as a Proust synopsis? Say, about 150 words on the events of 2,800 pages, like this:
Street noises, a musical awakening (page 1). A frank and bold discussion of female beauty (pg. 20). My intellectual and artistic preferences (88). My maid, Françoise, recounts a shocking anecdote about a young girl (110). The young girl’s natural good manners (115). Frottage with the young girl (159). The young girl finally comes (1,570). A languorous voluptuous murmur (1,571). The dying fall of Vinteuil’s Sonata reminds me of drinking Ovaltine with Mama. (1,650.). Once again I watch the young girl as she sleeps (1,651) and wakes (1,652). She throws me out of her chambre. (1,653). The pornographers from SleepCreep.com ask me to star in their next porno (1,655). Welcomed into a career in American porn, I attend a marvelous party in the valley of Los Angeles where I snort pure ecstasy and recount every detail of my experience over many sepia-toned, sunset-tinged passages on what it means to be a True Smut Artist (2,655). I return to Echo Park with a lumbering, piquant despair. (2,666). Jealousy after the event (2,666). Back in Paris, I inadvertantly make an hilarious pun, impossible to translate from the French, that only myself and the six people in this drawing room (who aren’t servants) care about. (2,671). World War One (2,799). An explanation of why it sucks. (2,800).
And so on. And then one day, six weeks after I’d been back from Paris and dealing with the Chicago winter which was making me feel much more Nelson Algren than Marcel Proust, I found myself once again waiting for the North Avenue Bus at Division and Orleans holding my Proust volume up real high, and I suddenly realized I had just spent the last ten minutes reading the synopsis instead of the actual book. I was through reading Proust, probably forever, for about the 10th time in my life. But then I got on the bus. And I saw an ad for the next Nicholas Sparks movie. I hadn’t even really been thinking about Jesus, but there He was. The ad showed two blonde people, their piercing blue eyes blacked-out by matching sunglasses, and the title of the movie was either The Choice or The Result. I knew, of course, this being Sparks, that love gives us only one, true choice, and death is the only true, verifiable result, and that both of the happy blonde people from the movie were likely going to die of cancer during a terrorist attack on an unspoiled turquoise beach. And then it hit me: wouldn’t it be fun to write a synopsis of a Nicholas Sparks novel but bring to it the philosophical weight of a Proust synopsis? In order to explore my earlier question— if any work is minimized enough, will it still be a masterpiece — I worked out, in my head, what this piece would look like. When I got off the bus in Wicker Park, I sat on a bench in front of an overpriced donut shop, and quickly jotted down the required tale. Most Sparks novels take place in about 12 pages, and all of these things usually happen in them, like this:
A moving image of Christian love and fellowship (page 1). Characters clearly establish what’s at stake and unfurl their character arcs (pg. 2). The sound of crickets (2). Later that day we meet young Stanley Thunderhorn, a stone-faced, brawny Christian hunter who knows how to do things with his hands, and although he is still prone to bouts of righteous anger, is hesitant to use his fists since getting back from Iraq and/or Afghanistan (3). A description of the unspeakable violence he saw Over There (3). All we wanted to do was liberate those people (4). Stanley’s father dies in a grease fire, leaving Stanley alone to run the family business of erecting Large American Christian Houses of Worship. (4) A ballad by the rock band Train (perhaps Drops of Jupiter?) reminds Stanley Thunderhorn of his cousin who died very young in an astronomical crash (perhaps The Challenger?) (4). Fiduciary problems involving the erection of a superchurch throw into uncertainty Stanley’s future (4). A complete discussion of the importance of track changes in legal writing (5). While on the road, Stanley meets a beautiful Christian woman who is a lawyer (6). He carries on a tremendous love affair with this mysterious lawyer, who also plays the piano beautifully, until she suddenly dies of cancer during a terrorist attack on a turquoise beach while playing Philip Glass’s Metamorphosis No. 1 (6). Stanley meets a busty young Christian woman on that same turquoise beach (10). He doesn’t realize she’s busty until they’ve been married for five years (11). A true love story never ends (12).
I was very satisfied with myself for my conception. I assumed I was finished. I thought these were a riot. Really snappy. Consensus-building. But, as it turned out, the fifteen websites where I submitted “Nicholas Sparks Notes w/ Marcel Proust Synopsis.doc” didn’t find my content as funny as I hoped they would. Although they did wish me the best of luck placing my content elsewhere, say, 200,000,000 website miles away from their website.
In order to stay on brand, I despaired. Two months passed. I thought about a lot of other things, like what it would be like to have a coffee with Jessica Chastain, and, if I behaved myself, and was very respectful, whether or not that innocent coffee would lead to a casual dinner. One month passed. I re-opened “Nicholas Sparks w/ Marcel Proust Synopsis.doc” with a fresh eye. Now I saw what it was really about. I realized that in my feverish attempt to be conceptual, I had accidentally written a story. I changed the title and was glad it was all finally over again, if only for a few minutes.
