Wednesday's Handout on Narrative Techiniques

NOTE: Remember that Story #1 is now due NO LATER THAN NEXT FRIDAY INSTEAD OF ON MONDAY. We pushed it back in class on Wednesday since some people wanted a little more time. 

Also, the handout I gave in class on Wednesday is below, reminding you of some basic narrative techniques that the stories in our book employ, and how they change the way we read and experience the story. Remember, a story is less WHAT is written than HOW it is written. 

To prove this, read the examples below and look over the three opening paragraphs from a story I wrote, each one with a slightly different approach. This might give you some new ideas! 

NARRATIVE TECHNIQUES FOR WRITING FICTION

FIRST PERSON: “Alice wants to hold a funeral for me, which is disconcerning because I’m not dead. But humans, like all aliens—and certainly all single-forms—have their own idiosyncrasies. I’m used to the idiosyncrasies, of course: I’ve lived on Earth—in my tertiary body, at least—since my hatching in San Francisco, grew up in a cramped apartment in North Beach and am very much a Californian, an American, and an Earthling, if not a human” (St. George, “The Weight of Your Own Ashes”).

ALSO: “We have been trying to teach  you to read for several generations. We are running out of time” (Yoachim, “We Will Teach You How To Read”).

SECOND PERSON: “You are ancient, and we are fleeting. Such a luxury, to have so much time that you need not rush through everything at once. And yet you are so horribly inefficient, to not make more of the time you have. Think what you could do in a single lifetime if you could read more than one thread at once, think more thoughts at once, hold more experience in every moment” (Yoachim, “We Will Teach You How To Read”).

THIRD PERSON (Unlimited): “Rosalee died, aged seventy-six. Her oldest sister, Irene (seventy-eight) blamed their middle sister, Viola (seventy-seven), for sending Rosie out front to check the mail when she knew Rosie’s inner ear condition was acting up. Viola, on the other hand, blamed Irene for not paying to get the garden path repaved last summer when they had the boys in to fix the porch” (Swirsky, “Also the Cat”).

THIRD PERSON (Limited):”The first time Li Li buried a corpse, she was nine years old. Her father had been shut up inside one of the inn’s private dining rooms all day. At such times it was understood that he was never to be disturbed. The rule had been drilled deep in Li Li since she was a small child—whether she had fallen on the riverbank and matted her hair with blood, or a patron of the inn became belligerent with drink and flung wine in her mother’s face—knocking to interrupt her father was strictly forbidden” (Huang, “The River Judge”).

PAST TENSE: “She returned to her ship. As she ascended from the street, she noticed a light in the window and the sight of her niece waving at her from the glass. Maybe kids weren’t all that bad. Maybe she should spend more time with her nieces and nephews. Maybe she should stop by more. But you know what was the best part about kids? Giving them back. Jaz blasted off into the stars.”

PRESENT TENSE: “Feel the doubling of it, hear it in two different voices, somehow split your single focus of attention into two. Do you see how they match, how they resonate with each other? Go back up and look again. Try to capture the sensation of reading both at once, even for a moment” (Yoachim, “We Will Teach You How To Read”).

THREE VARIATIONS ON THE OPENING OF A STORY:  

DAMN him. I really meant it this time. Damn him to the nine hells and every infernal dimension that ever existed in books. And damn him ten times lower than that! I seriously thought about poisoning his soup. Smothering him in his sleep. Hexing his wine so that it spewed through every orifice and left him a shivering heap of refuse. I wandered through the day in a black haze of revenge, tasting it on my tongue, my lips, my heart laboring with the weight of injustice. I had to show him, to prove that even I, lowly wretch that I was, could only be pushed and insulted so far. That even a woman could take her revenge. 

Damn him. She really meant it this time. Damn him to the nine hells and every infernal dimension that every existed in books. And damn him ten times lower than that! She seriously thought about poisoning his soup. Smothering him in his sleep. Hexing his wine so that it spewed through every orfice and left him a shivering heap of refuse. She wandered through the day in a black haze of revenge, tasting it on her tongue, her lips, her heart laboring with the weight of injustice. She had to show him, to prove that even she, lowly wretch that she was, could only be pushed and insulted so far. That even a woman could take her revenge.

DAMN him. I really mean it this time. Damn him to the nine hells and every infernal dimension that ever existed in books. And damn him ten times lower than that! I’m seriously thinking about poisoning his soup. Smothering him in his sleep. Hexing his wine so that it spews through every orifice and leaves him a shivering heap of refuse. I wander through the day in a black haze of revenge, tasting it on my tongue, my lips, my heart laboring with the weight of injustice. I have to show him, to prove that even I, lowly wretch that I am, can only be pushed and insulted so far. That even a woman can take her revenge.