Lydia Davis is one of my absolute favorite reads. It could be the borderline poetic style. Mostly it’s the sharp wit. Either way, she still falls under the category of fiction on the shelves, so in this post, I’ll treat her as such. A flash fiction extraordinaire.
The catch: fiction, particularly flash fiction, is defined by scene and sequel. It’s what thinly divides prose and poetry. Scenes are time. Time adds tension to a narrative, because if there’s one thing everyone on the planet could agree on, it’d be that there just isn’t enough time.
LORIN OBERWEGER
At its core, a scene is a negotiation of some kind, the struggle between one character with a critical desire in the moment and another character or force with an opposing agenda.
Another way to consider scenes, however, comes in the form of emotional TEMPERATURE, the strength with which they grab hold of readers, involve them on a visceral level, keep them anxious, aroused, or invested in some way.
What I like about Oberweger’s definition is its appeal to emotion. Ask any writer what a scene is and they’ll say it’s a unit composed of action and dialogue; that it uses time as a factor of pressure to instigate conflict and disaster; that it ends when time or location changes and the character’s initial goal or motivation is played out.
In fact, all can agree that most scenes are structured by three main elements that work as a progression, a mini beginning, middle, and end in your story: Goal/Motivation, Conflict, and Disaster.
At the start of every well-written scene, a reader should be able to deduce the character’s motivation—something concrete and desired that s/he can take action upon. Then, of course, comes the conflict, because just as Rolling Stones sang it, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” The character faces obstruction in some entity that strives to accomplish a goal that is mutually incompatible with the protagonist’s. The struggle ensues and a disaster strikes in the form of the unforeseeable as new information enters the space, resulting in the end of a scene.
Either a sequel or narrative summary can follow. Narrative summaries are used to provide pertinent information through compressed time. The sequel is constructed through the character’s immediate reaction or response to the disaster. Once the reaction is processed, s/he is faced with a difficult choice between equally unsatisfactory options; it makes up the dilemma. The sequel ends when the character works out a solution, a decision emerging.
Now, to get back to the lovely Lydia Davis.
Her style is certainly circular in its structure, a kind of experimental writing in which the narrative focuses obsessively on one thing or idea. It reminds me of a child grabbing onto something she’s not supposed to have and stubbornly clutching on with little pudgy fingers. But her writing also carries an aesthetic that’s remarkably innocent, despite the dark humor. While her sentences wind on in complexity, the diction is so concrete, so blunt, that it provokes a sense of innocence, as if the narrator is merely an observer that doesn’t fully understand the ironies she tells.
Her pieces have conflict. Some have resolutions, some have resignations. But how do scenes work in her experimental style?
I think “Varieties of Disturbance” captures best what her style offers. It’s a three page story in which the narrator constantly cycles back to the disturbances her mother causes when she tries not to disturb the other family members. The circular narrative creates dead ends of tangents that reveal more context and circumstance to the reader. These tangents create the emotional temperature that Oberweger discusses. It is the stuff that makes readers anxious, gets them invested in the story. These tangents stem from the character’s goal and result in exposed conflicts. Davis usually reaches an end through an epiphany or disaster, in which the real conflict or disaster is uncovered when all the conflicts build together and connect.
Below is a shorter piece that still follows the same circular style discussed above.
LYDIA DAVIS
Disagreement
He said she was disagreeing with him. She said no, that was that was not true, he was disagreeing with her. This was about the screen door. That it should not be left open was her idea, because of the flies; his was that it could be left open first thing in the morning, when there were no flies on the deck. Anyway, he said, most of the flies came from other parts of the building: in fact, he was probably letting more of them out than in.
To walk through it—
- Motivation: to win the argument
- Conflict: he wants the screen door open, she wants it shut
- Disaster: the flies
So, yes, all aspects of the scene appear within this flash piece—it classifies as fiction, though its simplicity and lyrical elements blur its distinction as story versus prose poem. It is clear from the start what each character desires. It is clear where the conflict lies.
Still, the repetition of phrases and the obsessive focus on the screen door incite a feeling of something left unsaid or unfinished business.
The circular form that Davis utilizes allows her to enrich the piece with complex undertones of human emotion. When you distill the story to the emotion underlying the scene, it becomes clear that there is indeed more than the scene factors, more than dialogue and action.
It forces the reader into a classic technique: reading between the lines.
Thus, the disaster is not only in letting flies in, but in the dispute between the characters. It is in their inability to communicate a compromise. The disaster strikes in a denial of problems that “came from other parts of the building,” in all the things they are letting out unacknowledged rather than accepting in.
Scene and sequel help provide the direction and tension that keep readers invested an entertained. Without it, characters wander through the pages without any sense of action or suspense, without any clear motivation driving their actions.
That being said, these structure devices don’t need to follow a textbook form. In fact, it’s probably better if they don’t. Imagine reading a 300-page novel that seems like a step by step guide for the character. How predictable would that be? And typically, as curious little human beings, we are entertained by the unexpected, humored by surprises and twists.
So, take a page from Davis. Experiment with your prose. Like linear forms? Great, change up the motivations; get the reader invested by taking them through a labyrinth of indecisive desires. Want to go more fabulist? Let the readers unravel the motivations, disasters, dilemmas, and decisions of your character in a braided essay.
Writing is what you make of it. The rules are more like guidelines, anyway.
(And yes, that was a Pirates of the Caribbean reference.)
Of course, I’d recommend the recent compilation of all her collections (also known as The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis) because she’s just that good, but if you’re looking for a shorter read or prefer to read collections in their own entity, then I’d have to push Varieties of Disturbance. Published in 2007, it contains a lot of micro-fiction, perfect for reading during commutes and lunch breaks.
Poetry & Hums 