I keep finding similar comments from readers and editors on submissions in our flash queue at Split Lip Magazine—well written, but I want another layer; this is one note; story isn’t quite resonating; needs another beat; something feels missing; this doesn’t seem finished, don’t know why.
Ahhhh, the elusive extra layer or layers of meaning! How do we find them and where do we put them? I wish I knew. I have so many stories in my files that I’ve never submitted because they still have not walked the extra mile. They haven’t uncovered the old cobblestone beneath the fresh road. The strata of nuance, emotion, ambiguity, humanity that would make them satisfying to others.
Sometimes these stories unlock themselves over time. It dawns on me how to develop a character further, a scene to add, the extra line of dialogue that connects the piece to something larger than itself. But usually, these stories just languish in my computer, not quite dead but not at all alive.
Let’s try an exercise to work some electricity into these nearly dead pieces—a writing prompt, but not one you use at the start of the story. Rather, it’s something to try after you’ve already got a decent draft.
The assignment: go for a walk. One of those vigilant walks many writers take. Be alert. Pay attention to your senses. What extremely unique and particular smell, sound, sight, texture do you pass? What do the people you see look like? What strange thing is in sky? Are there any reflections in glass or pond or puddle? Eavesdrop on the people you pass. Bring a notebook or your notes app and write things down. Take a picture. If you aren’t able to walk, try looking through old videos or photographs. Flip through books or magazines filled with images or listen to recordings of music or interviews. Find at least three interesting things.
When I last did this exercise, here’s what sparked my curiosity:
- A hearse with a door that was duct taped closed.
- A man at the top of a ladder against a building, two stories above the ground, no safety net, no one spotting him—traffic from the FDR rushing below.
- A man riding a bike along the East River while also balancing an empty bike beside him. The way his body leaned over the extra bike, it was as if he were riding two bikes at once.
These items were extremely specific and could not have come from my imagination. I would not have thought of this hearse with duct tape without witnessing it. But it’s interesting and leads to many questions: Why is the door taped shut? What is being kept in or out? Is the door broken? Who broke it? How? Why hasn’t it been repaired? Is this funeral home down and out? Are dead spirits leaking from the hearse? Should I run for my life? Will this hearse change me in some way by merely passing it on the street?
The three things you notice should themselves contain layers of meaning, lead to questions, or provoke interesting wonderings. Keep looking till you find something that fascinates you. I think the most interesting details are those where the meaning is not obvious, that contain “productive ambiguity”—a phrase I first saw in an Editor’s Note to an issue of Tin House that has stayed with me. Stories with productive ambiguity are more engaging. (Remember when Tin House had a lit mag? Those were the days. Sigh.)
Now pick one of the three things you noticed and add it to your nearly dead story. I have a feeling your subconscious will have noticed things that fit with your writing, but maybe at a slant. After all, the same brain doing the noticing also wrote the draft. This won’t be as random as you think.
All the things I noticed involved some sort of danger, risk, intrigue. What if the man fell from the ladder? What if the extra bike knocked into someone on the narrow path? He was riding so fast as to be reckless. What was my brain telling me about my writing? Perhaps that I needed to add more tension, more risk.
It might take some time to find where to add your new detail. It will probably shake up the structure of the story, where it was going. If it doesn’t mess things up a bit, then maybe it’s not a big enough detail. The disruption is the key, I believe. And once the disruption appears, then you’ll have to edit the story around it. This rippling process is a fun way to dig for texture within your writing. It’s possible that the item won’t fit in the story at all, but it will create new movement when you remove it. It will force you to re-evaluate something important.
I have a key scene in my new novel set in a field of lilies. I just could not get it right. It was flat and dull, when I envisioned it round and magnificent. Then one day I overheard a child in Central Park say something about flowers that was incredibly wise and unexpected. I only caught a few words. But it was like she dropped them directly into my book. I had to create a whole new character to deliver this statement in my chapter. That character is now extremely important to me and to the book. Her line completes the chapter, elevates its meaning, adds mystery. I felt this click inside me the minute she was inside the scene. And I feel this wonderful cosmic connection with that child whose words I borrowed, wherever she might be now. A piece of her is woven into my art, and I have to think that is a layer of meaning in and of itself.
Good luck and keep me posted if you try this method! If it’s a writing disaster, feel free to blame me!
