A-Z Romances: Eloisa James & The Art of the Short Story

A few years ago, I read a number of Eloisa James' books, focusing on the Essex Sisters series. 

I recently read a short story "A Mistletoe Kiss" in the Mistletoe Christmas anthology. I was reminded all over again how much I enjoy James's writing. She is one of several writers in the early 2000s (and beyond) who made romances more literary, more historically accurate, and also (most importantly) much funnier with clever banter along Thin Man lines.

"A Mistletoe Kiss" has a unique setting, strong characters, well-paced writing, and, of course, more than decent dialog.

However, the story also reminded me of how much short story writing is in its own medium. I wrote and published short stories for over a decade and now struggle to write anything longer than about 20,000 words (I usually run out of steam about 30,000). 

Writers of 60,000 words+ often struggle moving in the other direction. 

The short story is its own piece of art. It isn't better or worse than a novel (though many readers will complain because they want to learn more about the characters). Like poetry versus an epic piece, it concentrates on delivering characters and an arc in a show-not-tell fashion that nevertheless moves quite quickly. 

It takes skill. Agatha Christie had this skill since she could transform stereotypes into quick characterizations that fit the story's arc. She also used voice to great effect: in The Tuesday Club murders, the short stories are told by different narrators, from slightly pompous Raymond to clever and atmosphere-oriented Joyce Lemprière and then gentle yet ever so faintly acerbic Miss Marple herself. 

The hardest part is to have a climax that pays off the conflict set in motion not many paragraphs earlier. And there needs to be a climax; otherwise, the story meanders (there is a stream-of-consciousness genre out there where the arc doesn't go much of anywhere--but I'm focusing right now on stories with romance and mystery). 

Georgette Heyer was quite skilled at short stories, though they do vary considerably in delivery. In the male/male romance genre, Kim Fielding is one of the best.

Eloisa James's story is good but could have used a stronger pay-off/climax. However, it supplies a decent dive into her style as well as an enchanting holiday setting. 

 Related Posts: The Trouble with Manga Short Stories, Part I

The Trouble with Manga Short Stories, Part II 

The Trouble with Manga Short Stories, Part III

 What Makes a Good Manga Short Story and What Makes a Good Manga Short Story Continued...

Interview with a Translator: Twelve Kingdoms, Short Stories & Language

 

Manga Short Story: Living with People is Weird

In one of the funniest Finder shorts, Asami recounts his experience after Akihito moves in. 

Most of Finder is told from Akihito's point of view. The reader is brought into the action through Akihito's choices. The reader is privy to Akihito's doubts and moral qualms about supporting himself versus living off Asami's largesse. 

The short at the end of Volume 7 gives us Asami's point of view. Before Akihito moved in, Asami worked late, ate out, came home to a pristine apartment without personality. What did it matter? He only slept there.

Then Akihito moves in and his presence is immediately felt, even when he is out on a job. 

The refrigerator and cupboards are full. A vase gets broken. ("It was here when I moved in," Asami tells Akihito indifferently.) Discussions ensue over bath water. 

The most amusing is Asami's nonplussed reactions. Akihito is the "everyman" touchstone, so the reader is given more of his uncertainties about his new living situation. 

Yet the short makes clear that even for sophisticated, man-of-the-world, apparently smooth and unruffled Asami, having a new lover/roommate/person in the house is...odd.

Plus Asami's new roomy has strange taste in movies. 

Everyone feels Asami's bemusement when cohabiting comes about--Japanese manga is touchingly honest about it. 

Smart Holiday Story

Every Christmas season, I read and reread holiday stories, including romances. 

"Scandal in Winter" by Gillian Linscott is one of my favorites. 

In sum, an elderly Holmes and Watson visit the Hotel Edelweiss to prove that Irene Adler Norton McEvoy is innocent of shoving her rich, straying husband out a window. The story is told by twelve-going-on-thirteen Jessica. A year earlier, she witnessed the death and is the primary witness. 

Holmes uncovers the truth--the death was an accident--after quizzing Jessica and then performing a dangerous experiment. The mystery is intelligent but no great shakes. What makes the story utterly brilliant is that Linscott captures the mindset and behavior and pressure of Irene's social milieu. 

From a modern perspective, she seems caught by the opinions of unimpressive, narrow-minded people, but like John Singer Sargent, these are the waters in which she swims. A retired opera singer, she resides slightly above the fold yet the opinions of people who support her celebrity status matter to her nonetheless. Even in her first appearance, "A Scandal in Bohemia," she and her lover take action to keep her out of the prince's line of fire--and in good standing matrimonially. 

Irene shows impressive fortitude and bravery by returning to the Hotel Edelweiss after a year away. She holds her head high. She is still part of this clan/tribe/group/clique. Holmes saves her reputation. 

He saves her--and he inspires Jessica. The story operates on several levels. The older woman's reputation is restored. Jessica, in comparison, is pushed to consider a future outside the norm, a Joan Watson in 1910. 

From a romantic point of view, the best scene is not Holmes's dangerous experiment. The most romantic scene occurs the night that Irene arrives. As she crosses the dining room, the other wealthy patrons cut her. They ignore her, whisper about her, and act as if she isn't there. 

Holmes stands--followed by Watson--

No entrance she ever made in her stage career could have been as nerve racking as that long walk across the hotel floor. In spite of the silent commands radiating from my mother, I could no more have turned away from her than from Blondin crossing Niagara Falls. My disobedience was rewarded, as disobedience so often is, because I saw it happen. In the middle of that silent dining room amid a hundred or so people pretending not to notice her, I saw Silver Stick [Holmes] get to his feet. Among all those seated people he looked even taller than before, his burnished silver head gleaming like snow on the Matterhorn above that rock ridge of a nose, below it the glacial white and black of his evening clothes...As in her lonely walk she came alongside their table, Silver Stick bowed with the dignity of a man who did not have to bow very often.

It is a moment of lovely chivalry that brings the entire story in line with Jonny Lee Miller's wonderful interpretation of Holmes in Elementary. 

More About Politics in Fiction: "Farringdon Club" by JR Lawrie

I mention elsewhere that when creating worlds (which, granted, is quite difficult), writers should keep the possible political ramifications in mind. Not because a fantasy or romance must reference politics but because romance in a world of shallow politics is not as strong as romance in a world of intelligent politics.

I felt a similar reaction to a short story "The Farringdon Club" by J.R. Lawrie in the short story collection Let Your Heart Be Light.

I should state first that the stories in this anthology are well-written, clever, captivating, and hilarious.

*Spoilers*

My unease began during the middle of "The Farringdon Club" in which the protagonist Zack decides to hang out at his husband Richard's club. Richard is a kind of slender Mycroft character (and may, in fact, be based on Mark Gatiss). He is a power-broker for a variety of interested parties; like Mycroft, he works out of his club--which is less devoted to silence than the Diogenes Club but has the same commitment to tradition.

Richard lets his husband loose on the fuddy-duddy populace. At first, youthful Zack is uncomfortable. When he realizes that he can in fact channel his husband's power to effect change, he does so in a blithe, almost Puckish way.

It's funny and delightful.

Except . . .

At one point, an arrogant, close-minded fuddy-duddy snaps at Zack. When Richard hears about the incident, he smoothly, without fanfare, transfers a government contract away from the arrogant man's business. And sure, the tiny tyrant in all of us cheers: stupid jerk got what he deserved! But the libertarian in us should feel chills all down the spine. That's a lot of power for a single rude remark.

Lawrie is a skilled-enough writer that I was able to "fix" the issue in two ways: (1) it was entirely possible that the arrogant fuddy-duddy deserved to have the contract removed for reasons other than rudeness--like, you know, incompetence; (2) the characters are well-enough written that this event could actually further the plot.

That is, Richard doesn't think anything of using his power to punish those who offend/irritate him. He's been doing it all his life; why not keep doing it?

But Zach is plebeian enough to know how dangerous this is. Suppose the criteria for "rudeness" changes (see Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles)? Should someone be punished for mentioning the "wrong" political candidate? Or bringing up the "wrong" topic? Or offending the "wrong" celebrity? Or simply using the "wrong" rhetoric? Where does thought-policing end? (Why are moderns so willing to abuse Victorians, yet turn around and act exactly the same way? Ah, now you've crossed the line--I will give you the "cut direct!")

So I "wrote" a story addition in my head.

A middle manager in the company that loses the contract tracks down Zach. Let's call the middle manager, Simon. Simon knows that contracts get won and lost all the time; that's life. But on the basis of the anticipated contract, he had already made arrangements to move closer to his ailing grandfather--and to send money to his just-divorced sister. In other words, he is not some two-dimensional greedy villain (nice, ordinary people can work for arrogant jerks). He is a guy who needed the job, increase in salary, in order to pay bills and support family members, all the normal, ordinary reasons that people work.

He has a boyfriend who works at the Farringdon Club (just to complicate the labels). The boyfriend tells him what Zach and Richard did, perhaps gleefully (gotta put those rich, intolerant jerks in their places!). Simon realizes that the loss of the contract was not due to political maneuvering in Whitehall, which he could accept, but due to a "brat's" hurt feelings, which annoys him. He gets admittance to the club and tells off Zach--which leads to Zach pondering the use of power and how far a single word or complaint should go.

It would make for an interesting conversation between Zach and Richard. Good friends and lovers can disagree!

I should mention, at this point, that it is a sign of good writing by the original author that I could imagine so easily how Zach and Richard would converse on this topic while still remaining themselves. The characters took on a life of their own, which is impressive. 

Christmas M/M Romances, Part 2: Scrooge

Scrooge Tales

Scrooge tales are a staple of holiday literature. Other than holiday romances, I am also a fan of the mystery anthology Holmes for the Holidays, a fine compilation of Holmes-Watson tales with Christmas themes (I especially recommend Gillian Linscott's tale "A Scandal in Winter"). At least three of the stories have Scrooge references/narrative arcs.

It is a very usable arc. Here are a few examples in romances: 

One M/M Scrooge read is "Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol" by Drew Marvin Frayne which smoothly uses the classic three appearances: Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future. The tone and perspective captures the Victorian era. My only problem with the book is the epilogue. The wry, borderline caustic voice of Peter--Scrooge--transforms at the end to an almost too-good-to-be-true optimism. I address this problem (how much is Scrooge supposed to change?) in my review of a perfect M/M Scrooge novella: "Humbug."

Eliot Grayson brings a new perspective to the character of Scrooge in Yuletide Treasure. Instead of being a skinflint, Eben Sypeman--or Scrooge--is obsessed with money because his partner Marnley--or Marley--was skimming from the firm's accounts. Where did the money go? Grayson gives money its real value: without it, Sypeman will have a hard time supporting his family, not to mention paying his clerk.

He undergoes a transformation, not from grouchy miser to optimistic sharer, but rather from close-mouthed worrier to man who finally speaks his mind. It's a delightful twist, especially when Sypeman--Scrooge--tells off the "charitable" merchants whom he knows will pocket his donation rather than giving it to the poor.

And in a totally delightful twist, Kim Fielding (master storyteller) concentrates on the Ghost of Christmas Present in "Christmas Present". He isn't precisely Scrooge-like, but he does deserve a helping hand for a job well-done.

Of course, a number of Scrooge romances drop the three visits or acts yet keep the Scrooge-like guy who hates Christmas but undergoes a change of heart. Two examples are Mending Noel and The Heart of Frost from Charlie Cochet's North Pole City Tales, which I review here.

The softening heart is, of course, the perfect Christmas message. I think too that Dickens' particular approach is fundamentally visual. Yup, the three acts are theater-ready--as numerous movie productions prove!

What Makes a Good Manga Short Story Continued . . .

Of course Sam was going to return at the end of

"Scarecrow"--it's still satisfying to see him do it.

Reasons 1 and 2 are discussed in the prior post.

3. There is a decent pay-off.

Artsy types may try to convince readers that nothing needs to end because life doesn't end and resolutions are too simplistic, blah blah blah. I tried to argue that myself at one point.

Ignore them.

A good narrative has a good pay-off. A great narrative has a great pay-off.

Great pay-off does not mean "surprise". Sometimes, the surprise pay-off does work. Agatha Christie knocked that type of ending (you thought the murderer was X but really it was Z) out of the park.

But surprise for the sake of surprise can get irritating after awhile. It truly is okay to give the reader/viewer the expected ending--the couple runs towards each other with hands outstretched; the child is returned to his or her parents; the underdog wins the fight/gets the good grade/finds a new planet; Sam and Dean get back together . . .

Readers and viewers love this stuff! I love this stuff! I like it even more when it makes sense, dovetails with previous information, delivers that warm glow of "a ha" or "I knew it!" or "thank goodness."

*Spoiler.* Regarding light novels, the end of S makes perfect sense, specifically Godou's confession. Yeah, sure, we all knew he was responsible for Shiiba's sister's death. However, the way in which he acknowledges it and how that information matches what we previously learned about the character--is perfect.

With manga short stories, the rather odd but engaging "When 'Lie' is Read 'T-r-u-t-h'" at the end of Rabbit Man, Tiger Man, Volume 1--in which the action switches back to the young prodigy imagining his (accurate) future with his mentor--delivers a cute, more sweet than bitter twist. The middle story to Wild Rock--in my opinion, a far better story than the volume's title story--is Romeo and Juliet for grown-ups. The protagonists don't die; they return to their clans and take up their roles as chiefs. While the short story "That's All From Me" by Yugi Yamada, which revolves around the game Go, shows us two protagonists acknowledging their attraction in a typically roundabout way (typical for the protagonists, that is).

A powerful short story is like a piece of exceptionally good chocolate--it may not be as filling or as reliable as a full Hershey's Bar (and I love Hershey's). But it delivers a wallop of memorable "wow" satisfaction.

Short Stories Again: What Make a Good Short Manga Story

Wataru overhears a confession. For honorific-purists like

myself, Tachibana is really saying Kuzuki-san or

Kazuki-sensei. She's an underclassman.

Like the powerful essay or newspaper article, strong short stories are harder to perfect than novels--hence, the enormous variety. I recently purchased two cheap short story manga collections. Although neither of them lived up to my highest expectations, one was clearly better than the other. Even within the same manga, the stories widely varied.

In a previous post, I reflected on what makes a poor short story and concluded that while a good short story can have only a premise, a poor short story always has only a premise.

Even a narrative arc, however, doesn't guarantee a good story. 

So what makes a good manga short story?

1. The characters' behavior evolves organically.

In a good short story, the characters behave naturally to their personality types. The story's next step is there because that's how the character would behave, not because it is time for the next step to occur.

A typical event in Japanese manga/light novels is the confession, kokuhaku (告白)--whereby one character professes feelings of love for the other. This often occurs even when there is no surety that the confession will be received or returned. (It is good manners to at least listen.)

In poor short stories, the confession is treated as a solution in and of itself. Hey, the character made a confession: matter is closed. In the better short stories, the confession is followed by reflection and explanation; sometimes a period of time passes before acceptance.

Naoki

Instant fixes are rarely organic--and never believable.

2. The characters are memorable.

A "type" or one-dimensional character is not a problem. Yes, it helps if the character has somewhat  memorable characteristics. I remember the character who continually falls in love with eyeglass-wearing, stocky news anchors, simply because it's cute and funny. And I remember the character who got lost in a snow storm.

However, it even better if a character's memorability is grounded in something more basic, like personality. I always remember Yugi Yamada's short story characters (it helps that they have a tendency to show up in other short stories and in full manga narratives). Yamada's Naoki Suzuki is funny, self-effacing, deliberately provocative (outside of his personal life), ostentatiously "flaming," slightly sarcastic though more kind than cruel . . . and so on.

Still, types are okay--so long as they are recognizable--as Red Letter Media points out in his trenchant criticism of Star Wars I (skip forward to 6:28)

Reason 3 to follow . . .

Merely the Premise: The Trouble with Manga Short Stories, Part III

One of the fascinating aspects of

Graham Oakley's Church Cat picture books

is that the plot can only be understood

by closely examining the images.

The best manga short story combination is an interesting premise and an actual arc supported by imagery. Like a good picture book (I'm the kind of reader who sees nothing "childish" about reading good picture books: see panel), a good manga story will rely on clever pictures to tell the story as much as on text. The arc is there--so long as the reader remembers to look beyond the dialog.

One of the best examples of a good manga short story relying on images as much as on text to convey the arc is the short extra at the end of Finder 3.

Akihito and his friends get together at his aunt's on New Year's. Over the course of the evening, as Akihito gets progressively drunk, he makes a series of phone calls to Asami, his sometime lover/nemesis/Yakuza (maybe) acquaintance. The phone calls begin before midnight and continue until the early morning when Asami comes to pick Akihito up.

There's no obvious arc in the sense that there's an acknowledged change in the characters' relationship. Yet the events are not static either. Over the course of the evening/morning, Asami--who has been asleep--proceeds to get up, shower, dress, and read a paper while waiting by the phone. He engages in no discussion--he doesn't say to anyone, for example, "I'm worried about my sometime lover/photography friend who is frankly something of a handful"--but the visual evidence for his decision is there.

The visual evidence is how we learn what we need to know. I am continually surprised when movie watchers or manga readers present interpretations based exclusively on dialog, arguing that what someone says carries more weight than that character's expression, attitude, or even actions!

It's a bizarre reliance on literalism (one question: one answer) regarding two mediums that are entirely dependent on "show, don't tell." In a good manga story--whatever its length--the "truth" will be conveyed as much through the images as through the dialog.

Unfortunately, sometimes, there isn't enough of either (visual or dialog) to sell the reader on the "truth." A captivating premise is a good place to start, not to end.

Merely the Premise: The Trouble with Manga Short Stories, Part II

Despite my initial doubts, I eventually determined that it is possible to effectively "show" merely-a-premise short manga stories.

Usually, I would argue that stories of this type be sent back to the drawing board (literally!). There are lots of "eh" manga volumes out there filled with "eh" stories that give the reader little more than an idea: oh, here's a rogue with a heart of gold.

True, there are plenty of "eh" volume-length narratives out there too. The difference: it is much easier to convey something (anything) with a longer piece than with a shorter one. This is why writing a strong five-paragraph essay is harder than a whatever 15-page paper. A short essay has to convey its point clearly, succinctly, and concisely. A 15-page paper can ramble away with the surety that some worthwhile nugget is buried somewhere inside.

A good short story can't ramble--all the parts have to work seamlessly together. Likewise, a good manga short story comes down to a seamless interaction between text and imagery.  A good manga short story with no arc, only a premise, relies almost entirely on its art.

Possibly one of the funniest examples of a manga short story with little more going for it than a premise is the initial short story of Man's Best Friend by Kazusa Takashima. The protagonist discovers that his dog turns into a sexy human male when excited. There is no real arc (although it isn't hard to add one; my continuation of the story is that the dog-human dies in dog years but is reincarnated as a veterinary student). However, the problems--take the dog-human for a walk; keep the dog-human from annoying the neighbors--are cute and funny enough to satisfy the premise. Most importantly, they are hilariously well-drawn.

To be continued . . .

Merely the Premise: The Trouble with Manga Short Stories, Part I

The premise

Teacher and student fall in love and... 

Co-workers develop a liking for each other and... 

Yakuza...

Short storytelling is a separate art from novel writing. Although lovers of novels will complain that the short story doesn't provide enough character development or plot details, a short story can convey or imply enough information to enthrall a reader. Short stories can also capture the essence of characters, leaving the reader to ponder possible developments. Sometimes what is left unsaid becomes more interesting than what is clearly delineated.

The problem, of course, is that something needs to be said. A short story that provides only a premise is rather like a dependent clause--

After the funeral occurred . . .

What happened next!?

During my initial forays with manga short stories, I began to believe that it wasn't possible for anyone to write a decent manga short story. Text alone is hard enough. Text and pictures in 60 or so pages: what could that possibly accomplish?

After all, nearly all of the manga short story volumes I initially encountered were fairly awful. So awful, I formed the conclusion:

Bad literature = it's only a premise.

A gentle ending to a gentle arc

In The Year of Living Dangerously, Billy Kwan quips, "If it's in focus, it's pornography. If it's out of focus, it's art." I was arguing the opposite--at least writing-wise: "If it's out of focus with no clear narrative arc, just an excuse for titillating art, it's porn and a waste of time."

Except for all the exceptions of course...

I eventually did discover good manga short stories. Most of them supported my equation since they had arcs (however small)! In a Shoka Hidaka short story (from Restart), the protagonist is mourning the death of his best friend when he happens to meet his best friend's brother. They are unable to reach a true understanding until the protagonist sorts through his feelings (separate an unfulfilled love from a potential future love). Problem followed by epiphany: perfect arc, however gently delivered.

Other short stories involve greater tension: the first short story in Nights utilizes an action-packed arc in which an undercover Narcotics officer has to decide whether or not to arrest his informant/lover.

So it is possible to deliver a decent story in a small package. But what about the stories that are only a premise? Are they all bad?

To be continued . . .