Good Monday, morning people.
Happy September!
Today, we’re going to look at “how-to” stories—stories that on the surface look to be instructions on how to do something but which are, in fact, about something else entirely. If that doesn’t make sense yet, hopefully it will by the end of this post.
I’m guessing that many of you have already come across a certain much-anthologized story by Lorrie Moore called “How to Become a Writer.” If you’ve not read it, then you can find it archived HERE, via the New York Times. (Yes, the title in the archived edition is “How to Become a Writer Or, Have You Earned This Cliché?” The title was shortened later to simply “How to Become a Writer.”)
Though Moore wrote this story early in her writing career (she was 28), you can already see her signature wit and intelligence at play. (If you’ve not read Lorrie Moore before, she is famously smart and funny!) Written in second person, it’s a hermit crab story—a look inside the heart of her character Francie told through the form of a self-help column. In my mind, I think of it simply as a “how-to” story.
Fun fact: This “self-help” story appears in Moore’s collection Self Help, where you’ll find other stories written in this same vein, including “How to Be an Other Woman” and “How to Talk to Your Mother (Notes).”
Okay, go read the story and then come back.
Did you read it? Cleary, this is NOT a set of instructions about how to become a writer! Instead, it’s a story about a particular young woman who falls into the writing world by accident, and then flits and flies her way through it, never really looking beyond herself. She’s got nothing to write about, this young woman. She’s too self-involved. Until the very end, at least, when she suddenly notices her date looking at the hairs on his arm, and then she notices the way he smooths those arm-hairs, all of them, in the same direction. And right there, we think, well gosh, maybe this young woman WILL become a writer.
It may be interesting to give some thought as to how this particular structure is the key to making this story work (assuming you think it works). If Moore had written this in a more straight-forward fashion, would the humor mixed with pain come across quite so clearly?
Using the “how-to” structure (in which the protagonist of the story is referred to as “you” instead of “I”) allows Moore to zoom in very close to the action while at the same time keeping an emotional distance. Somehow, this “distance” serves to bring the narrator’s emotions even closer to the surface. It’s like a magic trick!
I’ve got a few other “how-to” stories for you to look at. These are much shorter!
“This is How You Fail to Ghost Him,” by Victoria McCurdy can be found online at Monkey Bicycle. https://monkeybicycle.net/this-is-how-you-fail-to-ghost-him/
And here’s “How to Set a House on Fire,” by Stace Budzko, published at Heim Bias Fiction. http://heimbinasfiction.blogspot.com/2011/09/how-to-set-house-on-fire.html
Lastly, “How to Spot a Whale” is from The Master’s Review and is written by Jacqui Reiko Teruya. https://mastersreview.com/new-voices/how-to-spot-a-whale-by-jacqui-reiko-teruya/
Okay, it’s your turn!
TODAY’S PROMPT
Write your own short story using the format of a set of “how-to” instructions.
Write your story in the second person, as Moore does. (Use “you” instead of “I.”)
Make sure you’re giving us a story: your character’s got a problem, a desire, a conflict of some sort.
Some possibilities:
How to Leave Your Husband
How to Throw a Dinner Party
How to Quit Your Job
How to Write a Thank You Note
How to Tell People You’re Never Having a Baby
Alternate prompt: Bird in the house.
As always, feel free to post up to 400 words in the Comments section. You can always write more, but please only post 400 words or fewer. Thank you!
How to Host a Dinner Party
Choose a date. Any date. It doesn’t matter because you’re going to have to change it anyway because Rod will be working late again.
Think about who you might like to invite. There’s always the Wilsons, though the Wilsons don’t like the Gordons, and you owe the Gordons for the time they had you over two years ago and Willy barfed in their pool. But if you invite the Gordons, you’ll have to invite the Ebenharts and that’s a problem because Kelly Ebenhart doesn’t talk to you anymore, even though it’s not your fault that Don Ebenhart has eyes in his head and those eyes are always aimed at your chest.
So not the Gordons and not the Ebenharts. Maybe the Wilsons. But oh my God, Marcy Wilson is so boring.
The Daningers. Invite the Daningers. You’re always saying, we should have the Daningers for dinner. And Rod’s always saying, who are the Daningers? And you’re always saying, they live right next door to us. And Rod’s always saying, look, one of us has to work around here, we can’t all know the neighbors. And you’re always saying, this is the reason we never have sex. And Rod’s always saying, the reason we never have sex is because you let yourself go. And you’re always saying, Don Ebenhart doesn’t think so! And Rod’s always saying, that fucker Don Ebenhart. And you’re always saying, it’s not like you’re not looking at Kelly Ebenhart’s boobs! And Rod’s always saying, well she doesn’t seem to mind, not like some people I could mention. And you’re always saying, save it for the marriage counselor. And Rod’s always saying, I’m not going to that god damned marriage counselor anymore. And you’re always saying, that’s because you don’t really want to fix things. And Rod’s always saying, you’re right, I don’t, I’ve had it, I’m done! And you’re always saying, I planned a dinner party and NOW you’re walking out?
When Maggie Daninger calls to ask what she can bring, ask her to please bring the entire dinner and also would she mind if you just came to her house?
I understand the political situation makes you nervous, but I wonder just a little bit if you aren’t overreacting. You’re ordering lots of stuff, spending lots of money, and I’m just wondering. This morning arrived the six pallets of cinder blocks and a hand truck to move them. You’ve made drawings of embrasure designs for the roof. The garage is filled with case lots of ravioli, mac and cheese, brown bread and beans, peaches and cherries and pears. Stuff keeps rolling in. An Humvee you bought at auction, also tents, cooking gear. Now here’s a text from you saying you’ve gone to a gun show in Texas. This just might be a deal breaker, Texas of all places. But you’re visiting the Alamo and it’s brought tears to your eyes because when you were a little girl you loved Davy Crockett and wanted to marry him and live in a log cabin where he grew up in Tennessee. For years you denied he was killed at the Alamo, but finally acknowledged that a man born in 1786 would be 238 years old now if alive, and well, you wondered what your sex life would look like. Then you asked if I was jealous of Davy Crockett, and I admit I was in awe of the “King of the Wild Frontier,” myself at one time, and anyone born on a mountain top must be pretty cool. Liam, you remind me, Davy killed a bar when he was three. He patched the crack in the Liberty Bell. for crying out loud. I’m sorry Liam. When you told me about the bar, and the Liberty Bell, I could hear it in your voice. You were living the Ballad. Davy’s coming back with me Liam. He’s going to help with the design of the embrasures, he’s going to hunt deer and smoke venison, and Liam, get this, he’s going to make me a coonskin cap. But what about your sex life, I say, you know, with a guy that old. You know, Davy and I, Liam, we talk about things. We’re close. That’s what sex is about Liam. Think about that.
And that’s what I’m doing, thinking. Yeah, while I mow the lawn, edge the sidewalk, spread mulch, clean the gutters, blow off the sidewalks, scrub the oil stain on the driveway and get the grill going for the bison burgers.