Omissions Part I: Contracting the Accordion in Flash Fiction and Letting the Readers Fill in the Blanks
In the last newsletter, I suggested that we consider the accordion as a model of fiction. It compresses and expands rhythmically, and this pulsating motion creates a whole and satisfying piece of music. Instead of silence and notes, the basic tools of fiction are words and the spaces between them.
Flash fiction, which has to telegraph a story in a few words or paragraphs, relies on many principles of contraction. In this newsletter, I’m going to discuss one of the more difficult techniques, which is omitting a word, a phrase, a sentence, or a series of sentences. Omission is a powerful tool and often produces extraordinarily short and startling pieces.
Here’s an example by Ana Hatherly, the Portuguese writer, who wrote a series of “Tisanas”.
Tisana # 87:
“Once upon a time there was a landscape where there were never any clouds. To make rain it was necessary to wash the horizon with feathers.”
In this piece something is missing, and the reader must make a leap of imagination to create a connection between the first sentence and the last sentence. This happens so quickly, readers don’t realize the cloudless landscape presents a challenge until the piece is over.
If we were to fill in the gaps, it’s easy to see the way omission brings this piece into focus and creates an element of surprise: Suppose what’s hidden were stated obviously, so Tisana #87 read: Once upon a time there was a landscape where there were never any clouds. But this landscape needed rain so they washed the horizon with feathers. “Washing the horizon with feathers” is still a startling image. But what’s hidden is brought out into the open, and the reader has no room to be surprised or participate with an active imagination. Readers sense when they’re underestimated. Even children like stories where they can make guesses, imagine and discover.
Although Ana Hatherly may have made this contraction without thinking about the reader, it’s clear that by withholding an important piece of information, the contraction—felt here as a gap, or a space between the words—- is as much a part of the story as the words themselves. Indeed, if we look at the gap between the first sentence and the last sentence, it’s clear that the words interact with the gap to create a sense of surprise. It’s also clear that what makes this story whole and complete doesn’t exist in any one place but in the total orchestration of its parts as well as in the imagination of the reader. The accordion in this story plays a very brief melody: It expands at the beginning and the end of the piece and compresses by leaving something out in the middle.
Here’s another piece with an omission, erroneously attributed to Ernest Hemingway (the author is anonymous). It’s often parodied; but is still a good example of a contraction that leaves a gap the reader must supply:
For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.
Like Hatherly’s prose poem, this six-word piece leaves puts the burden on the reader to realize that a baby died. The piece would be flat if what was unstated were made obvious and it read: For sale. Baby shoes. The baby died so they were never worn and that’s why we’re selling them.
In each case it’s easy to see how the reader must be a participant and fill in the blanks. It doesn’t matter if some readers don’t “get” a skillful omission. When you write with the full strength of your imagination, most readers will take the leap. Furthermore, instead of being frustrated by these challenges, readers lenjoy figuring out part of the story. This is probably why the piece about baby shoes has assumed an iconic status and Hemingway’s role as the author has become an urban legend.
The following story by Augusto Monterroso has been internationally acclaimed as the shortest short story in the world:
When the man woke up, the dinosaur was still there.
In this case the accordion has omitted information at the beginning of the story. The word “still” alerts us to the fact that the situation has been going on for a while.
This story starts in the middle and leaves. us with a question. We never find out how the man and the dinosaur collided, whether they are outdoors or in a room, , how the man could fall asleep in the dinosaur’s presence, or what happened after he woke up. The omissions before the story starts and as it ends give readers a chance to fill in the blanks as well as be surprised and curious.
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Here are some things to try:
1. Write a two-sentence story. In the first sentence describe what dismissing or out of kilter. In the second sentence describe the solution.
2. Write a notice for a newspaper (e.g. a for sale or wanted ad, a lost or found notice) using no more than three sentences.
3. Write a one-sentence story that begins in the middle of an extreme situation and ends without resolution. Situations with a fairy-tale quality are often useful. Don’t hesitate to start the sentence with “when” or “after”.
Omitting information is different from suspense, where the implicit promise is that the information will be revealed later. Also in suspense, the reader usually reads with a clear question in mind. (Will they escape the stalker? Will the coyote show them the right passage?) Omission is too brief and abrupt for the reader to ask a question or even know there is a question. Instead, as in Tirana #87, the question is answered in surprising ways. And in Monterosso’s story the reader is confronted with an opaque puzzle.
These omissions can be challenging because they depend on subtle shifts. It helps to remember that you are giving readers a gift by offering enough information for them to enter the story and withholding enough for them to participate in the story. Readers delight in filing in the blanks.
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Love your accordian metaphor!
Thanks for writing, Audrey. I'm glad that the accordion model is helpful for revisions. And I'd agree that omissions are instinctive. (Youi're lucky to have that instinct.) Actually, I think that most productive "talk" about in writing is a way of giving permission to use instincts. I'm mulling over a newsletter that focuses on the relationship between "talking" about writing and the writing itself. So your comment is a tug at my sleeve; Thanks!