fiction and craft

Small Thing

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 2 Comments

While my 13-year-old chatted with a woman in an office today, I leaned back, yawning, thinking about another cup of coffee.

The woman’s low leather boots were worn at the heels. She was well-dressed with a silk blouse and gray slacks, in a professional position, and I assume lack of money was not the reason for her worn shoes. Love, likely. The boots probably fit her well, and she loved them.

How hard we can wear the things — and the people — we love most. Like this bowl, broken at the edge, that I keep filling. Fresh salsa — peppers, tomatoes, onions, salt.

There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are.

~Somerset Maugham

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Early Hours

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / Leave a comment

In the night, rain thickens to snow. Wind has washed away yesterday’s balmy temperatures.

The cats and I are awake hours before the girls, myself with that eternally running list and dialogue, the cats warm-pawed and hungry. Satiated with their breakfast, one lies on my legs, the other on my feet, while I read The Perfect Nanny, a book brutal and beautiful.

I parse Slimani’s sentences: How has she written this? How has she put this together? and wonder, Who of my library patrons would read this? 

Ice pelts the windows. Our house is blessedly warm, the kitchen filled with light.

She feels alone with the children. Children don’t care about the contours of our world. They can guess at its harshness, its darkness, but they don’t want to know anything more.

— Leila Slimani, The Perfect Nanny

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Mist and Clouds

Truth? in Dialogue

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / Leave a comment

My teenager came home today excited about a major disagreement in her senior high school English class. Is it okay to lie? Is it acceptable to lie to prevent harming someone? Or absolutely, categorically never?

What do you do? I asked her.

The truth is, when you write dialogue in fiction (or when you listen, really listen) to how people use language, you quickly realize the lines of truth are blurry – in fact, remarkably unclear.

At seventeen, my daughter sees herself as mistress of her own fate, and while I certainly don’t want to unsteady my girl, I encourage her to keep her hands steady on the wheel. Listen, I urge: that unbelievably difficult challenge I butt up against, over and over. Listen.

I’m reading Margot Livesey’s Mercury in these early, dark mornings. Here’s a few lines from a previous novel:

If someone tells you a lie, they’re not telling you the truth, but they are telling you something. It just takes longer to figure out what.

– Margot Livesey, The House on Fortune Street

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This eternally warm, long and lovely autumn, Woodbury, Vermont