The Tenant

The Tenant

Johannes Fahrion

©2013

 

     I drank myself into a stupor last night. I am compelled to do so today. This is, of course, not  peculiar of my habits. A bottle of aged scotch, a warm blanket draped over my hobbled legs, a good book in my hands as I sit near my warm hearth to soothe my ticking heart makes winter a kinder mistress.

     You see, I live in old New England. I need not be precise. These hours, precision is a trifle.  I  am  the  only  occupant  of  this  enormous  house,  my  home;  however,  I  do  sometimes  grow  lonely.  There is  not  much  for  me  to  do.  Indeed,  there  is  not  much  I  am  able  to  do  with  this  broken  shell  of  mine.  Move,  you  say?  I think  not!  I love  this  house.  Yes,  the  days  are  painfully  lonely  and  the  nights  are  long  and  excruciatingly  quiet,  but  with  a  few  pulls  on  the  bottle,  I  can  pour  myself  into  the  worlds  of  Poe  or  Milton.  There,  in  the  wonderful  pages,  I  find  my  solace.  Oh, the  world,  the  world!  But  last  night,  dear  reader,  I  was  awakened  from  my  stupor  by  a  knock  at  the  door.

     My  book  fell  from  my  knees  with  a  thud  to  the  floor.  I  first  thought  the  sound  to  come  from  my  dream,  but  then  it  came  again--bang!--bang!--bang!  I  turned  my  head  and  through  my  cataracts  I  peered  into  the  copper  smile  of  the  grandfather  clock.  How  incredible,  I  thought,  my  lord,  what  would  a  visitor  be  doing  at  such  a  late  hour?  In the  dreary,  dismal,  dead  hour  of  midnight?  Knocking?  At my  door?  To  be  sure,  it  is  the  time  even  witches  fear  to  fly. 

     As  quickly  as  I  was  able,  I  wheeled  my  chair  to  the  door;  the  wood  planks  creaked  under  my  wheels.  First,  I  drew  back  the  curtains,  then  I  wiped  the  fog  from  the  glass.  Peering  through  this  hazy  portal,  I  saw  a  large  man  standing  in  a  thick  bed  of  snow  on  my  porch,  a  white coffin.  He  was  donned  in  a  long,  black  coat  with  a  derby  atop  his  head  and  a  briefcase  in  his  hand.  Resting  on  his  head  was  the  twisted  length  of  his  beard--chestnut  brown  and  painted  with  white  stripes  of  dignity--encrusted  with  ice  and  snow.  He was quite  dapper,  actually,  a  splendid  sight,  indeed.

     "What can I  help  you  with,  sir?"  I shouted  through  the  door.  "The hour is  late."

     "A  room,  kind  sir,"  came  his  heavy  voice  through  the  door  and  whistling  wind.  "I understand you  have  a  room  to  let  for  passers-through."

     I nodded and  opened  the  door  for  this  stranger.  A blanket  of  snow  rolled  into  the  foyer  with  him.  Understand,  dear  reader,  I  do  not  condone  allowing  a  stranger  into  one's  home,  but  this  fellow  appeared  to  be  kindly  and  stranded  in  the  elements.  "I  do,  yes,  I  certainly  do  have  a  room  to  let  for  passers-through."

     He set  his  case  on  the  floor  and  dusted  the  winter  from  his  coat--he  thanked  me  profusely--then  removed  his  coat  and  derby,  hanging  them  on  the  nearby  rack.  I  then  offered  him  my  company  and  a  drink  near  the  crackling  warmth  of  my  hearth.  Mind  you,  I  was  so  overjoyed  to  have  a  companion,  a  respondent  to  my  conversations,  I  overlooked  charging  him  a  fee  for  the  room.  To  have  a  companion  for  the  evening  is  well  worth  such  an  omission,  I  say. 

     We  sat  near  the  fire,  I  in  my  wheelchair,  he  in  a  seat  directly  across  from  me.  Behind  the  beard,  his  face  began  turning  red;  life  was  returning  to  him;  his  bright  blue  eyes  sparkled  in  the  flicker  of  the  flames  leaping  from  the  hearth.  Oh,  the  world,  the  world!  We  drank  heavily.  I  listened  to  his  worldly  exploits  with  the  interest  of  an entranced  young lad.  He  told  me  of  places  I  have  only  read  about  in  books,  places  familiar  to  me.  Oh,  the  world  and  joy  I  felt  in  visiting  them  vicariously!  I  was  drunk  with  interest  as  we  exchanged  philosophies:  self-determinism,  Will  to  Power. 

     Though  I  am  an  exiled  king--held  captive  in  my  crippled  throne--I  have  much  to  offer  in  conversation.  My  mind  simply  explodes:  my  experiences  flood  and  overwhelm  me.  Perhaps,  and  this  is  not  intended,  dear  reader,  to  diminish  your  esteemed  evaluation  of  me,  nor  do  I  condone  its  abuse,  but  perhaps  my  expressive  wealth  might  be  attributed  to  my  drinking.  Indeed,  it  is  while  in  my  convoluted  self  that  I  live  these  books  I  read  to  their  utmost  potential  and  enhance  the  art  of  the  author,  nicht  wahr?  Yes,  bring  the  writer  and  reader  into  the  same  room. 

     We discussed  this  possibility,  the  tenant  and  me.  I  was  pleasantly  surprised  to  discover  he agreed  with  me.  Then I questioned  him  of  his  profession.  He smiled.  A  soft,  kind  smile  which  caused  his  beard  to  spread  over  his  chest  like  a  furry  cat,  its  luxuriant  pelt  stretching  shoulder  to  shoulder.  He  explained  that  he  traveled  the  world  studying,  learning  about  mankind:  the  different  cultures  of  our  world.  He was  an  anthropologist.  I  was  captivated,  for  I  too  studied  the  races  of  the  earth,  among  other  interests.  Although  I  wanted  to  continue  our  discussion,  I  found  myself  drifting,  caught  in  the  bristles  of  a  witch's  broom  and  falling  into  the  nethers  of  sleep.  My cataracts took  hold.  I  watched  the  hazy  image  of  the  tenant  rise  from  his  chair.  He stepped  in  front  of  the  hearth.  One  side of  his  magnificent  proportion  seemed  ignited  by  the  flames - red  and  yellow.  Someone  else  entered  the  room,  someone  whose  image  was  clouded  but  brilliantly  white,  angelic.  Words were  exchanged:  music.  The  tenant's  voice  accompanied  the  mellifluous  symphonic  voice  of  the  woman  in  white.  There  were  movements,  and  I  distinctly  recall  being  wheeled  out  of  the  room. 

     I  was  put  into  the  lift  in  which  to  gain  access  to  the  upper  floors  of  my  home.  The  lift  carried  me  up  the  long  flight  to  the  first  landing  near  my  bedroom.  In  my  delirium,  the  journey  seemed  lengthy;  however,  I  was  pleased  that  this  stranger  and  the  luminous  woman  in  white  were  seeing  to  my  comfort.  Oh,  the  kind,  kind  world!

     The  gentleman  tenant  wheeled  me  to  my  bed  and  lifted  my  twisted  and  cracked  shell  out  of  my  throne  as  though  I  were  a  child.  His  beard  tickled  my  chin.  The  angel  drew  back  the  sheets  and  the  tenant  set  me  down  in  the  comfort  of  heaven  with  the  care  a  father  gives  his  child.  The  two  spoke  to  one  another,  but  I  was  not  able  to  grasp  their  conversation.

     "How long  must  we  do  this?"  asked the  figure  in  white.

     "Until  it  is  time  for  him  to  go,  my  dear,"  said  the  tenant  to  his  wife.  "It  is,  after  all,  the  duty  of  a  son  to  take  care  of  his  father."

     You  see,  I  drank  myself  into  a  stupor  last  night,  but  was  awakened  by  a  knock  at  the  door.

 

                         END

Reviews

[JayG]

Like so many untrained writers, you’re transcribing yourself telling the story to an audience. But can that work? The storyteller is alone on stage, with no visual aids but their performance. So, they substitute that performance for that of the actors on stage or screen versions of the story. The words they speak provide the flow of facts, but the all-important emotional component is supplied by the storyteller's performance. Vocal tricks like the emotion you place in your voice, changes in intensity and cadence, and more, amplify the bare-bones of the detail the words provide.

And how much of that makes it to the page? None, because our medium doesn't reproduce sound. And punctuation is seen AFTER the line is read, and so, does little to help the reader know how you expect the words to be inflected.

Then, there’s the visual part of the performance: gesture, body language, changes in expression, and eye movement. But not a trace of that makes it to the page, either. What’s left? A storyteller’s script, minus stage directions and rehearsal time.

In short: You can’t use the techniques of one medium in another that doesn’t reproduce the necessities. Sure, it works for you. You CAN hear your voice, as you read it. You do visualize your performance. You already know the things you’ll leave out because they seem obvious to you, and fill them in as you read. The reader has only the dispassionate words of an external observer, explaining and reporting, primarily, in overview. So we're hearing about the story, second hand, not living it

Bottom line: It’s not a matter of talent or how well you write, it's that the methodology you use here can’t be made to work. For fiction you need the emotion-based and character-centric skills of the working fiction writer.

In our school days we’re given a set of basic skills that employers favor, so as to prepare us for employment. But Fiction-Writing, like the other writing professions requires a different approach to writing, unique to the mission and the medium. Unlike the nonfiction skills we were given, which have an informational experience as their goal, fictions goal is to make the reader feel and care. As E. L. Doctorow put it: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” But using the nonfiction skills you were given, you’re talking about what’s happening—telling the reader it’s raining, not making them experience that rain.

Look at a few lines from the opening, not as the all-knowing author, but as a reader, who arrives not knowing who we are, where we are, or what’s going on.

• I drank myself into a stupor last night. I am compelled to do so today.

That’s a report, not a story. Someone we can neither hear nor see is talking about someone we know nothing about, who, for unknown reasons, drank an unknown beverage, in an unknown place. We’re told it happened, but we lack context to make it meaningful. Nor do we have a clue of what compels this person, of unknown gender and age, to repeat it (or where they get the money to do it). And though we may learn later, you can't retroactively remove confusion. Nor is there a second first-impression

• This is, of course, not peculiar of my habits.

This line is, literally meaningless., both by wording and, because there are literally millions of other things that aren’t, as well. Why not list them all. You’ve lost the reader here, I’m afraid, because you're telling them things you've not made them want to know.

• A bottle of aged scotch, a warm blanket draped over my hobbled legs, a good book in my hands as I sit near my warm hearth to soothe my ticking heart makes winter a kinder mistress.

Their heart ticks? So this person has had a heart removed and replaced by an artificial one? That might not be what you intended, but it precisely what you said.

As someone who has a novel in which that’s what happens to the protagonist, I can tell you that readers do NOT say, “Oh, he’s being poetic,” when you say their heart ticks.

This line makes sense to you because you know this person’s gender, why their legs are hobbled, who supplies the booze, and, how they feed logs into the fireplace without use of legs (the hearth is the floor of a fireplace). But the reader? No so much.

The short version: We don’t see the techniques the pros take for granted when we read their fiction, but we do recognize the result of using those tools and techniques, just as your reader will recognize that you’re not using them. And that’s be best argument I know of in favor of acquiring those skills, yourself.

The “how” of that is straightforward. There are workshops, lectures, seminars, retreats, and degree programs. But the local library’s fiction-writing section is ideal. It’s close by, free, and…. No pressure, you work when you have time, and, no tests.

Personally? I’d suggest Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, which recently came out of copyright protection. It's the best I've found to date at imparting and clarifying the "nuts-and-bolts" issues of creating a scene that will sing to the reader. The address of an archive site where you can read or download it free is just below. Copy/paste the address into the URL window of any Internet page and hit Return to get there.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

Obviously, this isn’t what you hoped to see in response to posting the piece, but the problem is one the author won’t see. And because you’ll not fix any problem you don’t see as being one, and, this one is fixable, I thought you’d want to know.

For what it might be worth, the articles in my WordPress writing blog are meant to give a taste of the issues that many hopeful fiction-writers face—issues covered in depth in books like the one I suggested.

I wish there was an easier was to give such news. There might be, but I’ve not found one, so for the sting such news carries, you have my sympathy. I’ve been there.

The good news? When you master the techniques, the act of writing becomes a LOT more fun. Your protagonist becomes a co-writer, whispering warnings and suggestions in your ear as you write. And as you learn, you’ll find yourself saying, “But that’s so…how did I not see something so obvious?”

So give it a try. And as you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/

[Johannes Fahrion]

JayG-
Thank you for your thorough and thoughtful review. I debated whether or not to post this old thing. My objective in posting it is to have an online shelf while posting other work. It certainly doesn't represent my writing style, voice, training,
or other tag. In any event, your observations are mostly correct. Perhaps I'll look into your Swain's suggestion. Thanks again for your input.