DON’T TELL ME THE PLOT

by Melodie Johnson Howe

My friend Lenore called yesterday.

“Hello?”

“Literature smit-a-ture,” she announced angrily.

“You read my short story?”

“No. I was three hundred pages into An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser…”

“That means you have about two thousand more pages to go.”

Undaunted she continued to rant, “and I was loving it, when I just happened to turn to the dust jacket and innocently read: ‘Roberta pregnant and desperate begs Clyde to marry her. Clyde is inspired by a newspaper account of a drowning. He plans and carries out Roberta’s death in a secluded lake resort. The “accident” is soon seen through—Clyde is a very clumsy murderer. He is arrested, tried, convicted, and electrocuted.’ So I’ve invested six hours in this book and they tell me the ending. How can they do that? I mean I’m reading along thinking what’s going to happen next and then they tell me. I’m furious.”

I thought of telling her never to read a dust jacket, they always give away the plot. But I decided against it. She was too distraught. “I read the book a long, long time ago I think in high school or college. If I remember there are social nuances to carry you through.”

“Nuances. Nuances?! Clyde is electrocuted. How nuanced is that? I mean I was enjoying the journey.”

“Why are you reading An American Tragedy, for God’s sake?”

“My book club.”

Oh, yes, the book club that doesn’t read mysteries, I thought. “Why did you join a book club?”

“Because when I was working on Wall Street I would read on the train. When I stopped commuting I stopped reading regularly. Now I’m reading one classical book a month and one contemporary book the other month. We switch back and forth. And it has to be in paperback. Sometimes to be honest it feels like homework, but then I discover a writer that just carries me along.”

“But Theodore Dreiser?”

“He uses wonderful words that are not popular any more. It sets you in a period. I learned about making collars in a collar factory. I like the details he gives me and I like following the plot.”

I liked how she talked about old Theodore as if he were still alive.

“That is until I found out Clyde gets fried. I didn’t even know Roberta was pregnant.”

I feel a blog coming on. “When you read a book what do you look for?”

“I look for a writer who is a good descriptor of character and life. You sound like you’re interviewing me. You’re not going to put this in your blog, are you?”

“No, don’t be silly.”

“I’m just your average reader.”

“What else do you like in a writer?”

“I like the wit of a writer to come through. A sense of who the writer is.”

“You mean a sense of who the character in the story is?”

“The character too, but I see you when I read you. Of course I know you. But even writers I don’t know, I like to sense their personality. The personality of their writing.”

“You mean the style of their writing?”

“To me it’s the personality of the writer’s writing. Why do I hear the keys on a computer board clicking? Are you taking this down?”

“Why don’t you want to be in my blog?”

“I’m out of my league here. I’m just an average reader. Don’t make me look like an idiot.”

“What exactly do you mean by personality?”

“Take Raymond Chandler. He has a wonderful way of setting a scene and then taking you into it with a touch of sarcasm … ”

“You mean irony?”

“Are you rewriting me?”

“No.”

“Okay, a sly way of taking you into the scene that is all his own.”

“What do you like about short stories?”

“They’re short.” She laughs, slightly embarrassed. “I think a really good short story doesn’t have a lot of fluff. Not a lot of rhetoric. They must be clever. I like to feel I’m in the hands of a clever smart writer.”

“What about the ones you don’t like?”

“The short stories I don’t like are those that don’t go anywhere. And if the writing is bland I just stop reading. I have to be grabbed early on. And what grabs me is the personality of the writing and then the plot. Otherwise I don’t want to continue. I don’t want it to be homework. You told me that. It shouldn’t be homework. You should be able to put a book down if you don’t like it. I always thought I had to finish it no matter what. Some nun was going to slap my wrist if I didn’t.”

“Are there books you didn’t finish reading in your book club?”

“The ones I have trouble with are the ones that have won prizes. A lot of those books are like free association of the character’s mind. The plot is never clear. I hate it when they go off in different directions and never thread it together again. The writing becomes overblown and more important than the substance. We just read a book where some of the members thought the female protagonist was abused by her brother. I didn’t get that. It was never clear. Are we supposed to project these things into the writers work? I mean it’s not my job. If that’s the case the author should say it. I like a clear plot line. You know like Clyde murders Roberta.” She is off again. “Here I am putting in my time reading this tome, which is so big if I fall asleep and let the book drop it bruises my chin, and then Clyde gets electrocuted. The End.”

Still in a snit she hangs up. But as a writer I felt better. I loved her passion for reading, for words. I loved her anger at being betrayed by a stupid dust jacket. With the publishing world falling apart my friend gave me hope, even if she was reading Theodore Dreiser.