Teaching Fiction: Craft, Composition Theory, and a Lie
by Luke Daly
[pdf version here: Daly-TeachingFiction]
[see the companion creative pieces here: “The Four Deaths of Mitchell Fish“]
My first magic trick as a new lecturer of creative writing was reappearing three days per week. I disappeared too, at the end of every class, but the students didn’t seem to impart this with the same mystique.
“Daly!” sometimes they would shout, or I would imagine them shouting, as I entered. In my younger life, I was always running, always late, so I may have encouraged them to see this as a magical act. And then I’d say, “Today we’re going to talk about Point of View,” or something like that. And we would. Not only would we talk about it: identify it, discuss its concealing and revealing qualities in selected works, practice it during writing heuristics, and in general start to build it into our lexicon, but the students would come to class having read the right chapter from Janet Burroway’s Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft. Or maybe that day it was the chapter on character. By all accounts, they would be ready to wring every drop out of Character into their own writing. But this was not the slam dunk case, as many educators will understand. One goal of this essay is to discuss why this gap occurs and how to work through it.
THE FOUR DEATHS OF MITCHELL FISH
by Luke Daly
[pdf version here: Daly-FourDeathsofMitchellFish]
[see the companion essay “Teaching Fiction: Craft, Composition Theory, and a Lie“]
I slash in like a dull knife but don’t tip into the abyss. Just wow at the Formica. Some wrongful oxygen rises up the ways in my neck. I do fall then
Slick Mick pushed in through the screen door, stopped in the middle of my eat-in kitchen with the brand new formica countertops his finger in the air like he was gonna say something. Fell face first on the floor right where you’re standing. If I’m telling the truth? I hoped he was dead. So I started sifting my hands like this through the bills and penny-savers on the formica, feeling for my cordless phone and hoping that if he was dead, I wouldn’t find the phone quick enough to save him. And I saw him on Day One, charming as only a drunk can. Previous to the nightly urination in bed and being too far gone to wake up and clean it. Previous to driving my glossy black Oldsmobile into the Blue Earth River the day after I got it. Previous to stabbing his hand with a steak-knife trying to show off for Jenny at Ponderosa. That’s why Ponderosa uses knives with rounded tips now: My man, Slick Mick. And here he was in my trailer, like a damned dead fish, oily from the car but no real work, just playing around with his nuts. Go on and lie there, you sick duck. I’ll call you an ambulance just as soon as I find my cordless phone.