“Through an accumulation of voids, I encountered a series of images that filled me with urgency and discomfort: a mail carrier’s bag; a friendless child bound to a tree; a sign reading I Am Here Alone.”
I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I want to eat, to watch, to read, and certainly to write. But I always know what I don’t want. At restaurants, I typically spend my first minute disqualifying items from the menu (I’m talking to you, miso-glazed salmon, and you, pumpkin gnocchi). When planning a trip, I sit with a world map and identify those countries that, for reasons of seasonality, cost, familiarity, or strife, hold no allure. This spring, I painted my front door. The accommodating Lowe’s associate asked what color I had in mind. He then, with a mix of fascination and horror, watched me dismiss thousands of shades from consideration until landing, triumphantly (exhaustedly), on coral red.
My writing process is similar (though far less taxing on the good folks at Lowe’s). Long before I know what a story is about, I must grapple with what it’s not about. My story “The Children’s Museum” from NER 47.2 is not about hope. It is not about relief. It is not about a quest for love. I was repelled from those themes because they are anathema to the part of myself the impetus of this story arose from.
It wasn’t simply the act of saying “no,” but having to articulate the underlying rationale. Gene is not a truck driver. Gene is not charming. Gene is not socially adept. Through an accumulation of voids, I encountered a series of images that filled me with urgency and discomfort: a mail carrier’s bag; a friendless child bound to a tree; a sign reading I Am Here Alone. These seemingly disparate visuals accompanied a familiar, stony unease that reminded me that I am a man who has spent a great deal of time alone, imagining how other lonely people fritter away their days. The longer I wallowed in this discomfort, the truer it felt to what I wanted to explore.
Discussion around artistic genesis abounds with metaphors of cultivation, gestation, and illumination. It’s obvious why, in the process of formation, we seek guidance from additive imagery. But addition is not the only mechanism for creation. Think of the erasure poem, for instance, or sculpture. Michelangelo’s oft-cited (likely apocryphal) line about seeing David in the block of marble and removing everything around it operates on the thesis that exclusion is really convergence on a shape or, in this case, a narrative. Subtractive generation is creation in its own right; the story is taking form, albeit formlessly.
Restriction generally presents in the form of less—limit your story to a single character; confine your setting to a car; write a 300-page manuscript without using the letter e. Beginning with everything is also an exercise in restriction. Daunting as the blank page might be, it can also seduce as a free-for-all of possibility. By confronting and justifying what should not exist, I imposed a more foundational blankness on the page before setting down a single word.
This story is set in, arguably, the world’s most unorthodox children’s museum. This is not because I initially intended it to be; rather, the prospect of committing to a more traditional children’s space revealed to me that I view these places, largely, as sanitized dens of commodification that blind and mislead youth in the current social and environmental landscape. With each “no,” this absurd institution gained color and texture, and became truer to the discomfort I was writing toward.
Negative space has been a steadfast ally of painters and photographers. Writers, too, can benefit from this partnership. So what isn’t your story about? Why not? Tell me.
Say less.
Douglas Silver’s fiction has appeared in The Kenyon Review, Callaloo, The Sun, Gulf Coast, The Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. He splits his time between the Hudson Valley and New York City, where he serves as executive director of Gotham Food Pantry. Read more at https://douglassilver.com/.