Publishers think genres are a
way of classifying fiction in order to target marketing of books to receptive
audiences. Fine. What if a book or a collection of stories fits into more than
one genre?
So-called literary experts
say “genre fiction” (as opposed to literary fiction) is plot-driven. That
bothers me. I thought the plot was pretty important in The Sun Also Rises, although perhaps not as much as the characters,
and I’m pretty sure it’s an example of literary fiction. Oh well. Let’s not argue
that point.
Let’s try to classify The Good Old Days? The short stories in this collection occur in the past, ie. 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. I guess that means the stories are historical fiction.
However, the stories are based on families—their thrilling escapes from war, their secrets which mystify current generation, and their romances. So, the some of the stories are plot-driven romances, mysteries, and thrillers. Other stories are character-driven and resemble literary fiction.
But wait, these stories might be called memoirs (a form of nonfiction)—most of the stories are snapshots of real events and have the idiosyncratic tone of memoirs. I interviewed dozens of people about their childhoods to get ideas, but I turned my notes into fiction as I added
plots, developed characters, and changed details.
By now, you’re bored with
this literary discussion. Please note I was much briefer than most writers as
they debated the differences between narrative memoirs and historical fiction. Gee, I hate trying to fit into a box
defined by someone else.
Blurbs don’t really work for
short story collections. So,
I included the first page of one of the short stores.
I Still Want…
“I still want a hula hoop.” The
chipmunks—Alvin, Simon, and Theodore—screeched slightly out of harmony on the
Saturday morning cartoon show. There were lots of things I still wanted, too:
the winter to end, Mom to get well, and anyone to talk to me.
When I was eight, neither of my
parents spoke much to me. They avoided me, except at suppertime. Then Mom
stared at the black cat clock, with its red eyes rolling back and forth and its
tail swinging, while Dad and I silently ate supper. When I put down my fork,
Mom sent me outside in warm weather and to my bedroom in winter. Dad seldom
protested her decision. He only hung his head.
As soon as I exited the
kitchen, Mom usually screamed or cried, often both, as Dad droned on about what
the doctor said and how she should eat more, stop smoking, drink less, and get
out more. I agreed with Mom. Dad’s litany was boring. Anyway, most nights after
about an hour of hysterics, he went out to the garage to tinker on his
carpentry projects.
For about fifteen minutes after
his departure, Mom slammed doors in the kitchen before she shuffled to the
bathroom. The next ten minutes were the most important of the evening to me. If
I managed to open my bedroom door, slide down the hall to the kitchen, and
sneak through the living room to the garage while she was in the shower, I was
free…
Other stories in the collection include: Smell of Fear, The Bronx Revisited, I Look Like Papa, and Dirty Dave. All have bits of humor and make you think. You may recognize your relatives or neighbors in these stories.
