In defense of “quiet” stories
When I was young, I was known for telling long, winding tales, always with very little plot or point. My sisters, my first editors, were harsh, but honest. They would remind me, a few minutes into my story with no foreseeable end, that the story needed a reason to be told. “Is it funny? Is it sad? Why are you telling me this?” My twenty-minute monologues over morning cereal were edited down. I needed to think about what I was going to say, and why I was going to say it.
There is an expectation on the part of readers (rightfully so) that a story has a point. Something needs to happen. My first writing professor, Paul Buchanan, would ask the class some version of the following: Why today? Why are we meeting this character at this moment?
Sometimes, the why is big. Car accident. Death. Asteroid headed for Earth. Volunteering in place of your sister for a fight to the death. A story’s why can feel as obvious as a neon sign: THIS CHARACTER’S LIFE IS CHANGING IN THIS MOMENT.
But sometimes, the why is small. Or, as I like to think of it, quiet. The moments that shape us as humans, and the moments that shape characters, can sneak up on you. One day, you might find yourself walking down the same road you walked the day before, and the day before that, but today, there’s a tree in it. You have to take a different route. Maybe it’s a pivot, or a sidestep, but regardless, things look different today than they did before.
The moment might only exist inside that individual. Maybe the tree, if we continue the metaphor, is on a road that only that person walks. No one else has to side-step or turn around. But for that person, things don’t look the same.
I love the life that exists in those quiet moments. The moments that make us pause and look up. Plenty of people are shaped in the quiet moments. The change is subtle, but it’s there.
I write this as someone whose story has been called quiet--too quiet to work as a debut novel. Too quiet for the agent waiting for twists and turns that never came. Too quiet for today’s market. When I sat down to revise with those comments in mind, I thought about what it would look like to turn up the volume. If my novel is too quiet, how can I make it louder?
The answer: I couldn’t. Because for Aurora, my protagonist, her life is shaped by moments that only she can hear. Her small town doesn’t have an asteroid headed straight for it. But she has a mom who chooses to put herself first, above all else. A mom who disappoints her in ways big and small. A mom whose shortcomings become noticeable in the quiet moments just as much as the loud.
And she has a Gran. A Gran whose love for Aurora isn’t loud. It’s as quiet as a wink. As slow as an afternoon drive. As gentle as a squeeze of the hand.
Yes, life’s moments can be big. Moments can be earth shattering. But quiet moments can feel big, and the whole earth might not shatter, but your world might look different today than it did before. I write quiet novels because I don’t think our why—why today, why this moment, why this girl—has to be loud. It just has to be there.
