The Law of Narrative Density

[span style=""]I [/span]had meant to write a defense of the short story as a narrative entity, regaling you with tales of its history and importance. I would dazzle you, show the short story in its best light, take you for a test drive, and like a used car salesman, convince you that this, yes, this narrative construct is just the right one for you—in fact, it’s the best narrative construct. How could you enjoy a novel—stupid, flashy, overpriced novels—when you could have this short story here? It’s already worn in and the driver’s seat fits your ass like a glove. A glove that fits well, even.But then I realized something—that arguing for one particular literary structure over another is like arguing for your favorite number. I like 7. It’s the best number. Seriously. Look at the slight arc of its back, that crisp, flat plateau, the way it looks like an upside down nose, the way it’s so much better than 6, but not flashy like the pretentious 8. I won’t even deign to criticize those who like numbers with multiple digits; I won’t talk about how they’re obviously overcompensating.So which is better, what’s your favorite form? Poetry, flash fiction, short stories, novellas, novelettes, novels? I mean, really, what’s the difference? Let’s break this down—what’s the first thing we tend to ask about a piece of literature? (No, it’s not “Is there a movie version?”) We want to know “What is it about?” So, let’s use this as our starting factor: aboutness.Just as there is a difference between numbers, there is a difference between literary forms aside from their aboutness. Or, to put it all mathy, there’s a variable, a coefficient to that aboutness. It’s a matter of density. Like numbers, there’s a density to literary forms. 7 is a number, 8 is a number, but 8 is just a little more dense; it’s still a single thing. It’s still a category, but it holds more. And like numbers, there is what I call a narrative density to literary forms. From the novel to the poem, there is a scale, a spectrum. Every piece of writing has its particular aboutness, and the shorter the form, the more dense it is. The more restricted the form, the greater its aboutness-per-word ratio.Picture it like this: you need to cross a river to deliver an important, vital message to the King of Grammaria. There are a lot of ways to get it across. You could build a bridge. (Sure, it’s not the most ideal, but I never said the message was urgent. Also, in this analogy, the bridge is a novel, FYI.) If you spread the aboutness thin, through 90-100k words (bricks or whatever), you could make this big structure, build a world piece by piece. You could build your bridge and run across it and deliver your aboutness to the King of Grammaria. (The king is your audience. Come on, people, keep up.) Everyone could see exactly how you crossed the river, how you delivered your message.Or you could take the poet’s way across. Pack all that aboutness into a tiny scroll, attach it to an arrow, and fire it across the river. The aboutness still arrives, the message still gets to the king, but it’s different. Unlike the bridge, there would not be this grand, enormous thing to examine. When the king asks, “How did you cross the river?” you wouldn't be able to point to the bridge. If there were a bridge, the king could easily see the path the aboutness took over the river.But with the arrow, you can’t show him that path. The king has to do some work there. Sure, he can see your stance, how you held the bow and took aim, but he has to imagine the arrow streaking through the air, wind rustling its tail feathers, the way the light glinted off its sharp tip. There’s a sort of mystery there, a bit of magic. Not to say there isn’t magic in bridge-building. There’s a majesty to both—the arrow and the bridge—in the same way we can appreciate both great architecture and a moment of pure athletic prowess. The magic of great art is in both if done well. However, we award no points to bridges that fall down or arrows that miss their mark.Tell us, then, about short stories, you say. Well, short stories are just another form on the spectrum, aren’t they? They’re a fixed aboutness with a narrative density coefficient, somewhere between the poem and the novel. A little less substantial than a bridge, a little more substantial than the dotted line of an arrow’s path. A canoe trip maybe—something substantial with the ripples of the path still visible in the water. Ultimately, it’s a number, it’s a scale, it’s a color. There are no inherent qualities of the short story that make it better or worse than any other literary form. Why is red better than blue? Why is 7 better than 6? Personal taste. Preference. A comfortable heft in the palm of your hand.You know what the historical definition of a short story is? What can be read in a single sitting. That’s it. Another arbitrary delineation on a spectrum. You know what’s special about the short story? If you’re a fan of this particular sweet spot of aboutness-per-word, then short stories are just the right literary form for you! Huzzah!