A Critique of my Own (unpublished) Short Story

Yesterday I wrote what in two sittings used to be known as a "short-short story" that is so dark, so disturbing and such a raw peek into my inner turmoil that I am afraid to let anyone else see it. It's not a revenge fantasy or some type of sociopolitical screed. Its subject matter, couched in surrealism and metaphor, is much more private. And no, I'm not going to reveal it here. What I am going to do, however, is discuss the writing of the story itself.

Clocking in at 866 words, the story I wound up calling "Once Broken" drops the reader directly into the middle of a moment that comes with no explanation. Filled with cryptic dialogue between two men, one of whom may not even be there, it basically details the prelude to a decision with enormous consequences. This was one of those times when what was in my head showed up on the screen.

The prose is sparse, the dialogue drives the plot and the imagery is almost non-existent except when a point is being made. I wish it had happened once the story was written but my damn self-awareness kicked in somewhere in the middle and I realized whose style I was mirroring.

I've been a Don DeLillo admirer for several years, and am especially impressed with his more surreal books such as "Cosmopolis," "The Body Artist" and "Mao II." Something about his shifting realities and grounded characters appeals to me in ways other authors have not tapped into. Perhaps Chuck Palahniuk's work has a similar effect on me but DeLillo's functions on a much higher, more esoteric level.

I'm not saying my story does that but it certainly has aspirations in that direction. Sadly, it's also disturbingly auto-biographical. It may even be the story someone looks back on one day and says, "If only we'd paid closer attention to that one."

Regardless, I now have a story that makes me uncomfortable. I suppose I could make the argument that in my own way I've achieved true art. For what is more meaningful than creating something one cannot feel comfortable letting others see? Is there not a purity to that? 

I remember my mother once telling me she painted something so horrifying, so deeply personal that she destroyed it afterwards because she couldn't bear letting it exist as a reminder of how far she'd fallen in those moments. Well, to borrow a famous commercial phrase from the Eighties, "I've fallen and I can't get up." I experienced no shame when writing "Once Broken." I just don't know if I want to give people clues to my state of mind if it actually gets published.

And that's a big "If." It's not the most accessible piece I've written.

So, while I welcome the feeling of being able to disturb myself, I will have to take some time before deciding if anyone else gets to read it. If it helps out everything into perspective, I think it's one of the best things I've written in a while.