In one way, reading a story is like floating down a river: feeling the water, not quite sure where you are headed, enjoying the imaginary sensory experience of the part of the world in which the river flows. The title of a story is a bit like vague directions whispered to the reader who approaches that story, that river, almost ready to jump on his/her inner tube.
Like every word read, readers take in any word in a title with a plethora of connotations, reactive images from their memories, and so on. In hyper-short fiction, a title serves as a jumping ramp into the story, and it mustn’t be wasted; every word must add some component of plot, theme, or characterization to it. Yet even for longer works, titles are guides to the reading of a tale.
Rebecca, by Daphne de Maurier, for example, refers to a character fully developed in the novel, but entirely dead before the actual living characters take the stage. Readers are constantly on the lookout for this ghost-like person; they read from sentence to sentence, chapter to chapter, alert for the mysterious hints. The underlying structure of the story is based on her character development and the collateral impact that character has on everyone else.
Take The Snows of Kilamanjaro, Hemingway’s short fiction masterpiece. Exotic, adventurous, and quite far away from the actual action of the tale, this title elicits a question; why is it even the title at all; isn’t this story about a failing marriage? One of the many remarkable things about this story is that death stalks the main character, being ever-present, as is the far-away mountain and its cold-pressed weather.
My Titles
I have been repeatedly asked what my title Forms of Defiance means and why I chose it. I am always flummoxed at this question, but somehow know that it is the right title for this collection of hyper-short fiction.
Titles are uniquely important for flash fiction, or even the hyper-short approach I was attempting with the stories in Forms. One goal of this type of story is extreme brevity so that the reader experiences an entire plot in one fell swoop. So the title of the story must insist on the reader being at the exact correct place before the actual sentences begin. The best flash titles can actually be a plot point or central thematic metaphor in itself. Many flash stories illustrate this, but my story “Big Bend” is also one example.
The best answer I could ever give for my naming of Forms of Defiance was suggested by a friend: What do YOU think it means?
Of course, I hope it is obvious that these stories represent me working hard to tell a real story in a non-traditional shape. Mostly every one of them is a character talking to themselves about their own experience --- the non-stop dialog within each one’s consciousness even if that consciousness is expressing the narrative physically (in action) or as a series of directives for other people (as in second person points of view) or musically (as in playlists) or intellectually (as in an essay). It’s important to emphasize that the consciousness that is ‘talking’ the narrative is entirely revelatory of the character whose consciousness is doing so.
I hope this explains my use of the word “Forms.” What of the word ‘Defiance?” In what way is defiance an energy, a strategy, or a choice at play in these stories?
Recently I ran across an Atlantic article entitled “Quit Lying to Yourself,” by Arthur C Brooks. (Atlantic online 21Nov2021). I’d like to offer this quote as an answer to the flummoxing question.
“In the end, each of us has to decide: Do I want the full truth, no matter where it leads? If you’re ready to try it, I recommend that you start with small acts of defiance against your own self-deception to get a feel for it.”
Mr. Brooks offers quite a brilliant philosophical analysis of the directive of his article’s title.
It is my hope that Forms of Defiance can offer a glimpse, or even a pathway, into the reader’s personal answer to it.