From the archives: Absence, Negation, and White Space
Of loss and spareness
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash
In the spring, when I decided to write about white things, the first thing I did was make a list. from The White Book ~Han Kang
Hi friends,
A few days ago, my beloved brother Tim passed away. I will soon be traveling back to my hometown in Iowa for his funeral. We are heartbroken by this loss, the empty space Tim leaves behind, though he will forever be in our hearts. I have been so touched by the many kind condolences extended to me and my family from you, the writing community. It means the world to me. Thank you.
I thought this post, from November, 2022, was fitting to share again.
That’s Tim on the left, along with my brother, Bob, and myself, circa 1967.
November, 2022.
In a few days, it will be the anniversary of my mother’s death. She died too young, when I was just thirty-one. I feel her absence always, but especially as I navigated the mix of exhaustion and joy of young motherhood. I often imagine an alternate reality for her, in which instead of dying of cancer at sixty-three, she lived three more decades. I have missed her advice and humor, the sound of her signature cackle.
Who I am, how I love, what delights and terrifies and drives me, have been every bit as much influenced by my mother’s absence this second half of my life as her presence. There’s subtext and significance to that. I feel the loss of her, yes, but also the negation of her. My mother’s absence has been the white space of my life.
Today friends, I’m very much thinking of absence and negation, and what role they play in crafting powerful stories and memoir. I wonder if some form of loss lives in the white space of all our stories, whether we’re aware of it or not.
Above, I quoted the first line of Han Kang’s quietly aching The White Book. A story told in the sparest of short, beautifully written chapters. I highly recommend it to anyone, but flash writers and readers especially.
Here is the list that followed: Swaddling bands / Newborn gown / Salt / Snow / Ice / Moon / Rice / Waves / Yulan / White bird / “Laughing whitely” / Blank paper / White dog / White hair / Shroud
The pieces culminate in a haunting and profound contemplation, a deeply moving story of family and loss. For the reader there is the sense, always, of what is left out, what has been lost, and what is unspoken.
What can flash writers learn from Kang’s approach? The individual pieces read, many of them, like prose poems, but collectively they form a story. What can you subtract from your work-in-progress? How does negation serve to heighten a sense of loss within the text? When you show the reader what didn’t happen, what does this tell them about what did? How loud is the unspoken? What is missing? What words hang in the air? And what crazy mathematics creates a feeling of more from the act of subtraction?
“There is a time in life when you expect the world to be always full of new things. And then comes a day when you realize that is not how it will be at all. You see that life will become a thing made of holes. Absences. Losses. Things that were there and are no longer. And you realize, too, that you have to grow around and between the gaps, though you can put your hand out to where things were and feel that tense, shining dullness of the space where the memories are.” ~Helen Macdonald
In my workshops, I have taught an exercise where the writer must create a whole flash out of showing us what didn’t happen. Where the couple didn’t honeymoon. Or what wasn’t said when they broke up. What the family didn’t eat that Thanksgiving.
Consider the power of the thing that doesn’t get mentioned. The mastodon in the corner. Family secrets. Why do we cover things up (literally and figuratively)? We writers are told to include lots of rich detail, but what if we don’t? What kind of story emerges from that spareness?
For you, the flash fiction writer, this can present an intriguing challenge.
Read “Sneakers in the Sand” by Dina L. Relles in River Teeth. And read The White Book by Han Kang if you’ve not already.
YOUR PROMPT
Make a list as Han Kang does on the first page of The White Book. Consider framing it around a certain, evocative color as she does. Begin in simplicity, not knowing where you’re going with this. Let your mind wander a little. Ten items.
Now, over the course of the next several days, set about writing short pieces based on these items. Be sparing with your words. Consider using negation. What didn’t happen? Who wasn’t in attendance? What don’t you remember? What loss lives in the white space? Challenge yourself to do much with very little.
The result may be some sad, strange beauty. The result may be unexpected. The result may be a little scary. Or magical. The result may be the beginnings of your next chapbook.
Your reader’s brain will seek out story and poetry and if you trust in that and your own inimitable voice enough, they will likely find it.
UPCOMING “3 IN 90” LIVE WORKSHOP MOVED TO SAT. MARCH 30TH
There are still spaces available in my upcoming workshop: “This is Your Life (in Miniatures): Writing Flash Memoir” (see description below). NOTE: This 90 minute workshop has been moved to Saturday, March 30th, at 1:00 Eastern. Expect to come away with THREE fresh flash drafts. These are hugely interactive and productive sessions. You may get more information and register HERE.
Flash memoir is a fast burgeoning form, but where to begin the daunting process of writing one’s own life? In this session, we’ll explore ways to tap into the rich material of our own experience, memories, and dreams. Together, we’ll engage in thought-provoking discussions and hands-on writing exercises designed to prompt reflections on your own life's moments. Three carefully curated prompts will guide you in shaping distinct and evocative flash fiction memoirs. Expect to come away with three fresh drafts, along with the tools to infuse your flash fiction memoirs with authenticity and emotional resonance.
Thanks so much, my friends.
As always, thanks so much for subscribing and reading these monthly missives. And feel free to leave a comment. I’d love to hear how you fared with this month’s prompt or any of my prompts. Happy to answer any questions as well. Consider upgrading to a paid subscription for additional newsletters and community writing events (February’s Flash Immersion Extravaganza resulted in 537 newly drafted stories and was lots of fun!)
Much love,
Kathy
Into the Ocean Run
or, A Postmodern Confessional Poem
So many images of pity and pain – I'll make mine small and manageable as ice-cubes in a tray – out of the way.
[In this iteration I attempt to shield myself and the reader from feelings of trauma while still saying something about it.]
I won't add to the grief; I'll recycle griefs that are close at hand: Ripley in Alien 3, a virgin huntress and "mother", throws herself into lava as the monster bursts from her chest. And here is the bully in Donnie Darko, who has forced the eponymous hero to the wall in the boy's bathroom, put his crotch on Donnie's thigh, and pressed a knife to his throat. They are so close it's like they are caught in a mirror.
So many images of pity and pain – I'll make mine small and manageable as ice-cubes in a tray – out of the way.
[In this iteration I use the metaphor to explore the feeling of trauma after-the-fact.]
Come into the freezer; it's safe and calm here; still as a cemetery. It's ok. Here none can harm us. It's my hideaway, sometimes. Don't mind the carcasses, they will be eaten tomorrow. There's the grave of Geronimo and those of my ancestors – I think in the part after the end they become friends; after the episode finishes and the credits roll. Our breath puffs ghostful, rises light and pretty as reindeer.
So many images of pity and pain – I'll make mine small and manageable as ice-cubes in a tray – out of the way.
[In this iteration I destroy the metaphor and move toward transformation.]
But let's take them out and put them to use. We'll mix up some laughs; we'll make margaritas and go to the beach. We can get naked and roast like corn on the cob, purple, yellow, and red. In the heat of the sun, our stories become one, yet distinct. We are not alone in our bodies. Let the waves wash the soft limbs of the shore; let the voices flirt and float in the atmosphere; let the margaritas run through us, and into the ocean run.
This is a very beautiful post with so much wisdom, earned not only for your work as a writer, but also from a lifetime of connections and caring. I’m so very sorry for your losses, and so grateful for your wisdom.