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There's a Hole in My Chest
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to my wife.
She blinked and cocked her head questioningly.
“It’s definitely new,” I explained. “It wasn’t there when I went to bed last night. At least, I don’t remember it being there, and I really think I’d have noticed. And even if I didn’t, I’m sure you would have said something.
“But this morning, when I went to brush my teeth, I looked in the mirror, and… there it was. A hole in my chest, right through the middle, about where my heart ought to be.” I gestured vaguely at my shirt-covered chest. “It’s a round hole, a bit wider than my fist, and it goes all the way through me.”
She bit her lip. “So, are you telling me your heart is, is gone? Or hurting? Is that what this is about?”
“No. Well, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m still moving around and… and stuff.” I put a finger to my neck. “Still got a pulse. But there’s definitely a hole in my chest, so I’m not sure how I can still have a heart.”
She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I’m not really following your metaphor.”
Now it was my turn to blink and cock my head. “What? No. No, I’m not being metaphorical. I mean there’s literally a hole in my chest, and you can literally stick your hand right through me, and I don’t know why.”
She shrugged. “Well, I don’t know why, either. What’s even the context for this?”
“The context is that I woke up with a hole in my chest.”
“See, that doesn’t help me. Why is there a whole in your chest?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
The apologetic smile was starting to fade, frustration slowly but surely replacing it. “Honey, is this a Kafka thing, where the point is that there is no reason for it?”
“I’m sure I have no idea. I was really hoping for some advice. Should I see a doctor? I feel fine, but having a hole in your chest seems like the kind of thing you ought to tell someone.”
“Well, I don’t know. If it was me, I’d probably freak out, but it’s all kind of… academic, isn’t it? I mean, that’s something that can’t actually happen.”
“Okay, I really don’t think I’m making myself clear.” I took off my shirt, exposing the hole in my chest. “If you look at my chest, right now, my actual chest, you will discover an actual hole going right through the middle of it. I am completely out of my depth, here, and I could really, really use some advice.”
She frowned at my chest, and the hole in the middle of it. I held my breath, waiting to see what she’d say.
“...Is there some sort of religious allusion that I’m missing?”
With a great effort, I managed to stop myself from slapping my forehead. “I. Don’t. Know.”
She glared at me, tolerance exhausted. “Well, I don’t know too, and if you’re going to be this obtuse, then nobody else is going to be able to understand, either.” She snorted. “Just saying ‘look at me, I’ve got a hole in my chest, figure it out yourself, isn’t it deep?’ isn’t clever. It’s pretentious, is what it is.”
“It is deep. It goes all the way through.” I knew that was the wrong thing to say, but by now I was feeling pretty petulant myself.
“Look, I’m done talking about this. Why don’t you and your ‘hole’”—her air-quotes were the most emphatically sarcastic I’d ever seen—”take a walk. And don’t come back until you’re ready to stop acting like you’re… like you’re a character in somebody’s college art film.”
I pulled my shirt back on, and walked out the door.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to the doctor.
He rolled his eyes and stood up, heading for the door out of the cramped exam room. “Right. Look, I’ve got actual patients to see. Come back when you—”
He paused in mid-lecture as I took off my shirt.
“It wasn’t there before this morning. At least, I don’t think it was,” I supplied. “It doesn’t hurt or anything.”
He frowned at it, then grabbed the bell of his stethoscope. He brought it up to where my heart ought to be, and stuck it a few inches inside the hole. After a moment he pulled it out, satisfied.
“Looks like a psychosomatic issue,” he pronounced.
“No, it looks like a hole in my chest,” I replied.
He chuckled. “Well, yes, I suppose so. But let’s be serious for a moment. If there were actually a hole in your chest going through your heart, you’d be dead!”
“I’m not dead,” I said, “but there is definitely a hole in my chest.”
He smiled in a way which made me irrationally angry. “Well, surely you can see that both of those things can’t be true, yes? Now look here.” He grabbed a small mirror, and held it in front of my face. “Breath out gently onto the glass, please.”
I did.
He pulled the mirror back and showed me the misted pane. “If there was a hole in your chest right where you say there is, it would be cutting through the bottom of your trachea. If you can imagine a way you could exhale, let alone fog up a mirror, when your lungs aren’t even connected to your mouth, then I’d love to hear it. Moreover, it would be cutting your sternum neatly in half—” he paused to prod the top and bottom of the hole “—in fact, you’d have barely any sternum left, with a hole that size. Without that support, your rib cage would collapse almost immediately.” He stood up, satisfied. So, not only would you already be dead if you did, in fact, have this hole in your chest, but your body would be totally incapable of doing several other key things which it’s obviously still doing.”
I looked down at my chest; the hole was still there. I looked back to the doctor, who was taking off his gloves. “Okay. Okay, fine, this hole in my chest is impossible. You know what, you’re right, it is impossible. But since it’s still here, what should I do?”
He threw the gloves in the trash, and opened the exam room’s door, gesturing for me to follow him out. “My receptionist will schedule an appointment for you with Dr. Kyrzynski.”
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to no one in particular.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I repeated, “and he’s sending me to a shrink.” Dr. Kyrzynski was a clinical psychologist. She also had an opening that afternoon. “A shrink. For a hole in my chest.”
I decided to grab some lunch while I waited.
“A gyro and a Diet Coke,” I told the man in the food truck.
“$6.41,” he said, as the man behind him started putting together my gyro. “Any sauce?”
“No,” I said, handing him a twenty. “Do you think I’ll be able to eat it with a hole in my chest?”
He paused in the act of making change and looked at me with a bit more attention. “A what?”
“A hole in my chest. There’s a big hole in the middle of my chest. Do you think I can still eat?”
He slowly looked me up and down, then counted my change into my hand. “No refunds.”
“Okay.”
As his companion set my meal on the counter, I asked him the same question.
“Oh, yeah,” he answered, in a cheerful voice. “Gyro’s’ great for when you’re feeling down.”
“No, I—okay, thanks.”
I didn’t have any trouble eating or drinking. But when I peeked under my collar, the hole in my chest was still there.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to Dr. Kyrzynski.
“I see. And how long have you been feeling this ‘hole?’” she asked me.
I wasn’t lying on a couch, which surprised me. Her office looked more like a lawyer’s than a doctor’s, with shelves full of books on both sides of me. She sat on the far side of large, intimidatingly clean desk. She’d gotten up to shake my hand, then invited me to sit in a nondescript office chair opposite her before taking her seat behind the desk again.
“I don’t really feel it,” I told her. “I mean, I can touch it, but it doesn’t hurt or anything.”
“Then would it be fair to say that this ‘hole’ isn’t causing you any pain?”
“That’s right.”
“How would you describe the feeling, then?”
I turned that one over in my head for a moment. “There really isn’t a feeling at all. Just normal-feeling, I guess.”
She wrote something down. “Do you feel any anxiety when you think about it?”
“Yes. I’m not sure what it’s doing, or why it’s there, or how I’m even alive right now. I’m feeling very anxious about those things.” She wrote a few more things down. “Do you want to see the hole?”
“I’m more interested in understanding the hole. How long have you been feeling anxious about it?”
“Since I saw it this morning. Look, you do understand that I’m talking about a literal, physical hole, right?” I looked around, finding nothing but the books and a few potted plants. “I’m not sure what my referral said, but I actually do—”
“Please, relax,” she said in a soothing voice. “We’re just here to talk right now. If we decide to do anything, it will only be because both of us agree it’s the best course of action.”
“Okay, but the hole—”
“Yes, the hole. You said it goes through your heart?”
I nodded. “Yeah, thereabouts.”
“And you don’t know why you don’t feel anything?”
I nodded again.
“Well, that’s not uncommon. There are many ways of processing strong emotions, and a sense of emptiness or a lack of feeling are very, very common responses. Tell me, how do you think you should be feeling?”
“In pain?” I ventured. The foggy mirror came back to my mind. “Suffocating?”
She smiled. “Suffocating, okay. That’s an excellent descriptor.” She flipped a page in her notebook. “Why do you think you should feel that way?”
“Well, apparently my lungs aren’t connected to my—”
“I’m sorry,” she cut in, smiling, “I guess I should have been clearer. Not physically, but emotionally: why do you think you should feel, let’s say, smothered?”
I gritted my teeth. “Emotionally, I think I’d feel less smothered if someone would tell me what to do about the damn hole in my chest.”
Dr. Kyrzynski’s smile became a little more strained, and she made another note on her pad. I glanced at a clock behind me.
My appointment was for thirty minutes. I still had twenty-four left.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to the sheet of paper I’d been given. Then I looked down the street to the Walgreens on the corner.
I’d left Dr. Kyrzynski’s office with a prescription for one month’s worth of Maprotiline, which was supposed to help with my “anxiety-based depression” and “resultant irritative tendencies.” I took another look at it. I stuffed the prescription in my back pocket.
I walked straight past the Walgreens and across the street. From there, I headed into the first bar I saw. I still didn’t know what to do about the hole in my chest, but at the very least, I figured that I’d earned a drink by now.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to the dregs of Captain and Coke in my glass.
“Sorry, did you say something?” asked the bartender. It was still afternoon, and this wasn’t the kind of bar that catered to midday clientele. Other than a pair of older men nursing beers while playing chess at a booth in the back, it was just the two of us.
“No.” I said. “Yes. Yes, I said something. I said I have a hole in my chest.”
“Can I see it?”
I shrugged, and pulled up my shirt. He whistled appreciatively.
“Yup, that sure looks like a hole in your chest, alright.”
“Thank you.” I groaned in relief. “You wouldn’t—wait, you’re just humoring me, aren’t you?”
“No, that definitely looks like there’s a big chunk of you missing that shouldn’t be.”
I looked at him suspiciously, pulling my shirt back down. “You don’t think it’s a metaphor, or all in my head, or a manifestation of my subconscious guilt?”
“I don’t know?” The bartender quirked an eyebrow. “Is it one of those things?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I think I just woke up this morning and there was a hole in my chest. Which, believe me, I know that that’s not a satisfying answer, but if I had the answer, I’d…” I trailed off, strained for a way to complete the sentence, and eventually gave up and finished my drink. “Okay, I guess I don’t know what I’d do. Depends on the why, I guess. But I’d do something.”
“I hear you,” he said, taking my empty glass and tilting it questioningly. I nodded, and he started making another. “I went through that a few years ago.”
“You had a hole in your chest?” I didn’t bother to hide the skepticism in my voice.
“Oh, no. No, nothing like that, thank god!” He laughed, and passed me my drink. “No, one day I woke up and my eyes were replaced with writhing pools of maggots.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah,” he leaned against the counter. “Yeah, I know. But, I mean… look at them, right? Really look into my eyes.”
“Is this some sort of pickup line? Because even if I was gay and single, maggots aren’t—”
“Come on, buddy, humor me.”
“Alright.” I took a good look at his eyes.
“...Huh. Okay,” I said after a moment. “I guess I can see why you’d think you had writhing pools of maggots instead of eyes, if you didn’t know any better.”
He dipped his head slightly. “‘If you didn’t know any better,’ huh?”
“Well, come on. I mean, yes, that’s sorta what they look like, but you clearly aren’t blind.” I snorted. “How could you see if you didn’t have any eyes?”
“Yeah…” he sighed, and it sounded wistful to my ears. “Yeah, that’s how I figured it, too. But you’ve gotta admit, the resemblance to a couple of writhing pools of maggots is uncanny. Can’t blame a guy for running around trying to figure out what happened to his eyes, can you?”
“I suppose not,” I agreed. “You ever get that checked out? Maybe it’s glaucoma or something. Might be a treatment for that.”
He stared at me expectantly.
I stared back for, in retrospect, an embarrassingly long time. In my defense, I’d been drinking.
“Ooh…” I finally managed.
“Yeah.”
“So…”
“Hey, it sure looks like a hole in your chest, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you did.” He smiled, and his maggoty eyes pulsated luridly. “But deep down, you know that that’s just silly.”
I shook my head. “When you put it like that… heh, I guess I’ve been acting pretty foolish, haven’t I?”
One of the chess players came up to the bar. “Hey, can I get a couple more?”
“Sure, sure,” the bartender answered. Then he put a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know why there’s a hole in your chest. But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that you don’t have a hole in your chest. You get me?”
I nodded. “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it.
While he pulled the other man’s drinks, I fished out a few bills and left them on the counter. Then, I headed home.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to my wife.
“We’re not going to play this game again, are we?” she asked, warily.
“No,” I said. I sat down on the couch, and patted the cushion next to me. She joined me, and leaned her head against my shoulder.
“Good,” she said. “Sorry if I was a little bitchy this morning, but I’ve been really stressed at work lately. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“It’s alright,” I told her. “I did end up seeing someone about it. I’m not sure exactly why I think there’s a hole in my chest, but it might be an expression of repressed bereavement.”
“For your dad?”
“Mmm.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” she said, placing her hand on my chest, her fingers depressing the shirt a couple of inches into the hole. “But it’s been almost three years since he died. Why would you start feeling like your heart was gone now?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, “But Dr. Kyrzynski says that sometimes these feelings don’t manifest right away, and there can be additional triggers.”
“Dr. Kyrzynski?”
“She’s a shrink. I hadn’t made up my mind if I was going to go back to her, but I think I’ll call her office and set up an appointment for next week.”
“Good. It sounds like you made some progress just from your first session.”
“I think I did,” I said, taking her hand in mine and idly running her fingertips around the edge of the hole. “Honestly, I’m not so sure that’s even what it is, but going back can’t hurt. Oh, and there’s someone else who helped, too, and I really ought to pop over and thank him tomorrow.”
“You do that.” She snuggled a little closer to me. “I like you better when you’re not being obtuse.”
We both laughed.
“There’s not a hole in my chest,” I said to the man with writhing pools of maggots for eyes.
“There aren’t writhing pools of maggots in place of my eyes,” he answered with a grin.
And there weren’t.
She blinked and cocked her head questioningly.
“It’s definitely new,” I explained. “It wasn’t there when I went to bed last night. At least, I don’t remember it being there, and I really think I’d have noticed. And even if I didn’t, I’m sure you would have said something.
“But this morning, when I went to brush my teeth, I looked in the mirror, and… there it was. A hole in my chest, right through the middle, about where my heart ought to be.” I gestured vaguely at my shirt-covered chest. “It’s a round hole, a bit wider than my fist, and it goes all the way through me.”
She bit her lip. “So, are you telling me your heart is, is gone? Or hurting? Is that what this is about?”
“No. Well, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m still moving around and… and stuff.” I put a finger to my neck. “Still got a pulse. But there’s definitely a hole in my chest, so I’m not sure how I can still have a heart.”
She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I’m not really following your metaphor.”
Now it was my turn to blink and cock my head. “What? No. No, I’m not being metaphorical. I mean there’s literally a hole in my chest, and you can literally stick your hand right through me, and I don’t know why.”
She shrugged. “Well, I don’t know why, either. What’s even the context for this?”
“The context is that I woke up with a hole in my chest.”
“See, that doesn’t help me. Why is there a whole in your chest?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
The apologetic smile was starting to fade, frustration slowly but surely replacing it. “Honey, is this a Kafka thing, where the point is that there is no reason for it?”
“I’m sure I have no idea. I was really hoping for some advice. Should I see a doctor? I feel fine, but having a hole in your chest seems like the kind of thing you ought to tell someone.”
“Well, I don’t know. If it was me, I’d probably freak out, but it’s all kind of… academic, isn’t it? I mean, that’s something that can’t actually happen.”
“Okay, I really don’t think I’m making myself clear.” I took off my shirt, exposing the hole in my chest. “If you look at my chest, right now, my actual chest, you will discover an actual hole going right through the middle of it. I am completely out of my depth, here, and I could really, really use some advice.”
She frowned at my chest, and the hole in the middle of it. I held my breath, waiting to see what she’d say.
“...Is there some sort of religious allusion that I’m missing?”
With a great effort, I managed to stop myself from slapping my forehead. “I. Don’t. Know.”
She glared at me, tolerance exhausted. “Well, I don’t know too, and if you’re going to be this obtuse, then nobody else is going to be able to understand, either.” She snorted. “Just saying ‘look at me, I’ve got a hole in my chest, figure it out yourself, isn’t it deep?’ isn’t clever. It’s pretentious, is what it is.”
“It is deep. It goes all the way through.” I knew that was the wrong thing to say, but by now I was feeling pretty petulant myself.
“Look, I’m done talking about this. Why don’t you and your ‘hole’”—her air-quotes were the most emphatically sarcastic I’d ever seen—”take a walk. And don’t come back until you’re ready to stop acting like you’re… like you’re a character in somebody’s college art film.”
I pulled my shirt back on, and walked out the door.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to the doctor.
He rolled his eyes and stood up, heading for the door out of the cramped exam room. “Right. Look, I’ve got actual patients to see. Come back when you—”
He paused in mid-lecture as I took off my shirt.
“It wasn’t there before this morning. At least, I don’t think it was,” I supplied. “It doesn’t hurt or anything.”
He frowned at it, then grabbed the bell of his stethoscope. He brought it up to where my heart ought to be, and stuck it a few inches inside the hole. After a moment he pulled it out, satisfied.
“Looks like a psychosomatic issue,” he pronounced.
“No, it looks like a hole in my chest,” I replied.
He chuckled. “Well, yes, I suppose so. But let’s be serious for a moment. If there were actually a hole in your chest going through your heart, you’d be dead!”
“I’m not dead,” I said, “but there is definitely a hole in my chest.”
He smiled in a way which made me irrationally angry. “Well, surely you can see that both of those things can’t be true, yes? Now look here.” He grabbed a small mirror, and held it in front of my face. “Breath out gently onto the glass, please.”
I did.
He pulled the mirror back and showed me the misted pane. “If there was a hole in your chest right where you say there is, it would be cutting through the bottom of your trachea. If you can imagine a way you could exhale, let alone fog up a mirror, when your lungs aren’t even connected to your mouth, then I’d love to hear it. Moreover, it would be cutting your sternum neatly in half—” he paused to prod the top and bottom of the hole “—in fact, you’d have barely any sternum left, with a hole that size. Without that support, your rib cage would collapse almost immediately.” He stood up, satisfied. So, not only would you already be dead if you did, in fact, have this hole in your chest, but your body would be totally incapable of doing several other key things which it’s obviously still doing.”
I looked down at my chest; the hole was still there. I looked back to the doctor, who was taking off his gloves. “Okay. Okay, fine, this hole in my chest is impossible. You know what, you’re right, it is impossible. But since it’s still here, what should I do?”
He threw the gloves in the trash, and opened the exam room’s door, gesturing for me to follow him out. “My receptionist will schedule an appointment for you with Dr. Kyrzynski.”
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to no one in particular.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I repeated, “and he’s sending me to a shrink.” Dr. Kyrzynski was a clinical psychologist. She also had an opening that afternoon. “A shrink. For a hole in my chest.”
I decided to grab some lunch while I waited.
“A gyro and a Diet Coke,” I told the man in the food truck.
“$6.41,” he said, as the man behind him started putting together my gyro. “Any sauce?”
“No,” I said, handing him a twenty. “Do you think I’ll be able to eat it with a hole in my chest?”
He paused in the act of making change and looked at me with a bit more attention. “A what?”
“A hole in my chest. There’s a big hole in the middle of my chest. Do you think I can still eat?”
He slowly looked me up and down, then counted my change into my hand. “No refunds.”
“Okay.”
As his companion set my meal on the counter, I asked him the same question.
“Oh, yeah,” he answered, in a cheerful voice. “Gyro’s’ great for when you’re feeling down.”
“No, I—okay, thanks.”
I didn’t have any trouble eating or drinking. But when I peeked under my collar, the hole in my chest was still there.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to Dr. Kyrzynski.
“I see. And how long have you been feeling this ‘hole?’” she asked me.
I wasn’t lying on a couch, which surprised me. Her office looked more like a lawyer’s than a doctor’s, with shelves full of books on both sides of me. She sat on the far side of large, intimidatingly clean desk. She’d gotten up to shake my hand, then invited me to sit in a nondescript office chair opposite her before taking her seat behind the desk again.
“I don’t really feel it,” I told her. “I mean, I can touch it, but it doesn’t hurt or anything.”
“Then would it be fair to say that this ‘hole’ isn’t causing you any pain?”
“That’s right.”
“How would you describe the feeling, then?”
I turned that one over in my head for a moment. “There really isn’t a feeling at all. Just normal-feeling, I guess.”
She wrote something down. “Do you feel any anxiety when you think about it?”
“Yes. I’m not sure what it’s doing, or why it’s there, or how I’m even alive right now. I’m feeling very anxious about those things.” She wrote a few more things down. “Do you want to see the hole?”
“I’m more interested in understanding the hole. How long have you been feeling anxious about it?”
“Since I saw it this morning. Look, you do understand that I’m talking about a literal, physical hole, right?” I looked around, finding nothing but the books and a few potted plants. “I’m not sure what my referral said, but I actually do—”
“Please, relax,” she said in a soothing voice. “We’re just here to talk right now. If we decide to do anything, it will only be because both of us agree it’s the best course of action.”
“Okay, but the hole—”
“Yes, the hole. You said it goes through your heart?”
I nodded. “Yeah, thereabouts.”
“And you don’t know why you don’t feel anything?”
I nodded again.
“Well, that’s not uncommon. There are many ways of processing strong emotions, and a sense of emptiness or a lack of feeling are very, very common responses. Tell me, how do you think you should be feeling?”
“In pain?” I ventured. The foggy mirror came back to my mind. “Suffocating?”
She smiled. “Suffocating, okay. That’s an excellent descriptor.” She flipped a page in her notebook. “Why do you think you should feel that way?”
“Well, apparently my lungs aren’t connected to my—”
“I’m sorry,” she cut in, smiling, “I guess I should have been clearer. Not physically, but emotionally: why do you think you should feel, let’s say, smothered?”
I gritted my teeth. “Emotionally, I think I’d feel less smothered if someone would tell me what to do about the damn hole in my chest.”
Dr. Kyrzynski’s smile became a little more strained, and she made another note on her pad. I glanced at a clock behind me.
My appointment was for thirty minutes. I still had twenty-four left.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to the sheet of paper I’d been given. Then I looked down the street to the Walgreens on the corner.
I’d left Dr. Kyrzynski’s office with a prescription for one month’s worth of Maprotiline, which was supposed to help with my “anxiety-based depression” and “resultant irritative tendencies.” I took another look at it. I stuffed the prescription in my back pocket.
I walked straight past the Walgreens and across the street. From there, I headed into the first bar I saw. I still didn’t know what to do about the hole in my chest, but at the very least, I figured that I’d earned a drink by now.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to the dregs of Captain and Coke in my glass.
“Sorry, did you say something?” asked the bartender. It was still afternoon, and this wasn’t the kind of bar that catered to midday clientele. Other than a pair of older men nursing beers while playing chess at a booth in the back, it was just the two of us.
“No.” I said. “Yes. Yes, I said something. I said I have a hole in my chest.”
“Can I see it?”
I shrugged, and pulled up my shirt. He whistled appreciatively.
“Yup, that sure looks like a hole in your chest, alright.”
“Thank you.” I groaned in relief. “You wouldn’t—wait, you’re just humoring me, aren’t you?”
“No, that definitely looks like there’s a big chunk of you missing that shouldn’t be.”
I looked at him suspiciously, pulling my shirt back down. “You don’t think it’s a metaphor, or all in my head, or a manifestation of my subconscious guilt?”
“I don’t know?” The bartender quirked an eyebrow. “Is it one of those things?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I think I just woke up this morning and there was a hole in my chest. Which, believe me, I know that that’s not a satisfying answer, but if I had the answer, I’d…” I trailed off, strained for a way to complete the sentence, and eventually gave up and finished my drink. “Okay, I guess I don’t know what I’d do. Depends on the why, I guess. But I’d do something.”
“I hear you,” he said, taking my empty glass and tilting it questioningly. I nodded, and he started making another. “I went through that a few years ago.”
“You had a hole in your chest?” I didn’t bother to hide the skepticism in my voice.
“Oh, no. No, nothing like that, thank god!” He laughed, and passed me my drink. “No, one day I woke up and my eyes were replaced with writhing pools of maggots.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah,” he leaned against the counter. “Yeah, I know. But, I mean… look at them, right? Really look into my eyes.”
“Is this some sort of pickup line? Because even if I was gay and single, maggots aren’t—”
“Come on, buddy, humor me.”
“Alright.” I took a good look at his eyes.
“...Huh. Okay,” I said after a moment. “I guess I can see why you’d think you had writhing pools of maggots instead of eyes, if you didn’t know any better.”
He dipped his head slightly. “‘If you didn’t know any better,’ huh?”
“Well, come on. I mean, yes, that’s sorta what they look like, but you clearly aren’t blind.” I snorted. “How could you see if you didn’t have any eyes?”
“Yeah…” he sighed, and it sounded wistful to my ears. “Yeah, that’s how I figured it, too. But you’ve gotta admit, the resemblance to a couple of writhing pools of maggots is uncanny. Can’t blame a guy for running around trying to figure out what happened to his eyes, can you?”
“I suppose not,” I agreed. “You ever get that checked out? Maybe it’s glaucoma or something. Might be a treatment for that.”
He stared at me expectantly.
I stared back for, in retrospect, an embarrassingly long time. In my defense, I’d been drinking.
“Ooh…” I finally managed.
“Yeah.”
“So…”
“Hey, it sure looks like a hole in your chest, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you did.” He smiled, and his maggoty eyes pulsated luridly. “But deep down, you know that that’s just silly.”
I shook my head. “When you put it like that… heh, I guess I’ve been acting pretty foolish, haven’t I?”
One of the chess players came up to the bar. “Hey, can I get a couple more?”
“Sure, sure,” the bartender answered. Then he put a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know why there’s a hole in your chest. But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that you don’t have a hole in your chest. You get me?”
I nodded. “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it.
While he pulled the other man’s drinks, I fished out a few bills and left them on the counter. Then, I headed home.
“There’s a hole in my chest,” I said to my wife.
“We’re not going to play this game again, are we?” she asked, warily.
“No,” I said. I sat down on the couch, and patted the cushion next to me. She joined me, and leaned her head against my shoulder.
“Good,” she said. “Sorry if I was a little bitchy this morning, but I’ve been really stressed at work lately. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“It’s alright,” I told her. “I did end up seeing someone about it. I’m not sure exactly why I think there’s a hole in my chest, but it might be an expression of repressed bereavement.”
“For your dad?”
“Mmm.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” she said, placing her hand on my chest, her fingers depressing the shirt a couple of inches into the hole. “But it’s been almost three years since he died. Why would you start feeling like your heart was gone now?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, “But Dr. Kyrzynski says that sometimes these feelings don’t manifest right away, and there can be additional triggers.”
“Dr. Kyrzynski?”
“She’s a shrink. I hadn’t made up my mind if I was going to go back to her, but I think I’ll call her office and set up an appointment for next week.”
“Good. It sounds like you made some progress just from your first session.”
“I think I did,” I said, taking her hand in mine and idly running her fingertips around the edge of the hole. “Honestly, I’m not so sure that’s even what it is, but going back can’t hurt. Oh, and there’s someone else who helped, too, and I really ought to pop over and thank him tomorrow.”
“You do that.” She snuggled a little closer to me. “I like you better when you’re not being obtuse.”
We both laughed.
“There’s not a hole in my chest,” I said to the man with writhing pools of maggots for eyes.
“There aren’t writhing pools of maggots in place of my eyes,” he answered with a grin.
And there weren’t.
I very much liked this and I can very easily summarise why. It's funny, well paced, the joke doesn't get old, and I feel that there's a lesson in it all. The characters feel very representative of real life, if a little exaggerated, but this story makes it work.
Hope this one does well!
AAIQU
Hope this one does well!
AAIQU
Ah, the lunacy of normalcy in the face of the unexplainable.
There could have been a brief scene where the man with the hole in his chest attempts to disbelieve the normalcy and touches upon the horrifying reality of the situation only to put it out of his mind for a moment.
Or for a brief time noticing just how many people are walking around with random tentacles and crab claws attached to them.
But the possibility of a perfectly sane human escaping the limits of the normal might have hurt the story.
Oh, a doctor would have probably mentioned about the hole slicing through the spinal cord before commenting on the structural integrity of the sternum.
There could have been a brief scene where the man with the hole in his chest attempts to disbelieve the normalcy and touches upon the horrifying reality of the situation only to put it out of his mind for a moment.
Or for a brief time noticing just how many people are walking around with random tentacles and crab claws attached to them.
But the possibility of a perfectly sane human escaping the limits of the normal might have hurt the story.
Oh, a doctor would have probably mentioned about the hole slicing through the spinal cord before commenting on the structural integrity of the sternum.
My first thought was that it'll now be easy for him to sneak food into the movie theatre. I don't know what to make of that.
Anyway, this was an interesting read. I'm not a fan of comedies that rely on the characters' blatant disregard of factual evidence to keep the story going--and boy, did this story had that in spades--but since the focus remained on the man's plight, I was engaged all the way through.
Plus, I think that the moral of making the best of your situation, no matter how bizarre, is something everyone should take to heart.
If I were to take it a step further, I would have liked to see MC trying to think of practical applications to his new circumstances, much like my aforementioned theatre food-sneaking.
How about installing a surveillance camera and spy on unsuspecting people? Or representing your love for materialism by using the space to store your wallet? Or hey, just keep your valuables there, what mugger would think of looking there?
You can tell I'm having fun thinking of all the possibilities, and I think any story capable of doing that should be commended.
Anyway, this was an interesting read. I'm not a fan of comedies that rely on the characters' blatant disregard of factual evidence to keep the story going--and boy, did this story had that in spades--but since the focus remained on the man's plight, I was engaged all the way through.
Plus, I think that the moral of making the best of your situation, no matter how bizarre, is something everyone should take to heart.
If I were to take it a step further, I would have liked to see MC trying to think of practical applications to his new circumstances, much like my aforementioned theatre food-sneaking.
How about installing a surveillance camera and spy on unsuspecting people? Or representing your love for materialism by using the space to store your wallet? Or hey, just keep your valuables there, what mugger would think of looking there?
You can tell I'm having fun thinking of all the possibilities, and I think any story capable of doing that should be commended.
Post by
Zaid Val'Roa
, deleted
This one is sooooo close to being pitch-perfect for me, but for whatever reason the ending doesn't quite crystallize. The comedy aspect was great, and got some good laughs out of me, but I wish it was a little clearer on the more serious aspects of what's going on.
I'm also not really sure about you lampshading so hard in the opening.
I guess, as much as you mocked it, I feel like you need to be clearer about what the hole actually does mean, because although you've showed many, many things it doesn't, that wasn't enough for me to figure it out. Maybe I'm missing something important, but yeah.
Still, this was crisp, elegant and economical, and it feels like it would be just about perfect... if only I could put my finger on exactly what you're getting at with those last two lines. 'Making the best of a bad situation' doesn't really apply, because it's obviously not that bad. 'We ignore weird stuff every day' kinda works, but is super vague. 'Everyone's broken if you look closely enough' is better, but then I'm not sure what to make of them just ignoring it in the end. Plusalso, there's nothing actually wrong with them; it just looks that way to common sense.
Very well done, but didn't quite connect in the end.
I'm also not really sure about you lampshading so hard in the opening.
I guess, as much as you mocked it, I feel like you need to be clearer about what the hole actually does mean, because although you've showed many, many things it doesn't, that wasn't enough for me to figure it out. Maybe I'm missing something important, but yeah.
Still, this was crisp, elegant and economical, and it feels like it would be just about perfect... if only I could put my finger on exactly what you're getting at with those last two lines. 'Making the best of a bad situation' doesn't really apply, because it's obviously not that bad. 'We ignore weird stuff every day' kinda works, but is super vague. 'Everyone's broken if you look closely enough' is better, but then I'm not sure what to make of them just ignoring it in the end. Plusalso, there's nothing actually wrong with them; it just looks that way to common sense.
Very well done, but didn't quite connect in the end.
This is currently at the top of my slate.
The opening is great, even if it made me fear I was in for a ride like "Let Me Tell You About the Hole in My Face". I loved that story too, but I sometimes fear the dread.
I was pleasantly surprised as I saw something overly positive here. It was fun, it was almost surreal and it was very well written. I feel like the various doctors should have their license retired and get a couple of slaps on their fingers, but that's nitpicking.
As for my interpretation of the story, I think the hole is effectively related to some form of light depression or stress, but the nature of the character means he sees it as a hole in his chest. He has problems expressing it to the rest of the world, at least until he finds a kindred spirit with whom he can talk and who understands him. And this leads to healing.
I'm sorry I couldn't say much more, but I really don't have any suggestions on how to improve this. Thank you for submitting it.
The opening is great, even if it made me fear I was in for a ride like "Let Me Tell You About the Hole in My Face". I loved that story too, but I sometimes fear the dread.
I was pleasantly surprised as I saw something overly positive here. It was fun, it was almost surreal and it was very well written. I feel like the various doctors should have their license retired and get a couple of slaps on their fingers, but that's nitpicking.
As for my interpretation of the story, I think the hole is effectively related to some form of light depression or stress, but the nature of the character means he sees it as a hole in his chest. He has problems expressing it to the rest of the world, at least until he finds a kindred spirit with whom he can talk and who understands him. And this leads to healing.
I'm sorry I couldn't say much more, but I really don't have any suggestions on how to improve this. Thank you for submitting it.
Hmmm, if I was able to speak in French, I think I could go write a two pages essay on the meaning of the fic. But let's try to keep it understandable for everyone on not write more than necessary.
I think those who have take the fic only as a comdey have missed something. I must admit it's not very clear but it's definitely there. So why this story is not a comedy? Because the hole doesn't exist. Look at the last sentences. The narrator still feels it nonetheless so he tries to understand it but nobody can give him an answer. He's lost, he's alone with his hole in his chest. No one understand him and he can't understand the others.
The only one that will give some kind of an answer is the bartender. And the answer is "Keep faking you don't have a hole in your chest. Keep telling that to the others and maybe one day you'll start to believe it." But guess what? It will never happen. He won't be able to believe it because he has a FUCKING HOLE IN HIS CHEST. That's not something you can deny nor hide to yourself. The answer the bartender gives him is clearly not the right answer but it's the only one he has. So he will stick to that answer as long as possible, until everything falls apart.
That was clever and the writting was neat. Hat off.
I think those who have take the fic only as a comdey have missed something. I must admit it's not very clear but it's definitely there. So why this story is not a comedy? Because the hole doesn't exist. Look at the last sentences. The narrator still feels it nonetheless so he tries to understand it but nobody can give him an answer. He's lost, he's alone with his hole in his chest. No one understand him and he can't understand the others.
The only one that will give some kind of an answer is the bartender. And the answer is "Keep faking you don't have a hole in your chest. Keep telling that to the others and maybe one day you'll start to believe it." But guess what? It will never happen. He won't be able to believe it because he has a FUCKING HOLE IN HIS CHEST. That's not something you can deny nor hide to yourself. The answer the bartender gives him is clearly not the right answer but it's the only one he has. So he will stick to that answer as long as possible, until everything falls apart.
That was clever and the writting was neat. Hat off.
I really don't think this is a metaphor or a comedy. The setup to all the jokes are people asking what the metaphor or joke is and the punchline every time is that there isn't one.
You're playing out the story in the critique. Which is in a way hilarious and also infuriating.
You're playing out the story in the critique. Which is in a way hilarious and also infuriating.
While I love this story for the hilarity, I also love it for the deeper concept. Personally I think that the point of the ending isn't as much about learning to cope or normalcy in a ridiculous situation as it is about the nature of the problem and how that effects how people see the narrator and the narrator sees himself. The narrator wants his problem to be understood, but neither he nor anybody else he goes to understands it. They instead view the situation through the lens of things they do understand, and treat it like those things instead of like what it actually is. He finally meets someone else who also has an issue that nobody understands. Both of them decide that the truth is not as important as their happiness, and they sacrifice the truth of their conditions so that they can fit in to the laws of the world. They choose denial but that choice itself isn't the most important part, it's the reason why they choose denial.
It reminds me of some experiences with depression, in a way. Sometimes, even the person experiencing it doesn't know why or what to do. Instead of reaching the core of the issue only the surface issues get addressed, often because the person doesn't know what the core really is and how to explain it. Eventually it becomes easier to just pretend the surface issues are the core issue, partially because it's easier to "treat" that way and partially because trying to fix the core issue can alienate them from others. Besides, it isn't hurting them at the moment, so that means it's fine to ignore, right?
This is probably my own biases tinting how I perceived the ending, but it fits remarkably well. In any case, however it was intended, thank you to the author for giving me a good laugh and something to think about. :twilightsmile:
It reminds me of some experiences with depression, in a way. Sometimes, even the person experiencing it doesn't know why or what to do. Instead of reaching the core of the issue only the surface issues get addressed, often because the person doesn't know what the core really is and how to explain it. Eventually it becomes easier to just pretend the surface issues are the core issue, partially because it's easier to "treat" that way and partially because trying to fix the core issue can alienate them from others. Besides, it isn't hurting them at the moment, so that means it's fine to ignore, right?
This is probably my own biases tinting how I perceived the ending, but it fits remarkably well. In any case, however it was intended, thank you to the author for giving me a good laugh and something to think about. :twilightsmile:
I'm afraid I couldn't get into this one at all. The core conceit just doesn't work. Every character felt like they were holding Idiot Balls and not reacting believably at all, even the protagonist. As soon as I saw the wife's reaction and the protagonist's nonchalance and willingness to drop the subject, I was checked out and skimming down to the end to see what the ~twist~ was going to be.
Most of the story is just a lengthy series of reiterations of the first scene. "There's a hole!" "Nah." "Ok." That continues on down to the scene with the bartender, where the twist finally drops.
In fairness, there is some potential to the concept here, enough to bring my attention back in for a bit. Bizarre stuff lurking behind the thin veneer of everyday life, only visible to certain people - not the most original of concepts, arguably an entire genre today, but there are some fun directions it can go in. Unfortunately I don't see this one go in *any* direction. We get a verification that the weirdness is there, and "you should just deny and ignore it" and that's it. It could work as an anticlimax in a more humorous take, but I didn't find any jokes or humor in the tone, and then the final section...
Well, the final section reads poorly, feels out of place, and destroys any subtlety or nuance that I might've been feeling. Since the bits of subtlety in the conversation with the bartender were the thing I liked about the story, this is... not good.
>>shinygiratinaz makes a reasonable point about a metaphorical reading, though also pointing out it was probably unintended. I agree on both counts - I don't see it in the story as written, but that's a possible way it could go in that has potential to be good.
How would I improve this? A full rework in one of three directions.
A. Go for the metaphorical reading and make that clear to the reader. Concentrate on the psychological aspects, give the hole itself some more presence in the story, and drop the comedy/horror tones that might make readers miss the metaphor and take literal readings.
B. Go for drama. Work on the characters and make their responses to the situation believable. The path of least resistance here is probably cutting everything before the bartender, starting with that and focusing on the protagonist's decisions. Could make a good mini?
C. Go for comedy. Other comments indicate people found this funny as is, so maybe that was the intention? Increase the overall absurdity a bit, chop out a lot of the description, shorten scenes, and add some clearer jokes and a strong ending punchline.
No matter the direction, take a scalpel to the scenes and cut the repetition and the final section.
Overall rather low rank for me. Better luck next time, though! (Or maybe I'm the one who just doesn't see the hole...)
Most of the story is just a lengthy series of reiterations of the first scene. "There's a hole!" "Nah." "Ok." That continues on down to the scene with the bartender, where the twist finally drops.
In fairness, there is some potential to the concept here, enough to bring my attention back in for a bit. Bizarre stuff lurking behind the thin veneer of everyday life, only visible to certain people - not the most original of concepts, arguably an entire genre today, but there are some fun directions it can go in. Unfortunately I don't see this one go in *any* direction. We get a verification that the weirdness is there, and "you should just deny and ignore it" and that's it. It could work as an anticlimax in a more humorous take, but I didn't find any jokes or humor in the tone, and then the final section...
Well, the final section reads poorly, feels out of place, and destroys any subtlety or nuance that I might've been feeling. Since the bits of subtlety in the conversation with the bartender were the thing I liked about the story, this is... not good.
>>shinygiratinaz makes a reasonable point about a metaphorical reading, though also pointing out it was probably unintended. I agree on both counts - I don't see it in the story as written, but that's a possible way it could go in that has potential to be good.
How would I improve this? A full rework in one of three directions.
A. Go for the metaphorical reading and make that clear to the reader. Concentrate on the psychological aspects, give the hole itself some more presence in the story, and drop the comedy/horror tones that might make readers miss the metaphor and take literal readings.
B. Go for drama. Work on the characters and make their responses to the situation believable. The path of least resistance here is probably cutting everything before the bartender, starting with that and focusing on the protagonist's decisions. Could make a good mini?
C. Go for comedy. Other comments indicate people found this funny as is, so maybe that was the intention? Increase the overall absurdity a bit, chop out a lot of the description, shorten scenes, and add some clearer jokes and a strong ending punchline.
No matter the direction, take a scalpel to the scenes and cut the repetition and the final section.
Overall rather low rank for me. Better luck next time, though! (Or maybe I'm the one who just doesn't see the hole...)
I'm going to side with Ranmilla here, but explicitly say that c) would be the correct route. As it is, it obviously tries to be that, but the execution is lacking.
The 'joke' dragged on too long, with too much repetition without developing on it -- too much reliance on the joke being that it keeps happening without advancing the problem or the character. At the same time, it was very... overtly lampshaded and meta in a way that made it hard for me to appreciate? Especially the Kafka jokes at the start. It made it very difficult to approach this as a story and not as a piece of writing. There's no immersion factor, because the story keeps hammering into you again, and again, and again that it's too self-aware.
Stories like this work a lot better when it strictly feels in-universe. The protagonist didn't react strongly enough, didn't protest enough, kind of just went with everything, which was pretty toxic to my interest - it made him feel like a puppet, and I was watching the strings. It also weakened the comedic potential; That kind of apathy doesn't work when the joke is everyone else is apathetic about a deeply improbable, unlikely thing happening to him. It removes actual conflict, which is where the humour should be coming from.
Erugh. It's an interesting idea, and I can absolutely see why this made the finals, but this story ultimately really frustrated me.
The 'joke' dragged on too long, with too much repetition without developing on it -- too much reliance on the joke being that it keeps happening without advancing the problem or the character. At the same time, it was very... overtly lampshaded and meta in a way that made it hard for me to appreciate? Especially the Kafka jokes at the start. It made it very difficult to approach this as a story and not as a piece of writing. There's no immersion factor, because the story keeps hammering into you again, and again, and again that it's too self-aware.
Stories like this work a lot better when it strictly feels in-universe. The protagonist didn't react strongly enough, didn't protest enough, kind of just went with everything, which was pretty toxic to my interest - it made him feel like a puppet, and I was watching the strings. It also weakened the comedic potential; That kind of apathy doesn't work when the joke is everyone else is apathetic about a deeply improbable, unlikely thing happening to him. It removes actual conflict, which is where the humour should be coming from.
Erugh. It's an interesting idea, and I can absolutely see why this made the finals, but this story ultimately really frustrated me.
Hmm. I can see why this is in the final round. It's curious, at times amusing, and seems to be trying to convey a lesson – although I'm not 100% sure of what said lesson really is.
I liked it on the whole, but it just didn't interest me in the same way some of the other stories I've read have. I just can't place my finger on what it is that kept me from getting invested in it. If I had to guess, I'd say it would be related to the strange, almost blasé reaction of the protagonist to the entire situation.
It's not a bad story, and I can see a lot of people getting a kick out of it, but it just doesn't appear to be my kind of thing.
I liked it on the whole, but it just didn't interest me in the same way some of the other stories I've read have. I just can't place my finger on what it is that kept me from getting invested in it. If I had to guess, I'd say it would be related to the strange, almost blasé reaction of the protagonist to the entire situation.
It's not a bad story, and I can see a lot of people getting a kick out of it, but it just doesn't appear to be my kind of thing.
I was about to write why people should stop calling stories meta. I was about to sound like a smart-ass and I thought I was a genius. I feared that I would be seen like a pretentious dick but I didn't really care because the truth was more important than sparing people's feelings. Boy, I was so wrong.
After three writeoff, I've seen enough comments calling stories meta while clearly they weren't. On top of that, There's a Hole in My Chest was discussed in the last podcast and it has earned his meta medal. While listening to our fellow podcasters, I was gritting my teeth. I wanted to argue why I thought this story couldn't be called that way. I had the chance after to talk about a bit but nothing that was said really convinced me.
So, in order to write my essay, I reread the story. And I realised I was wrong. But before we saw how and why, let's talk a bit about meta. Be aware that my perspective and my knowledge on the concept of meta comes from my studies of French literature and thus, can be biased. From what I could gather, it seems that the concept is more or less the same from an English perspective but it still needed to be addressed.
So, what's meta?
In literature, meta refers to a fiction which is aware it is a fiction.
It can be so by direct addresses to the audience, reader or spectator.
It can be so by mentioning a specific fiction or by portraying a genre of fiction. It's usually a way for the author to express his feelings towards that genre or that book.
Or it can be by having a story within a story.
An addition by AndrewRogue
The consequences on the audience, the speech the author wanted to convey and the speech the audience gets from it, each one of them is specific according to each reader, and thus, I won't list them. I also add that the author's intention is almost irrelevant because what really matters is how the reader reads the story.
And that lead us to There's a Hole in My Chest. I will now list every sentence that I feel is related to ‘meta,’ with commentary.
On their own, these sentences can't really be called meta. When you have only these two sentences, you can argue if they are meta or not. But with the other sentences, there clearly are.
Ooh double meta. The obvious one is about Kafka. The second is the reason for it. It's both a comment about Kafka's stories AND a comment about the story in itself.
Once more, on its own this sentence doesn't do much but with others, it's less questionable.
This one is pretty obvious. I don't know how I could have missed this one.
If we follow the idea of a meta story, the walk is only the time remaining before the author will explain the meaning of the hole. Note the air-quotes on the hole.
All the sentences I quoted come from the wife in the first part. It safe to assume that the wife embodies the reader confused by the meaning of both the hole in the chest and the story.
But does that exclude any other interpretation? Because all the meta is in the first part, does it mean the rest of the story is irrelevant? I don't think so; even more, I know so. Because if the rest of the story was irrelevant, the story in itself would be useless and I refuse that. The author may have written the story to be this way but like I said, his/her intention is irrelevant in this essay.
Furthermore, the story contained itself, it is not playing with the readers and is not expecting them to continue it in the comments. The fact that many of us have different views on it is just the evidence of a good work, not a trick the story played on us.
Now that it is said, if you think I'm wrong or if you want add something to this, be my guest. I would be happy to see what meta can mean for everyone.
And please, think twice before saying meta every time (That also works for me).
After three writeoff, I've seen enough comments calling stories meta while clearly they weren't. On top of that, There's a Hole in My Chest was discussed in the last podcast and it has earned his meta medal. While listening to our fellow podcasters, I was gritting my teeth. I wanted to argue why I thought this story couldn't be called that way. I had the chance after to talk about a bit but nothing that was said really convinced me.
So, in order to write my essay, I reread the story. And I realised I was wrong. But before we saw how and why, let's talk a bit about meta. Be aware that my perspective and my knowledge on the concept of meta comes from my studies of French literature and thus, can be biased. From what I could gather, it seems that the concept is more or less the same from an English perspective but it still needed to be addressed.
So, what's meta?
In literature, meta refers to a fiction which is aware it is a fiction.
It can be so by direct addresses to the audience, reader or spectator.
I'm gonna trick him, just wait and see. (To James) So why don't you sit on this chair and relax my friend?
It can be so by mentioning a specific fiction or by portraying a genre of fiction. It's usually a way for the author to express his feelings towards that genre or that book.
Erik was reading Pride and Prejudice and the more he read this book, the more he felt a connection between Elizabeth Bennet and himself. Her struggle, her pain, her joy, every one of her emotion, Erik was feeling like they were his own. He didn't know books could have this power, especially those he thought were boring and sappy stories.
Or it can be by having a story within a story.
"Did you go to London last week?"
"Yes, I did," replied Louis. "And I must tell you what happened to me back there. It started when I decided to go to a bar after arriving. I wanted to relax a little bit after my trip so I thought a beer could do the trick. When I walked into this small bar, I saw this beautiful girl and you know what I told her? I told her ..."
(The same work for a play within a play)
An addition by AndrewRogue
I think this definition might assist a little bit in seeing why people referred to it as meta:
1. (of a creative work) referring to itself or to the conventions of its genre; self-referential.
The consequences on the audience, the speech the author wanted to convey and the speech the audience gets from it, each one of them is specific according to each reader, and thus, I won't list them. I also add that the author's intention is almost irrelevant because what really matters is how the reader reads the story.
And that lead us to There's a Hole in My Chest. I will now list every sentence that I feel is related to ‘meta,’ with commentary.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not really following your metaphor.”
What’s even the context for this?
On their own, these sentences can't really be called meta. When you have only these two sentences, you can argue if they are meta or not. But with the other sentences, there clearly are.
“Honey, is this a Kafka thing, where the point is that there is no reason for it?”
Ooh double meta. The obvious one is about Kafka. The second is the reason for it. It's both a comment about Kafka's stories AND a comment about the story in itself.
“...Is there some sort of religious allusion that I’m missing?”
Once more, on its own this sentence doesn't do much but with others, it's less questionable.
“Well, I don’t know too, and if you’re going to be this obtuse, then nobody else is going to be able to understand, either.” She snorted. “Just saying ‘look at me, I’ve got a hole in my chest, figure it out yourself, isn’t it deep?’ isn’t clever. It’s pretentious, is what it is.”
This one is pretty obvious. I don't know how I could have missed this one.
“Look, I’m done talking about this. Why don’t you and your ‘hole’”—her air-quotes were the most emphatically sarcastic I’d ever seen—”take a walk. And don’t come back until you’re ready to stop acting like you’re… like you’re a character in somebody’s college art film.”
If we follow the idea of a meta story, the walk is only the time remaining before the author will explain the meaning of the hole. Note the air-quotes on the hole.
All the sentences I quoted come from the wife in the first part. It safe to assume that the wife embodies the reader confused by the meaning of both the hole in the chest and the story.
But does that exclude any other interpretation? Because all the meta is in the first part, does it mean the rest of the story is irrelevant? I don't think so; even more, I know so. Because if the rest of the story was irrelevant, the story in itself would be useless and I refuse that. The author may have written the story to be this way but like I said, his/her intention is irrelevant in this essay.
Furthermore, the story contained itself, it is not playing with the readers and is not expecting them to continue it in the comments. The fact that many of us have different views on it is just the evidence of a good work, not a trick the story played on us.
Now that it is said, if you think I'm wrong or if you want add something to this, be my guest. I would be happy to see what meta can mean for everyone.
And please, think twice before saying meta every time (That also works for me).
Writing is quite snappy! Very nice beat to it. Just great prose all around. Unfortunately that's about all that worked here for me.
I dunno, honestly, the story kinda depressed me and I ultimately don't really end up knowing what to do with it. Really, it's too melancholy and frustrating for me to think of it as funny, too absurd for me to really find it sad, and it actively derides you for trying to read it as anything but literal, so I'm really not left with anything to grab onto in the end. While there is something to be said for leaving it up to the reader what they take away from something, the risk there is that the reader will take away nothing... and that's where this fic leaves me.
>>Fenton
I think this definition might assist a little bit in seeing why people referred to it as meta:
1. (of a creative work) referring to itself or to the conventions of its genre; self-referential.
There's a pretty fair argument that this story is about the concept of literary interpretation itself and the tendency of people to over read the obvious. That's pretty much what every interaction comes down to. "Yo, I got a hole in my chest" "No, that's silly, it must be this emotional/mental thing instead." "No, seriously, I just have a hole in my chest." The initial interactions with the wife set that idea up, and the rest of the story sustains it.
Basically it's a story about reading and/or the frustration of being read. Hence meta: it is self-referential, it is a story about stories.
I dunno, honestly, the story kinda depressed me and I ultimately don't really end up knowing what to do with it. Really, it's too melancholy and frustrating for me to think of it as funny, too absurd for me to really find it sad, and it actively derides you for trying to read it as anything but literal, so I'm really not left with anything to grab onto in the end. While there is something to be said for leaving it up to the reader what they take away from something, the risk there is that the reader will take away nothing... and that's where this fic leaves me.
>>Fenton
I think this definition might assist a little bit in seeing why people referred to it as meta:
1. (of a creative work) referring to itself or to the conventions of its genre; self-referential.
There's a pretty fair argument that this story is about the concept of literary interpretation itself and the tendency of people to over read the obvious. That's pretty much what every interaction comes down to. "Yo, I got a hole in my chest" "No, that's silly, it must be this emotional/mental thing instead." "No, seriously, I just have a hole in my chest." The initial interactions with the wife set that idea up, and the rest of the story sustains it.
Basically it's a story about reading and/or the frustration of being read. Hence meta: it is self-referential, it is a story about stories.
>>Fenton
>>AndrewRogue
I don't think anyone has actually posted this yet, but there's a viral image that discusses this exact point, and I think is roughly the kind of angle the story was exploring. I would like to state for the record that I disagree with the dichotomy presented by the image (and also the preference for authorial intent), but I think it's relevant to the discussion.
>>AndrewRogue
There's a pretty fair argument that this story is about the concept of literary interpretation itself and the tendency of people to over read the obvious.
I don't think anyone has actually posted this yet, but there's a viral image that discusses this exact point, and I think is roughly the kind of angle the story was exploring. I would like to state for the record that I disagree with the dichotomy presented by the image (and also the preference for authorial intent), but I think it's relevant to the discussion.
I had trouble with the first scene, I guess because I wasn't in the right mindset. The refusal of the wife to take him seriously even after seeing the hole in the dude's chest just didn't hit that right Kafka-esque note for me.
But the scene in the doctor's office did, and certainly in the psychiatrist's office. That made me reevaluate how I'd read the first scene with his wife, and realize I was expecting the wrong thing out of it. As a result, I found my enjoyment of this story snowballing until I couldn't stop smiling by the end.
Good show, author.
But the scene in the doctor's office did, and certainly in the psychiatrist's office. That made me reevaluate how I'd read the first scene with his wife, and realize I was expecting the wrong thing out of it. As a result, I found my enjoyment of this story snowballing until I couldn't stop smiling by the end.
Good show, author.
>>AndrewRogue
Added to my post.
>>QuillScratch
I hope the author didn't aim only for the idea contained in the link you gave because this image is tipically the product of a narrow-minded person. The chart is interesting and can means a lot but it had to come with an 'example' that reduces and simplifies the huge open question raised by the said chart.
Added to my post.
>>QuillScratch
I don't think anyone has actually posted this yet, but there's a viral image that discusses this exact point, and I think is roughly the kind of angle the story was exploring. I would like to state for the record that I disagree with the dichotomy presented by the image (and also the preference for authorial intent), but I think it's relevant to the discussion.
I hope the author didn't aim only for the idea contained in the link you gave because this image is tipically the product of a narrow-minded person. The chart is interesting and can means a lot but it had to come with an 'example' that reduces and simplifies the huge open question raised by the said chart.
I'm just gonna double down on my statement in the podcast: I hope this is our first "meta" story medalist. It's picking up a fair amount of heat and light in comments, but I think it's got the literary chops to crack the top tier. Another shout-out to >>Obscure for so succinctly encapsulating why it manages to be so great on the meta level.
On the non-meta narrative level, I feel like this is making a statement about the way that magic is built around humanity's response to the impossible, and it's wonderful seeing the juxtaposition of the ordinariness of people's reactions with the craziness of the premise. I further love that it lampshades all the implications of its premise so hard but never once actually squares it with facts. Magical-realist Kafka.
(tl;dr I love crackfics)
If only that last scene wasn't so anticlimactic. It needs to be a lot more than three lines. Here's hoping post-Writeoff editing time has allowed you to flesh that out.
Tier: Top Contender
On the non-meta narrative level, I feel like this is making a statement about the way that magic is built around humanity's response to the impossible, and it's wonderful seeing the juxtaposition of the ordinariness of people's reactions with the craziness of the premise. I further love that it lampshades all the implications of its premise so hard but never once actually squares it with facts. Magical-realist Kafka.
(tl;dr I love crackfics)
If only that last scene wasn't so anticlimactic. It needs to be a lot more than three lines. Here's hoping post-Writeoff editing time has allowed you to flesh that out.
Tier: Top Contender
A'ight, retrospective time:
There's a Hole in My Chest
This is my first attempt at writing original fiction for a contest, and I wanted to push my range a bit. There's a Hole in My Chest was my attempt at writing absurdist open-interp, and was inspired in no small part by the fact that absurdist open-interp generally does very poorly around these parts (and, you know, among the general public). The reason why it does is pretty clear, if you're familiar with its lowest-common-denominator form: we call it the "lolrandom self-aware trollfic." But even more serious attempts at the style have generally fallen flat, largely because they end up relying on the reader bringing a very specific mindset, knowledge base, or what have you to the reading; think about some of the Joyce-esque stories we've seen come through here, for example, and how there's invariably a sizeable contingent of readers for whom those are going to be a total failure, no matter how "well" written.
So, I wanted to write something absurd, and which relied on the reader to provide meaning, but which was still broadly accessable. What I came up with was a story about a man who's got a literal hole in his chest, but who gets treated as if it's figurative.
So, what is the meaning? Well, that's up to the reader. Is the hole even actually there? One could certainly invoke unreliable narrator to claim it isn't, and you can see several people came to that conclusion in the comments. If it is real, then why can't people see it? It could be "idiot ball"ing, or it could be read as something more declarative about the human condition (or it could just be that there's a unicorn living in the hole). And what of his decision at the end? Is it an affirmative ending, or a dark one? And either way, did he do it for the right reason, or the (a?) wrong one?
I am very pleased by the amount of discussion this generated, because it tells me that I at least managed to approach what I was trying to do. People were able to read it as a straightforward comedy, which is what I wanted people to be able to do. People were able to read it as an examination of depression, or a commentary on literary criticism, or an existentialist horror story, and I wanted the story to be able to support all that, too! Ultimately, my hope was that this story would be something of a rorschach test: that what a person saw in this story would say a little bit about them. That's a pretty high bar to aim for, and I don't think this was a success in that regard, but it seems to have worked for at least some folks, and that's something.
Unfortunately, it also became clear pretty quickly that I'd fallen well short of my goal, and that there were plenty of people who weren't able to find anything worthy in it at all (note: I consider "it was funny" worthy, and think anyone who read this as a straight comedy and enjoyed it read the story in at least one of the ways I intended it to be read). That's disappointing to me, and I regret creating what was clearly a very negative reading experience for several readers. I don't know if I'll ever do anything further with this fic, but if I do, it will only be after I find a way to make it a more positive experience for all involved.
Now, individual responses:
>>All_Art_Is_Quite_Useless
>>MLPmatthewl419
>>Zaid Val'Roa
>>Orbiting_kettle
>>shinygiratinaz
>>georg
>>Cold in Gardez
Glad you all enjoyed!
>>Obscure
>>Obscure
I thought it was wonderful to see people looking for meaning in a story in which there is no (author-directed) meaning, and was gratified to see so many different answers--including "there is no meaning." But I wanted this to be a story that could stand alone, without having to read a bunch of commentary or read between the lines in order to find an enjoyable fic. And good call on the doctor; I'll remember that if I decide to do anything with this.
>>Fenton
>>Fenton
It must be a pain to try to express these ideas in a second language D:
Thank you very much for the breakdown! I definitely do consider this metafiction, albeit not in the most literal sense of "is aware of its own medium," and it was nice to see that aspect of it so thoroughly analyzed.
>>Ranmilia
Could you clarify what the twist was, and what you think the ending communicates so clearly that it destroys any subtlety or nuance of the story? Because I definitely did not intent for there to be any big twists to this story, nor for the ending to forcefully communicate a single irrefutable authorial belief. That I seem to have done so nevertheless is a failing on my part, and I apologize.
If I decide to do anything with this, I would definitely avoid all three paths you laid out, since to make this explicitly one thing or another would defeat the whole purpose of the story, and (knowing me) would either turn it into something dismally tryhard or something totally vapid, depending on whether I went with the first two choices or with the third. That I've left you feeling like I was trying to communicate a single, inarguable idea to you is, again, my fault, and I'm sorry that I gave you such a negative reading experience.
>>MrNumbers
I'm sorry to you, too, that this was such a frustrating experience. For what it's worth, I tried very hard to keep the protagonist's reactions believable (if that's even the right word for how you react to something so impossible): he knows it's impossible, he's not in pain, he doesn't seem to be in any danger, and he's so fully out of his element that all he really can do is go along. Why would he be screaming and flailing about, when everything seems to be fine? That this felt so artificial suggests to me that I shouldn't have relied on my own instincts to guide me in the realm of human interaction; if I ever do anything with this fic, that's something I'll get some wider advice on. To you as well, I'm sorry to have written something that I left you feeling like there was a point you were missing and for failing to write something you could enjoy.
>>PaulAsaran
Well, we all have our different things. Sorry this one wasn't yours, but I'm glad it wasn't a total failure!
>>AndrewRogue
>>QuillScratch
>>Fenton
This story as commentary on over-analysis of literature is definitely an interpretation I considered when I wrote it, but it's also definitely not intended to be the necessary or "correct" reading. Literary analysis is a wonderful thing in moderation, and occasionally even to excess, and I'd hate to come across as someone reflexively opposed to it!
The important distinction, of course, is that words do have deeper meanings than even their authors intended sometimes; to speak contrariwise to that meme, if the story would be worse with pink curtains instead of blue ones, then the author should perhaps reflect on how they subconsciously evoked an appropriate mood through color, rather than reflexively hating on any reading which they didn't anticipate.
>>Not_A_Hat
>>horizon
Re: the ending: I originally conceived of this ending with the second wife scene, to bring it full circle with the opening. But when I put it down on paper, that felt too incomplete; it seemed to need to come back to the bartender a second time, to where the protagonist reached his decision.
The problem, then, was "what's left to say?" As you can see, I didn't exactly come up with a perfect answer to that. If either of you have any thoughts on how I could gussy that up without sacrificing the story's open-interp nature, I'd appreciate the thoughts.
Oh, and P.S. to horizon: glad you liked it so much! Sorry I couldn't bring home the first metafiction medal, though; my bad :B
There's a Hole in My Chest
This is my first attempt at writing original fiction for a contest, and I wanted to push my range a bit. There's a Hole in My Chest was my attempt at writing absurdist open-interp, and was inspired in no small part by the fact that absurdist open-interp generally does very poorly around these parts (and, you know, among the general public). The reason why it does is pretty clear, if you're familiar with its lowest-common-denominator form: we call it the "lolrandom self-aware trollfic." But even more serious attempts at the style have generally fallen flat, largely because they end up relying on the reader bringing a very specific mindset, knowledge base, or what have you to the reading; think about some of the Joyce-esque stories we've seen come through here, for example, and how there's invariably a sizeable contingent of readers for whom those are going to be a total failure, no matter how "well" written.
So, I wanted to write something absurd, and which relied on the reader to provide meaning, but which was still broadly accessable. What I came up with was a story about a man who's got a literal hole in his chest, but who gets treated as if it's figurative.
So, what is the meaning? Well, that's up to the reader. Is the hole even actually there? One could certainly invoke unreliable narrator to claim it isn't, and you can see several people came to that conclusion in the comments. If it is real, then why can't people see it? It could be "idiot ball"ing, or it could be read as something more declarative about the human condition (or it could just be that there's a unicorn living in the hole). And what of his decision at the end? Is it an affirmative ending, or a dark one? And either way, did he do it for the right reason, or the (a?) wrong one?
I am very pleased by the amount of discussion this generated, because it tells me that I at least managed to approach what I was trying to do. People were able to read it as a straightforward comedy, which is what I wanted people to be able to do. People were able to read it as an examination of depression, or a commentary on literary criticism, or an existentialist horror story, and I wanted the story to be able to support all that, too! Ultimately, my hope was that this story would be something of a rorschach test: that what a person saw in this story would say a little bit about them. That's a pretty high bar to aim for, and I don't think this was a success in that regard, but it seems to have worked for at least some folks, and that's something.
Unfortunately, it also became clear pretty quickly that I'd fallen well short of my goal, and that there were plenty of people who weren't able to find anything worthy in it at all (note: I consider "it was funny" worthy, and think anyone who read this as a straight comedy and enjoyed it read the story in at least one of the ways I intended it to be read). That's disappointing to me, and I regret creating what was clearly a very negative reading experience for several readers. I don't know if I'll ever do anything further with this fic, but if I do, it will only be after I find a way to make it a more positive experience for all involved.
Now, individual responses:
>>All_Art_Is_Quite_Useless
>>MLPmatthewl419
>>Zaid Val'Roa
>>Orbiting_kettle
>>shinygiratinaz
>>georg
>>Cold in Gardez
Glad you all enjoyed!
>>Obscure
>>Obscure
I thought it was wonderful to see people looking for meaning in a story in which there is no (author-directed) meaning, and was gratified to see so many different answers--including "there is no meaning." But I wanted this to be a story that could stand alone, without having to read a bunch of commentary or read between the lines in order to find an enjoyable fic. And good call on the doctor; I'll remember that if I decide to do anything with this.
>>Fenton
>>Fenton
It must be a pain to try to express these ideas in a second language D:
Thank you very much for the breakdown! I definitely do consider this metafiction, albeit not in the most literal sense of "is aware of its own medium," and it was nice to see that aspect of it so thoroughly analyzed.
>>Ranmilia
Could you clarify what the twist was, and what you think the ending communicates so clearly that it destroys any subtlety or nuance of the story? Because I definitely did not intent for there to be any big twists to this story, nor for the ending to forcefully communicate a single irrefutable authorial belief. That I seem to have done so nevertheless is a failing on my part, and I apologize.
If I decide to do anything with this, I would definitely avoid all three paths you laid out, since to make this explicitly one thing or another would defeat the whole purpose of the story, and (knowing me) would either turn it into something dismally tryhard or something totally vapid, depending on whether I went with the first two choices or with the third. That I've left you feeling like I was trying to communicate a single, inarguable idea to you is, again, my fault, and I'm sorry that I gave you such a negative reading experience.
>>MrNumbers
I'm sorry to you, too, that this was such a frustrating experience. For what it's worth, I tried very hard to keep the protagonist's reactions believable (if that's even the right word for how you react to something so impossible): he knows it's impossible, he's not in pain, he doesn't seem to be in any danger, and he's so fully out of his element that all he really can do is go along. Why would he be screaming and flailing about, when everything seems to be fine? That this felt so artificial suggests to me that I shouldn't have relied on my own instincts to guide me in the realm of human interaction; if I ever do anything with this fic, that's something I'll get some wider advice on. To you as well, I'm sorry to have written something that I left you feeling like there was a point you were missing and for failing to write something you could enjoy.
>>PaulAsaran
Well, we all have our different things. Sorry this one wasn't yours, but I'm glad it wasn't a total failure!
>>AndrewRogue
>>QuillScratch
>>Fenton
This story as commentary on over-analysis of literature is definitely an interpretation I considered when I wrote it, but it's also definitely not intended to be the necessary or "correct" reading. Literary analysis is a wonderful thing in moderation, and occasionally even to excess, and I'd hate to come across as someone reflexively opposed to it!
The important distinction, of course, is that words do have deeper meanings than even their authors intended sometimes; to speak contrariwise to that meme, if the story would be worse with pink curtains instead of blue ones, then the author should perhaps reflect on how they subconsciously evoked an appropriate mood through color, rather than reflexively hating on any reading which they didn't anticipate.
>>Not_A_Hat
>>horizon
Re: the ending: I originally conceived of this ending with the second wife scene, to bring it full circle with the opening. But when I put it down on paper, that felt too incomplete; it seemed to need to come back to the bartender a second time, to where the protagonist reached his decision.
The problem, then, was "what's left to say?" As you can see, I didn't exactly come up with a perfect answer to that. If either of you have any thoughts on how I could gussy that up without sacrificing the story's open-interp nature, I'd appreciate the thoughts.
Oh, and P.S. to horizon: glad you liked it so much! Sorry I couldn't bring home the first metafiction medal, though; my bad :B
>>Chris
Yeah, that's exactly the problem, isn't it? Because if you actually 'say something' you ruin the whole 'open to interpretation' thing.
Honestly, I'm not sure I can help you here, so take this with a grain of salt. Stories that are way too open to interpretation bug me; they feel like clickbait, which uses linguistic tricks and cognitive dissonance to draw attention, but ends up as unsatisfying and insubstantial. I read this as a story that tried, but failed, to say something, which is different from a story that's trying to not say anything. Personally, I feel like stories are open to interpretation enough without specifically constructing them to be more so, but eh.
Anyways, there may be one meaning you can honestly convey without actually ruining that intent, and it's something like 'in the end, you decide'. I mean, in 'The Lady, or the Tiger?' the author literally puts something in the last line like 'I'll leave it up to you'.
Which, admittedly, I still don't like, but is at least clear and straightforwards.
So... I dunno if that's helpful or not. But I think that clarifying your intent of having the reader interpret the story might be about the only thing you can actually say while still maintaining your open to interpretation intent.
The problem, then, was "what's left to say?"
Yeah, that's exactly the problem, isn't it? Because if you actually 'say something' you ruin the whole 'open to interpretation' thing.
Honestly, I'm not sure I can help you here, so take this with a grain of salt. Stories that are way too open to interpretation bug me; they feel like clickbait, which uses linguistic tricks and cognitive dissonance to draw attention, but ends up as unsatisfying and insubstantial. I read this as a story that tried, but failed, to say something, which is different from a story that's trying to not say anything. Personally, I feel like stories are open to interpretation enough without specifically constructing them to be more so, but eh.
Anyways, there may be one meaning you can honestly convey without actually ruining that intent, and it's something like 'in the end, you decide'. I mean, in 'The Lady, or the Tiger?' the author literally puts something in the last line like 'I'll leave it up to you'.
Which, admittedly, I still don't like, but is at least clear and straightforwards.
So... I dunno if that's helpful or not. But I think that clarifying your intent of having the reader interpret the story might be about the only thing you can actually say while still maintaining your open to interpretation intent.
>>Chris
Briefly, my complaint with the last scene was that it felt like it skipped right over the climactic decision of the story. Getting from "Oh, and there’s someone else who helped, too, and I really ought to pop over and thank him tomorrow." to "There’s not a hole in my chest." is a really significant leap.
I think the fact that you're ending with the main character declaring that there is not a hole in his chest knocks away the complete open-interpretation nature of it; the narrator is making a decision which takes a stand on the reality of the hole. I also don't think that's a bad thing -- ending in the same place you start, with the reality of it in limbo, creates a sense of narrative stasis that would make it unsatisfying. (n.b. "I've decided it's unknowable" isn't stasis, but it's tougher to sell.)
Basically though, if you're committing to him removing the hole through the power of disbelief, let's see the actual thought process that leads him to make that final declaration. Whether it's giving in to the therapist out of distrust for his experiences, or whether it's trusting his experiences but making the pragmatic decision to choose to deny them in order to improve his quality of life, or making the pragmatic decision to choose to deny them in order to simplify his worldview, or ... idk, maybe lay those out like a buffet and try to weasel around what made the difference.
Hope that helps.
Also, one lesson I've had heavily reinforced from the writeoffs (and see all the time in reviewer discussion) is that no story is going to work for everyone (even at the top of the charts). Just because a story doesn't work for everyone doesn't mean that it doesn't have value for the people it works for. Certainly you can try to broaden its appeal, but be careful: it's all too easy to wreck what made the story special to its core audience by trying to pave it over for the benefit of the out-crowd. The Case of the Cowled Changelings foundered in editing for that reason; I made the decision to bring in half a dozen prereaders who disagreed on where the story should go to see if I could steer a path between them, and ended up with a draft that didn't make anyone happy.
Ultimately, you've gotta have a vision for the story, and some feedback just isn't going to push you toward that vision. (I hope authors keep that in mind when reading my own critiques, as well.)
h
The problem, then, was "what's left to say?" As you can see, I didn't exactly come up with a perfect answer to that. If either of you have any thoughts on how I could gussy that up without sacrificing the story's open-interp nature, I'd appreciate the thoughts.
Briefly, my complaint with the last scene was that it felt like it skipped right over the climactic decision of the story. Getting from "Oh, and there’s someone else who helped, too, and I really ought to pop over and thank him tomorrow." to "There’s not a hole in my chest." is a really significant leap.
I think the fact that you're ending with the main character declaring that there is not a hole in his chest knocks away the complete open-interpretation nature of it; the narrator is making a decision which takes a stand on the reality of the hole. I also don't think that's a bad thing -- ending in the same place you start, with the reality of it in limbo, creates a sense of narrative stasis that would make it unsatisfying. (n.b. "I've decided it's unknowable" isn't stasis, but it's tougher to sell.)
Basically though, if you're committing to him removing the hole through the power of disbelief, let's see the actual thought process that leads him to make that final declaration. Whether it's giving in to the therapist out of distrust for his experiences, or whether it's trusting his experiences but making the pragmatic decision to choose to deny them in order to improve his quality of life, or making the pragmatic decision to choose to deny them in order to simplify his worldview, or ... idk, maybe lay those out like a buffet and try to weasel around what made the difference.
Hope that helps.
Also, one lesson I've had heavily reinforced from the writeoffs (and see all the time in reviewer discussion) is that no story is going to work for everyone (even at the top of the charts). Just because a story doesn't work for everyone doesn't mean that it doesn't have value for the people it works for. Certainly you can try to broaden its appeal, but be careful: it's all too easy to wreck what made the story special to its core audience by trying to pave it over for the benefit of the out-crowd. The Case of the Cowled Changelings foundered in editing for that reason; I made the decision to bring in half a dozen prereaders who disagreed on where the story should go to see if I could steer a path between them, and ended up with a draft that didn't make anyone happy.
Ultimately, you've gotta have a vision for the story, and some feedback just isn't going to push you toward that vision. (I hope authors keep that in mind when reading my own critiques, as well.)
h
>>Not_A_Hat
Thanks for expanding on that a bit! I'll give it some thought.
>>horizon
And thank you for the same!
And I'm not going to beat myself up about not everyone liking my stories; as you say, no story will be universally beloved. But I feel like this one really let some people down. Ranmilia and MrNumbers both clearly found this story to be a negative reading experience, and I hate to think that I've stolen fifteen minutes of their lives (plus review-writing time). An ill-constructed story, or a dull story, are one thing; a story that leaves you frustrated or disappointed is another. Heck, Not_A_Hat said that my entire approach to the story seemed, though he didn't use the word, disrespectful.
I don't think it's okay for an author to disrespect their readers, nor to put together something that people will wish they hadn't read. So... in the end, I feel pretty bad about this fic. But all I can do is apologize to the others, and try not to repeat that mistake in the future.
Thanks for expanding on that a bit! I'll give it some thought.
>>horizon
And thank you for the same!
And I'm not going to beat myself up about not everyone liking my stories; as you say, no story will be universally beloved. But I feel like this one really let some people down. Ranmilia and MrNumbers both clearly found this story to be a negative reading experience, and I hate to think that I've stolen fifteen minutes of their lives (plus review-writing time). An ill-constructed story, or a dull story, are one thing; a story that leaves you frustrated or disappointed is another. Heck, Not_A_Hat said that my entire approach to the story seemed, though he didn't use the word, disrespectful.
I don't think it's okay for an author to disrespect their readers, nor to put together something that people will wish they hadn't read. So... in the end, I feel pretty bad about this fic. But all I can do is apologize to the others, and try not to repeat that mistake in the future.
>>Chris
Hey yo, just saw this. I'm going to try and give a longer discussion response later tonight (which will almost inevitably balloon out into another gigantic megapost, apologies in advance) but wanted to reply ASAP that you should not feel bad about writing this.
Quite the opposite, thank you very much for participating! Writeoff is hard! Any good faith entry is worthy of respect, and it's clear you did put a lot of thought and effort into this. I definitely do not feel disrespected, or that you've wasted any of my time.
My initial comments were a bit more negatively slanted than I would usually write them, and the reason for that was that I was aiming at the comments thread in addition to the entry itself. I saw a lot of rave reviews and explicit "top slate!" remarks, and thought "wow, did I read the same story? I guess since my feedback is going to be such a contrast, I'd better not slack on it. Probably don't need to worry about pulling punches either, there are so many glowing comments already that I don't think I'll make the author sad."
Clearly I was wrong. Profuse apologies!
Hey yo, just saw this. I'm going to try and give a longer discussion response later tonight (which will almost inevitably balloon out into another gigantic megapost, apologies in advance) but wanted to reply ASAP that you should not feel bad about writing this.
Quite the opposite, thank you very much for participating! Writeoff is hard! Any good faith entry is worthy of respect, and it's clear you did put a lot of thought and effort into this. I definitely do not feel disrespected, or that you've wasted any of my time.
My initial comments were a bit more negatively slanted than I would usually write them, and the reason for that was that I was aiming at the comments thread in addition to the entry itself. I saw a lot of rave reviews and explicit "top slate!" remarks, and thought "wow, did I read the same story? I guess since my feedback is going to be such a contrast, I'd better not slack on it. Probably don't need to worry about pulling punches either, there are so many glowing comments already that I don't think I'll make the author sad."
Clearly I was wrong. Profuse apologies!
>>Chris
While I can't really deny that what I've said can be read like that, I want to assure you that I fully support everyone's right to submit stories I personally disagree with to the writeoff. I don't have the right - or even the inclination, most days - to claim people have to adhere to my ideas of literature and what makes a good story.... even if I do spend considerable effort telling people what those theories are and how they could adhere to them more closely. :P
Anyways, while I'm disappointed when a story feels like it should be meaningful, but isn't, it's more in the way I might feel if I discovered what I'd thought was a chocolate-chip cookie turned out to be an oatmeal-raisin one. There's nothing at all wrong with oatmeal raisin, and the fault was mine for misunderstanding. While I don't particularly enjoy oatmeal raisin, lots of people think they're just great, and I wish them the joy of it.
This is, perhaps, complicated by the somewhat transactional feeling of the writeoff? I submit stories, and people review them; it's easy to feel like I'm responsible for how they've spent their time, because they need to read to vote. But when people say that sort of thing, I feel like all I can respond with is that I take responsibility myself for the time I've invested in the writeoff, and they don't need to also feel responsible for it; I do this for my own sake, and I don't begrudge them anything.
On the other hand, I do agree with what you've said about respecting readers, so maybe there's more to it than that. :/
I hope this is even a little encouraging. I've been trying to think of what to say to this for a while now, and I'm not sure I'm really happy with this, but I think if I don't say this I'll end up not saying anything at all and I like that idea even less.
Heck, Not_A_Hat said that my entire approach to the story seemed, though he didn't use the word, disrespectful.
While I can't really deny that what I've said can be read like that, I want to assure you that I fully support everyone's right to submit stories I personally disagree with to the writeoff. I don't have the right - or even the inclination, most days - to claim people have to adhere to my ideas of literature and what makes a good story.... even if I do spend considerable effort telling people what those theories are and how they could adhere to them more closely. :P
Anyways, while I'm disappointed when a story feels like it should be meaningful, but isn't, it's more in the way I might feel if I discovered what I'd thought was a chocolate-chip cookie turned out to be an oatmeal-raisin one. There's nothing at all wrong with oatmeal raisin, and the fault was mine for misunderstanding. While I don't particularly enjoy oatmeal raisin, lots of people think they're just great, and I wish them the joy of it.
This is, perhaps, complicated by the somewhat transactional feeling of the writeoff? I submit stories, and people review them; it's easy to feel like I'm responsible for how they've spent their time, because they need to read to vote. But when people say that sort of thing, I feel like all I can respond with is that I take responsibility myself for the time I've invested in the writeoff, and they don't need to also feel responsible for it; I do this for my own sake, and I don't begrudge them anything.
On the other hand, I do agree with what you've said about respecting readers, so maybe there's more to it than that. :/
I hope this is even a little encouraging. I've been trying to think of what to say to this for a while now, and I'm not sure I'm really happy with this, but I think if I don't say this I'll end up not saying anything at all and I like that idea even less.
>>Ranmilia
>>Not_A_Hat
Well, I'm glad you two didn't feel disrespected. I guess that's something I'm sensitive to, because it was one of the drivers of me getting out of the writeoffs altogether for a while; I felt like I couldn't assume authorial goodwill from all the participants, and there were a few too many cases where I felt like people were taking advantage of my commitment to reading and critiquing to do something deliberately stupid or random (distinct from trying something experimental), and having a laugh at people wasting their time reading and trying to comment on it. I don't mind when people write something I don't like, but I hate the idea of being forced (if only by convention) to read something written with the intent of mocking the reader for devoting their time and attention to it. It's something I hate, and I don't want to inflict it on anyone else.
I'm glad that you're both saying that I didn't do that. I can handle people disliking a story, but I dread the idea of making someone feel like they wasted their time. Thanks for letting me know.
>>Not_A_Hat
Well, I'm glad you two didn't feel disrespected. I guess that's something I'm sensitive to, because it was one of the drivers of me getting out of the writeoffs altogether for a while; I felt like I couldn't assume authorial goodwill from all the participants, and there were a few too many cases where I felt like people were taking advantage of my commitment to reading and critiquing to do something deliberately stupid or random (distinct from trying something experimental), and having a laugh at people wasting their time reading and trying to comment on it. I don't mind when people write something I don't like, but I hate the idea of being forced (if only by convention) to read something written with the intent of mocking the reader for devoting their time and attention to it. It's something I hate, and I don't want to inflict it on anyone else.
I'm glad that you're both saying that I didn't do that. I can handle people disliking a story, but I dread the idea of making someone feel like they wasted their time. Thanks for letting me know.
I liked this. You made highly effective use of the power of repetition. I have to admit, the first scene didn't really suck me in, but the second scene, where the doctor declared the hole "psychosomatic" after sticking his stethoscope into it greatly amused me.