First the news – or what passes for news in these parts. Drive It Like You Stole It, a magazine article about the wonderfully efficient bus system in the islands of the eastern Caribbean, is posted up on my website. Just follow the Magazine Articles link off of any page or click here to go there directly.

But, hypothetically speaking of course, what if you wanted to get someplace indirectly? In this context I am thinking of “someplace” in terms of one of the challenges facing me as a writer, which is: how can I tell you a story without actually telling you the story. At first glance this may seem ill-advised but as I’ve been looking into the question it seems that, even in day-to-day communication, most conversations follow a fairly circuitous route.

From a “writing” standpoint this roundabout trajectory is useful in terms of depth. It enables me to tell a joke within a joke, and, if I am sufficiently crafty, to tell a whole different story within another story. This can give my writing some subtlety beyond mere narration and provides a way to target different levels of the story to different audiences. 

Using this layering, and a bit of luck, I can let the overall trajectory of the narrative tell the basic story. Then I can deepen the tale with layers that provide more of the story for readers who want it and, deeper still, leave scattered literary presents for those who were able to follow me all the way down.

Sort of like an Easter egg hunt without all the annoying children.

This was one of the techniques I was working on in my recently ePublished short story Apotheosis. Without spoiling it for those who haven’t yet read it, the story follows a character from the edge of salvation through a couple of challenges and back to the starting point. For successfully undertaking his tasks – come on, that’s not a spoiler, there has to be a happy ending – he receives an unexpected reward. That’s the story, beginning, middle, and end. Then I added a layer. There is a running joke which illuminates a facet of the main character which is not spelled out in the top level story and which is not really fully realized until the last sentence of the story. Just like in Eighth Grade, the attentive reader is rewarded for paying attention. There is another thread which requires a pretty good grasp of Genesis – not the band – to follow. And then finally, way down deep, there are a couple of jokes written just for fans of obscure facts. My favorite joke of the whole story is an eleven word exchange between the main character and another named Larry. I crack up every time I read it.

All that is well and good, but, applied differently, the use of obtuse and obfuscatory communication can serve a much more valuable purpose to me as a writer: it can make my language seem real. Apparently nobody ever says exactly what they mean.

Looking closely at person-to-person interactions, I found that it is not the words which convey our meaning. Instead it’s how we don’t say what we want to say while we’re saying something else entirely that actually communicates exactly what we wanted to say in the first place. Sounds like too much work.

I’m sure there is some fairly important Darwinian reason for the evolution of this method of communication. The only thing that comes to mind is that it prevented our male ancestors – males never being much known for communication skills – from getting slapped so much by the females.

One of the ways we do this is by verbal clues. For example, way back at the beginning, I used the term “hypothetically speaking”. Strictly speaking, that implies “what if” but in interpersonal communication it really means “none of this is hypothetical at all”. By using the word “hypothetical” you provide plausible deniability, an “out” if you will, to every word that follows. This way, if you say something that totally screws the pooch, as it were, you can say “hey, it was only what-if” without appearing to back-pedal – too much.

Let’s toss out an example. Suppose for a moment that I was writing a Romantic Comedy. I know you’re thinking that romances are mostly tragedy but there’s no real money in writing those. Work with me on this. This is the Story of Carl and Lupe. The scene is set: it’s Wednesday at lunch and they meet for the first time in the park…

“You seem interesting,” Lupe’s dark eyes smiled at Carl. “Hypothetically speaking,” she went on. “What would you say if I asked you out for dinner on Saturday?”

Carl kicked at something on the ground that wasn’t there. “I’d,” he stammered, “say ‘yes’.”

They set a time, exchange phone numbers and go their separate ways. As soon as Lupe said “hypothetically speaking” all the readers started paying attention. The story is just unfolding and we couldn’t know if Carl was going to say “Yes”, or “I’m seeing somebody”, or “Gee, I’d love to but I’ve got plans with the Rat City Roller Girls.” Readers are also able to identify with the nervous Lupe as she tries to get her meaning across while leaving a cushion to fall onto in case her proposition is rejected. This “working without a net” is something we all can relate to.

I also notice people using expectations to set limits of acceptable behavior and to use those limits to express their opinions, usually negative, about somebody. These expectations range all over the place. Staying inside these limits of behavioral expectation greatly adds to the believability of a story and the reader’s ability to identify with a character. The hero doesn’t walk into a job interview for a dishwasher and walk out with the manager’s job. A protagonist can’t go for weeks without sleeping, eating, or drinking. He or she is allowed to make stupid mistakes but everything must be in character and believable. Otherwise the character doesn’t stand a chance.

Let’s go see how Carl and Lupe are doing. It is now Thursday…

“COME ON EVERYBODY LET’S DO THE CONGA. YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T…,” the ringtone blasted out of the phone.

“Hi, Carl,” Lupe answered.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I set you up a ringtone.” Lupe blushed. “By the way we’re all set for Saturday. Seven o’clock at the Three Sparrows. It’ll be fun.”

“Well, I wanted to talk with you about that.”

Lupe’s heart stopped.

“I was hoping we could go out Friday too.” She heard him sigh. “And…”

“Yes?” Lupe prompted.

“And I love you like crazy and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. There it is.”

At this point there is only one thought in the mind of the readers and it’s the same thought that flashed into Lupe’s mind.

What a desperate, pathetic loser.

This conversation with Lupe cost Carl his believability as a character, to say nothing of his chances with Lupe. His errant proposal is so far beyond the limits of plausibility that a writer would never be able to resuscitate him as a character. If the writer wanted credibility there would be some courtship, some time to get to know each other and build a relationship. Even if written as “love at first sight” Carl shouldn’t pop the question until at least dessert at the Three Sparrows. But, before the first date? Come on, not even once in the history of romance, real or fictional, has that happened.

Finally, the last real-life communication technique I looked into is “exaggeration” or, as more commonly known, lying. People do this all the time as a harmless, so they think, way to make other people think more highly of them. We exaggerate or lie about doctor’s visits, golf scores, eating and exercise habits, anything that will make us appear better than we are. We also tell lies so preposterous that any further conversation is preempted.

Let’s check in with Carl the following Wednesday.

Carl sat at the table in the Burnt Ridge Island café. His doppio, soy-milk latte sat cooling on a napkin. Three corners of the napkin had been twisted into tight spirals. Carl was working on the fourth. He looked up when the bell on the front door jingled.

“Carl!” Frank rushed over to his table. His long robes flowed behind him. “Namaste, man, Namaste.” He looked Carl over. “Man you look like shit. Are you OK?”

“Yeah, fine, I haven’t slept much this week.” Carl answered listlessly. “I see you’re on your way to yoga.”

“You bet. Hang on,” Frank looked at the waitress. “Yeah, double Americano in a tall cup. Room for cream.” He turned back to Carl. “let me tell you man, this yoga shit’ll change your life.”

“So you’re still dating the instructor?”

“Yeah, ‘Kylie’.” He rubbed his hands together. “But hey, I saw you with some total babe at the Three Sparrows the other night. Tell me about her. How’d the date go?”

“That was Lupe. I don’t know her that well but after she graduated from Cal Tech she worked for NASA as an ergonomist. That wasn’t any fun so she traveled with a European circus for a while. Now she’s a personal trainer and teaches flexibility classes to ballet dancers. Don’t know about the date, it’s still going on.” Carl yawned.

Frank looked at him and his eyes narrowed. “That’s such bullshit. You’re an asshole, Carl. A real asshole.” He stormed out the door.

Carl returned his attention to the corner of his napkin.

Our somehow-rescued hero Carl clearly doesn’t want to be disturbed by the fatuous Frank. Carl cleverly plays on Frank’s smugness about dating his yoga instructor by inventing a back story for Lupe that is at once so much cooler than a mere yoga instructor – no offense intended – while at the same time so totally implausible that Frank is taken up short. Then he slams the door by claiming that the date, which started Friday or Saturday, is still ongoing the following Wednesday. As if. Carl, with his ruthless exaggeration, regained control of his situation and sent Frank packing.

Which is where the story of Carl and Lupe ends. Of course there’s more. Let me tell you about it.

This post started out with the premise that conversation and storytelling are never straightforward and that a writer can take advantage of this to add believability to one’s characters and stories. Furthermore, a crafty writer can weave stories within stories and direct each of those to a specific subset of readers. Even as far down as a subset of one.

This post, taken in its entirety is the top level of a story about subtleties in communication and the ways a writer can use them in telling, and giving depth to, a narrative. Next, I added a level to the post where, as I like to say, it gets interesting. In fact, this blog was written for and about two very real people. It’s a little gift to them. While Carl and Lupe are not their real names – duh – by the end of the second paragraph they both will know about whom I am writing.

Which allowed me to add another level. Many of you know Carl or Lupe or both and right now I’m sure you’re going “Oh, my God!” I also planned that, but I have to tell you that most of what I wrote is heavily – very heavily – fictionalized and only loosely based on the actual facts they related to me. My rendition should be taken with the biggest scoop of salt you can find. 

But way, way down I added a final level and left a message just for Carl and Lupe. Carl had told me that the whole experience of meeting Lupe was like walking through a door from one version of his life into another. It’s probably not always going to be like that and at one point or another they may need a reminder of how they felt when it started.

The message I left was the sound of that door closing.

Which, thank God at last, brings us to the wrap-up of the longest blog yet. Remember, this is a work of fiction. Sure, I said that Carl and Lupe were real but that was back in the story, so there’s no way of really knowing. You can only guess. That, perhaps, is the ultimate goal of any writer, to drag the reader into the story, even against their will, get them to suspend disbelief, and immerse themselves in the tale. When that happens they realize that, hypothetically speaking of course, the story could be about anybody at all.