“The Little River” Is a Fine Debut Short Story

In this debut short story, Michael Podhaizer convincingly captures the emotional turmoil of a young boy’s feelings towards his abusive father when the boy suddenly, and realistically, has life-and-death power over his tormentor.

The story opens with two vignettes that establish the characters: the narrator, Richard; his father; and in the background, the rest of the immediate family—Richard’s mother and two sisters. The third section takes the reader to Richard’s critical moment of decision, and then the story doubles back to explore in detail how the situation unfolded, casting further light on the relationship between not only this son and father, but also the dynamics and sequela of abuse.

A well-written and moving first effort.

You can purchase “The Little River” for $0.99 here.

Note: Full disclosure – Michael is my son; that is why this review is posted here, and not on Amazon, where the out-of-guidelines criteria prohibit family members from posting reviews.

Caveat Author; Caveat Reader

It began innocently enough. I borrowed a hardback copy of The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins from one of my daughters, after seeing the movie with my other daughter. And I was engaged. [Spoiler alert for material preceding the line of asterisks.]

I had followed Katniss from her home in District 12 to the arena, where—disobeying Haymitch’s advice—she had grabbed a pack before speeding away from the Cornucopia to seek water. Hours later, hearing the cannons reporting the number of dead in the bloodbath at the opening, she fears for Peeta and finally stops to open the pack for which she risked her life.

The description of what is and is not in the pack should only heighten the mood. But, in fact, it can end up destroying the tension completely because it ends with this description of the last item:

“And a half-gallon plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water that’s bone dry (p. 154).”

Now, me, I figure you can carry water that’s bone dry in your pocket, dispensing with the need for both bottle and cap . . .

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

The occurrence of this misplaced modifier destroyed for me the growing sense of alarm at Katniss’s circumstances because it broke my suspension of disbelief, thrusting me out of the terror of the arena in the future, back to a cynical take on the present in which so much of what is published suffers from not enough attention in the editorial process.

My immersion in the world of Panem (aesthetic reading, using Louise Rosenblatt’s term) toggled to critical analysis (efferent reading; Rosenblatt), as I took a moment to decipher what had gone wrong in the sentence and wonder how such a thing had come about.

One hears many complaints these days about the rafts of typos and other errors  in eBooks, but hardcover books are supposed to be premium quality items . . .

I used this particular example because of its potentially dramatic effect on readers, given what the author is trying to do at that moment, not to point the finger at this particular author or publisher, so let’s move on from that to a broader discussion, with a focus on the reader’s experience.

In his essay “Twice-Told Tales,” Edgar Allan Poe discusses the effects of reading on the reader as part of  his high praise of the short story, or brief tale, which he distinguishes from the novel:

“As the novel cannot be read at one sitting, it cannot avail itself of the immense benefit of totality. Worldly interests, intervening during the pauses of perusal, modify, counteract and annul the impressions intended. But simple cessation in reading would, of itself, be sufficient to destroy the true unity. In the brief tale, however, the author is enabled to carry out his full design without interruption. During the hour of perusal, the soul of the reader is at the writer’s disposal.”

Poe goes on to speak of the “single effect” that is wrought on the reader by the brief tale, but not by the novel. But I’m going to stick with the paragraph quoted and ask what application it might have, if any, to the novel-reading experience.

Clearly, many novels cannot be read in a sitting, both because of the demands of daily life and because of the length of some novels—Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (846 pages) all in one dose? I think we can take it that there will be breaks. Nevertheless, haven’t we all experienced periods of immersion in which we were “lost in a book” and felt that “during the hour of perusal, [our soul was] at the writer’s disposal”? I believe it is possible for the novel to transport the reader, even if the excursion is interrupted.

Poe also discusses ways in which an author may miss the mark in creating the desired effect on the reader. And, of course, there are many authors who—as Poe puts it—”blunder” in achieving what they set out to do (fyi, he focuses on Nathaniel Hawthorne, whence his title).

But Poe did not conceive, and we must, of a book’s effect on the reader being diminished by the failure of the editorial process or the failure of the writer to choose to employ any editorial process and go straight from manuscript to (self-)published book.

Even the most fastidious authors with the most eagle-y eyes that ever graced non-avian creatures may mar the effects of their writing by skipping over the editorial process. Effects may also be diminished by editorial teams who, for one reason or another, fail in their due diligence.

A reader whose suspension of disbelief is interrupted has no recourse. Of course, the reader could write in a correction on the page of a print book, but that may only add to the distraction. No, the reader is, in this regard, at the mercy of the writer and—if there is one—the publisher and its staff, and the time and focus they give, or don’t, to the editorial process.

Of course, I have only discussed works of the imagination here, not informational works, like textbooks, but I think it’s more obvious that factual works need careful checking before being unleashed on the reading public.

Where does this lead us? To this, if nothing else: it seems to me that given the potential impact in both literature and non-fiction, the importance of the editorial process should play a larger role in the discussion of the future of books.

NaNoWriMo: Writing Fiction vs Writing Nonfiction 2 Imagination and Fact

Listening to Aaron Smith’s explanation (in the recording of Chris Evans’ interview of Aaron and me for WRUV) of the historical situation that forms the backdrop for the novel he was writing during NaNoWriMo, I began thinking about the different ways that facts can be involved in fiction.

In the normal course of things, facts are more associated with non-fiction, and imagination with fiction. But in Aaron’s work, for example, the actions of his characters had to fit into a complex, multi-faceted historical context.

Historical fiction is one way in which a novel can meld fact and imagination and works of historical fiction are likely to be among the most fact-laden works of fiction. At the other extreme, novels can be almost entirely formed of imaginary material, with very few specific facts involved. But there’s a lot of room between the two extremes.

Here are some of the ways fact enters into the fantasy/science fiction/family/quintology that I’m writing called The Bent Parallels Quintology.

• I chose most of the character’s names based on their meaning from a little booklet called “What’s in a Name?” that was published by Ethyl Corporation in 1942. Others I found at the websites Think Baby Names, Baby Names World, and the baby names section of Mom’s Who Think.

• I’ve obtained information about animal behavior, diet, etc. from Animal Diversity Web, Newton BBS at Argonne National Laboratory, and Dog Breed Info Center (where you can find information about agoutis, bison, horsehair worms, Mahi Mahi, and many other creatures besides dogs :^).

• I did some research on castles at Castles.org.

• Information on the Nazi Occupation of the Netherlands came from the page of Linda Woolf, Ph.D., a psychology professor at Webster University.

• Home furnishings came from a variety of museum websites and catalogs, with my favorite carpet (the one in the library on the third floor) being found at Absolute Rugs website.

And that’s only a small sampling: there’s much, much more.

My story is not “about” any of these facts. But all of them, and more, enter into the telling, and in some cases, the story must work to accommodate the facts (as in choosing a plausible month for the excerpt I read on Chris’s show to enable the constellations that need to be seen to actually be visible in the sky at that time).

And I think that’s one of the key differences for me in writing fiction and non-fiction. In non-fiction, I use my imagination to gain a sense of my audience, what they know already and need to know about the topic, and how what I’ve written is likely to strike them. But since I mainly write informational text when I write non-fiction, the facts are what I’m writing about.

So the facts dominate in my non-fiction in a way that even my fact-laced fiction doesn’t approach. And one of the things I learned during NaNoWriMo, writing my first extended work of fiction, is that this makes the experience of writing a novel quite different from writing informational text.

A lot of the time I spend writing non-fiction is spent couching the facts in language that accurately conveys the meaning and making sure that every fact is in the proper relationship (time-order, importance, etc.) to every other fact. Whereas in fiction, the facts are more like a combination of foundation on which the fiction is built and decoration with which it is adorned and paths down which it travels.

NaNoWriMo: Writing Fiction vs Writing Nonfiction 1 Audience and Sequence

In my interview with  Chris Evans on WRUV (University of Vermont radio) yesterday, the subject of the differences in writing fiction and nonfiction was touched on. I’d like to expand on it a bit here.

During NaNoWriMo, I began writing a novel, a genre that I had not worked in since my bachelor’s paper—a mystery set at the Quadrangle Club, the faculty club at the University of Chicago, where I was an undergraduate. Since writing is one of the chief ways that I earn a living, one might think that I would apply a similar process and approach to writing for NaNoWriMo as I do to writing in general. In fact, most of my writing is nonfiction, and as a result, some aspects are quite different.


Similarities include the concept of audience. In nearly all the projects I do that I originate, I am aiming for a broad audience—usually middle school and up. A lot of my nonfiction writing is either informative in a general way or explicitly instructional—though marketed as trade books rather than textbooks. People who are at the very beginning of learning about a subject and have had the motivation to find the article or buy the book, be they 13 or 73, are in something of a similar situation and need more or less similar insights and knowledge to learn about whatever-it-is.

With this novel, I am aiming at a similarly broad audience. But whereas with nonfiction, engaging the audience means telling them what they need to know about the subject, engaging an audience in a work of fiction is a very different process.


Another similarity—though a limited one, in this case—is the need (at least, I feel that it is a need) to be able to maintain a sense of the way that material is coming across to the reader (i.e, what they know and don’t know at any given point), what inferences they may be making, what needs to be defined, and the order in which the revelation should occur for maximum effect. In both fiction and nonfiction (as opposed to, say, a photograph or painting), the audience encounters the material in a specific order over time—an order over which (unless they jump ahead on the page) I have some control.

But when we get to particulars of creating the sequence, writing fiction parts company from most of the nonfiction that I write.

My characteristic set-up for writing non-fiction is categorical. Whatever I’m writing about, I figure out either the or a means of dividing it into logical and coherent segments that readers may be seeking or that will help them take in the information in a comprehensible sequence. When I say “the or a,” I’m referring to the fact that some topics and some genres may set the categories pretty tightly. For example, my last published work was a reference work, Barron’s American Slang Dictionary and Thesaurus. Dictionaries have some pretty standard elements that you expect to find in each entry, including entry word, pronunciation, part of speech, definition, etc.

So do how-to articles. An article on “Making Salt Crystals” will not meet reader expectations unless it includes a list of ingredients and a sequence of steps in the proper order to achieve the advertised results. Of course, if I’m writing about an unfamiliar subject, I start by learning enough about it that I can write about it with some authority and have a sense of a good way to present the information to the reader.

All gone with fiction.

Writing my first novel, I’ve been working from a rough sequence of events—what Mieke Bal in Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative refers to as the fabula—and rearranging them into the order in which the reader will meet them, a story in Bal’s terminology, which is quite different from the chronology. Where should the story start? How and when are past events revealed? Who is conveying them? These questions are much more open than they are in the kind of nonfiction I write. The process has proved to be quite different than organizing an article or a dictionary. And the order of presentation is quite a bit more malleable.

By the time NaNoWriMo began, my story didn’t begin where I had been planning for it to begin. I had spent three and a half years planning, writing notes in journals and on scraps of paper, researching, etc., before I started writing the first novel of my quintology (it started as a single volume fairy tale—but that’s a topic for another article), and up until the day I began what will be the first chapter of the first novel, I had thought that the first novel was going to be set mainly in another world. In my first draft of the first chapter of the first book in December, 2008, the first two sentences read:

There was quite a lot of speculation when Master Bartholomew took up residence in the turkey coop. Granted, it was his turkey coop.

Both Bartholomew and his turkey coop, by the way, are on the planet Irrelya, rather than Earth and this particular incident is not likely to be come into the story until Book 3, although it happened before Book 1 begins.

By the time the first draft of the “real” chapter one of the first book was written in May, 2009, the location had changed to Earth and the book opened in the midst of an argument between teenage twins, a boy and a girl. It now begins:

“We have to make an exception,” the girl exclaimed.

“No,” said the boy, quietly but resolutely.

Changes this drastic are simply not possible in the non-fiction I characteristically write.

But . . . other topics and subgenres of nonfiction are more open-ended. Look at what I did with the chronology in organizing the last bit of this blog:

1. By the time NaNoWriMo began – Nov. 2009
2. I had spent three and a half years planning . . . before I started writing – Fall, 2005 to May, 2009
3. (it started as a single volume fairy tale) – Fall, 2005
4. the day I began what will be the first chapter of the first novel (May 24, 2009)
5. I had thought – Fall, 2005 – May, 2009
6. In my first draft of the first chapter of the first book – December, 2008
7. By the time the first draft of the “real” chapter one of the first book was written – May 24, 2009
8. It now begins – Today