What the Story Believes #1: Green Flash
Stripping a chapter down until only its deepest concerns remain.
What remains when a chapter is reduced to its essentials?
For the past few years, I have been studying story structure. I like structure. I have learned much … and agree with much of what I’ve learned.
But it has not made me any more comfortable in writing long-form fiction. It hasn’t sat well with me ... or felt natural. It doesn’t quite fit.
I began to think that fiction was not my cup of tea.
But that sentiment did not sit well with me either.
Brevity, essence, resonance—those are the fields my mind has been wandering these past several months. Curiously, I only found them after I stopped paying homage to artificial structure.
So the experiment that almost certainly began with phaiku, brings me now to stripping down a story that I wrote basically to prove to myself I could write fiction.
Until now, I had been forcing myself to write to more traditional structure expectation. I was having fun, but I wasn’t enjoying the results.
Recently, I gave Starwoven another chance. For its first chapter, I stripped away everything that felt nonessential and was left bare—with naked emotion. A beautiful essence, and a feeling of finally finding home.
I will spend the next few weeks distilling the rest of the story to a similar essence.
The experiment entails:
Writing the story normally.
Creating an “erasure version” using only the words already present.
Creating a final version consisting only of the lines that refuse to disappear.
The goal?
To discover what the story itself believes.
Starwoven began as a novella that received an Honorable Mention in Writers of the Future. What follows is an experiment in reducing its opening chapter to its emotional core.
GREEN FLASH drifting through space in three days they would arrive in three days she would be … lost frigid pneumatic whoosh Red … alone chill prickled her skin she curled soundless the quiet stillness closing in on its prey quiet settled like dust on an airless moon explorer’s heart magneto boots lumina tiles following in a rhythm she stretched pressed her palm to a cool touch beyond the hollow of space You have to listen to be heard. words floated through her memory on the other side her voice already swallowed by the abyss Echo—her only companion her beacon to hidden worlds— lit up with the hope of connecting something she believed Whatever. her hopes sometimes waned hope for the stars to crack open spill their secrets drawing her toward something unseen isolation was extinction connection … survival Echo hummed a whisper of static a flicker slammed into her ribs suddenly a verdant glow flickering like a heartbeat then—gone crushing silence Echo dimmed fingers hovered numb what had she just seen? dark silent loss thick and immovable Red’s thoughts froze What had just happened? Red’s thoughts froze What had just happened?
601 words reduced to 193.
Apparently, this chapter believes it’s about loneliness, connection, and a green flash in the dark.
If you reduced one of your own pieces to only the words that refused to disappear, what do you think the work would reveal about itself? I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Oooh I LOVE this! What a fantastic exercise, something I'll definitely have to try myself. ✨
The only thing I'd like to add is a reminder that those other 408 words were not wasted--they are the ore that contains the gold, the sod from which the roses grow. I know how frustrating it is when you discover something new in your work and think, "why didn't I see this before?" but if there's anything I've learned (and I should note, something YOU helped me learn; I'm just trying to return the favor 😅) is that the process matters and as long as you're engaged with the work, it will lead you in the right direction. ❤️
Enjoyed these memorable lines from your post: “I stopped paying homage to artificial structure” and “discover what the story itself believes.” This phrase will also stick with me: “crushing silence.”