Literary circles often echo with pronouncements of doom – the struggling independent bookstore, the demise of literary fiction. Yet, these cries often ring hollow. Independent bookstores persevere, and literary fiction, in its myriad forms, continues to thrive. However, one form within this vibrant landscape sometimes feels genuinely precarious: the short story. Often seen as a stepping stone to the “serious business” of novel writing, the short story, a form demanding precision and mastery, frequently gets overlooked. But to dismiss it is to miss out on gems of narrative brilliance, as exemplified by collections like THE MAN WHO SHOT OUT MY EYE IS DEAD by Chanelle Benz.
This collection, alongside Mary Miller’s ALWAYS HAPPY HOUR, serves as a potent reminder of the short story’s enduring power. While Miller’s work delves into the familiar terrains of contemporary relationships and personal anxieties, Benz carves out a distinct space, a realm where history, genre, and the uncanny converge. It’s in Benz’s stories, these meticulously crafted narratives, that we find a unique literary experience – a “Benz Story,” if you will – that challenges and captivates in equal measure. Why, one might ask after immersing oneself in Benz’s world, would any writer feel compelled to move beyond the concentrated intensity of the short story form?
Mary Miller, with her novel THE LAST DAYS OF CALIFORNIA already under her belt, explores the intricacies of inaction in ALWAYS HAPPY HOUR. Her characters, often mirroring the author’s own perceived tendencies, navigate small worlds, confined by geographical and emotional limitations. Miller’s South is not one of sprawling plantations but of mundane motels and unglamorous apartments. Her narratives thrive not on grand gestures but on the subtle nuances of inner lives and the often-unspoken anxieties of everyday existence.
Miller’s narrators, often adrift and somewhat detached, share a certain kinship. They are financially strained, entangled in lackluster relationships, and inhabiting small towns, even when set in a city like Austin, which loses its urban edge in her portrayal. A recurring motif is the sense of being held back, tethered to an unnamed inertia. Paradoxically, these characters sometimes find solace in moments of conformity, a strange comfort in blending into the background. Even in her more plot-driven stories, the anticipated climax often recedes into the periphery, overshadowed by the narrator’s preference for quiet withdrawal, highlighting a consistent theme of emotional and existential stasis. Many of these characters find their most significant action in simply staying in bed, a metaphor for their broader reluctance to engage fully with life’s demands.
The cohesive nature of ALWAYS HAPPY HOUR is remarkable, especially considering Miller penned these stories over nine years. Her ability to capture the immediacy of place, writing about her surroundings while still living within them, contributes to this sense of unity. Furthermore, her frequent use of the first-person present tense creates an intimate, almost unnerving proximity to her narrators. They speak directly to the reader, their flaws and vulnerabilities laid bare, forcing a close, sometimes uncomfortable, encounter. Miller’s storytelling is characterized by this unflinching portrayal of her characters’ imperfections, an “admirable quality, showcasing one’s most glaring defect,” as one of her narrators observes, a sentiment that seems to encapsulate Miller’s own narrative approach. Her protagonists are often judgmental, quick to point out flaws in others, a trait Miller acknowledges might risk making them unsympathetic. However, she argues that this harshness is a reflection of their own internal struggles, a projection of self-doubt onto the world around them. Miller embraces writing characters who are “kind of assholes,” believing in the necessity of self-implication, of exposing the less palatable aspects of human nature in her work.
While Miller embraces the autobiographical in her fiction, Chanelle Benz seems to consciously distance herself from it. THE MAN WHO SHOT OUT MY EYE IS DEAD showcases a remarkable range, venturing far beyond the confines of personal experience. This collection is a testament to Benz’s versatility, encompassing Westerns, epistolary slave narratives, stories set in historical abbeys, and tales framed by invented historical texts. Many of these narratives are imbued with elements of the unreal, the uncanny, seamlessly blending contemporary sensibilities with echoes of the past. This is where the essence of a “benz story” truly emerges – in its ability to transport the reader to distinct and often unexpected realms.
For Benz, voice is the foundational element, the initial spark that ignites each narrative. “When I’m thinking about writing a story,” she explains, “I need to get the voice first before I can move forward.” This emphasis on voice is crucial to understanding the immersive quality of a “benz story.” She seeks to envelop her readers, to draw them completely into the world of each tale, creating a sense of being present in a specific and distinctive moment in time. However, these temporal settings transcend mere historical recreation; they are not simply period pieces. Instead, Benz engages in a dynamic interplay with literary forms, drawing inspiration from the short story’s rich history while forging her own unique path. This innovative approach defines what we can recognize as a “benz story” – a narrative that is both rooted in literary tradition and strikingly original.
While some of Benz’s stories venture into historical and fantastical territories, others touch upon contemporary themes, occasionally even mirroring the socioeconomic landscapes found in Miller’s work. However, even when exploring similar milieus, Benz’s focus diverges. Where Miller delves into interiority, Benz leans towards external action and intrigue. One story, for example, unfolds as a sprawling action thriller, while another plunges into otherworldly dread within a desert setting. This ability to shift seamlessly between genres and tones is a hallmark of a “benz story,” demonstrating Benz’s mastery over the short story form.
Benz views her stories as intricate puzzles, a notion she readily embraces. “It’s like a jigsaw puzzle, moving pieces around until it sort of feels right,” she notes. This puzzle-like quality is integral to the reading experience of a “benz story.” They are narratives that invite active engagement, demanding that the reader piece together fragments of information and navigate layers of meaning. Her background in acting also informs her approach to storytelling. She speaks of “having a container, finding the right form,” drawing a parallel between crafting a narrative and embodying a character within a theatrical framework. In this sense, both Miller and Benz can be seen as performers, but while Miller operates with the intimacy of a stand-up routine, Benz embodies a multitude of voices, each distinct and compelling, within her “benz story” collection.
Benz’s deep understanding of literary history proves invaluable in shaping her narratives. One story, structured as an old narrative from the 1800s, incorporates scholarly footnotes that inject a contemporary perspective, showcasing her ability to bridge historical and modern sensibilities within a single “benz story.” This story, inspired by post-colonial scholarship and eighteenth-century documents, exemplifies how Benz draws upon literary traditions to create narratives that are both historically informed and strikingly relevant. The seemingly dense layers within a “benz story” are not meant to obfuscate, but rather to enrich the reading experience. Benz assures us that this density is carefully curated, the result of rigorous editing and refinement. “I write way more than I use,” she reveals, emphasizing the architectural precision that underpins each “benz story.” This architectural quality, like a complex building, presents a rich and multifaceted exterior, hinting at the intricate and inhabitable world within.
In conclusion, both Chanelle Benz and Mary Miller demonstrate the enduring vitality of the short story, albeit through vastly different approaches. Miller excels at capturing the nuanced interiors of contemporary lives, while Benz constructs intricate and multifaceted worlds within each “benz story.” With short story collections as compelling and rewarding as THE MAN WHO SHOT OUT MY EYE IS DEAD and ALWAYS HAPPY HOUR, the question arises: what more could one possibly seek from a novel? The concentrated power and diverse brilliance found within these collections prove that the short story, far from being a mere training ground, is a literary form capable of delivering profound and unforgettable reading experiences, particularly in the uniquely crafted narratives we recognize as a “benz story.”
