All of this has been well documented in other essays, journalistic pieces, and academic research papers. In 1981, the year he published that second collection, he spoke in an essay titled: “ A Storyteller’s Shoptalk” of how he also tried to use everyday objects in his writing to impact a reader: ‘It’s possible, in a poem or short story, to write about commonplace things and objects using commonplace but precise language, and to endow those things – a chair, a window curtain, a fork, a stone, a woman’s earring – with immense, even startling power.’Ĭarver used everyday household objects in many of his stories: cups, ashtrays, furniture – especially those stories that are autobiographical – and the objects, in a collective subliminal way carry with them emotional significance. I got the symbolism, all of these big metaphors that set the mood and tone of a piece, but I also knew Carver was doing a lot more. The opening line sets the scene: ‘Early that day the weather turned and the snow was melting into dirty water.’ Carver then tells us: ‘It is getting dark outside,’ adding: ‘But it was getting dark on the inside too’. As the couple struggle over ownership of their baby, Carver informs us: ‘The kitchen window gave no light.’ These references: snow changing to dirty water, light turning to dark, prime us to feel that something sinister is about to happen: light is literally turning to dark. Carver uses symbolism to indirectly reveal much more than is on the page. In “Popular Mechanics” (a tale of just over 700 words), from his second collection What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, two nameless characters play tug-of-war with their child. I knew how Carver used symbolism to move a reader through his simple descriptions of weather, of light and dark, night and day, cloud cover, etc & etc. I was now reading to see how it was done. And, although I was a novice writer (and a slow learner), I quickly became an experienced reader, or at least, a critical reader. Always life.”ĭuring my own sobriety, I began writing. Then, breathing evenly and steadily once more, we’ll collect ourselves, writers and readers alike, get up, “created of warm blood and nerves” as a Chekhov character puts it, and go on to the next thing: Life. Our body temperature will have gone up, or down, by a degree. Ideally, we’ll ponder what we’ve just written or read maybe our hearts or intellects will have been moved off the peg just a little from where they were before. In his introduction to Where I’m Calling From, Carver best described the feeling I had first experienced while reading his work: “If we’re lucky, writer and reader alike, we’ll finish the last line or two of a short story and then just sit for a minute, quietly. With hindsight, the thing to have done was credit Lish, but he didn’t, so let’s move on. I have no opinion on this Carver was recovering from alcoholism, had been twice bankrupted, and I know from my own experience that decision making doesn’t come easy while drinking and in those first few years of sobriety. In fact, further investigation proves that Lish cut some of the stories by seventy-eight percent, and, most of those cuts were necessary. Max said Lish wished to cut out Carver’s ‘creeping sentimentality’. Max in his 1998 New York Times magazine article that Carver’s editor, Gordon Lish, cut up to fifty percent of the original length of the stories, and even rewrote endings and replaced the collection’s title. I also learned about the revelations of journalist D.T. Older and sober now, I had a better grasp of what it was he was doing I mean, I didn’t fully understand why his writing could affect me the way it did, but I did know he was using metaphor, was a famous writer and, like me, an alcoholic. It was only years later in my thirties and freshly sober, when a friend suggested I read him, that I remembered some of the Carver stories I had read years before.
Of all the writers I read back then, there was something about Carver’s stories that had a visceral impact on me – I felt mood-altered during and after reading – although, at the time, I had no idea why. Short stories suited me because of my poor concentration and poor reading comprehension, also I could finish them in one sitting during the days of respite I got between bouts of drinking, things I couldn’t do with a novel. Back then I was drinking unsuccessfully, reading during bouts of sobriety. I first read Carver when I was in my early twenties.