Unity

Unity

The rhetorical term "unity" requires that each sentence, each paragraph, each completed whole, shall deal with but a single subject. The short story is second to no other literary form in requiring unity. The introduction of what is only indirectly or remotely connected with the subject is a fatal error. It may be very enticing; it may exercise a strange charm over the writer; in a novel it might be introduced; but in the short story it must not appear. The unity must be without blemish.

Unity may be destroyed by omission as well as by insertion. In the attempt to be brief and concise, the essential must not be omitted. In his own perfect understanding of his data it is not infrequent for the beginner, striving after brevity, to take for granted that the reader will understand some fact that has been neither stated nor implied. The far more common fault, however, is the insertion of the unessential.

As to what is essential, every writer must decide for himself. A portrait painter selects and emphasizes in a face whatever is peculiarly individual, almost slighting what is merely commonplace. In landscape painting the same is true. The salient features are caught, the rest is ruthlessly cast aside. The same aim should govern in the short story. An attempt has already been made to point out what is essential in Description, what is particularly effective in character portrayal, what is of value in picturing a person, and how results may be obtained through the use of subordination, contrast, environment, atmosphere, etc. All of these tools will be needed in shaping the short story; they will all help to make the writing suggestive. And the word suggestive, 1better than any other, defines the essential. It is that which is so full of suggestion that it will kindle the reader to an appreciation of much that is not mentioned.

At this point it may perhaps be enough to say that many of the incidents which may accompany the occurrence of any crucial test are the merest commonplace and will be worse than useless if introduced into the story. In "The Revolt of Mother, " for example, of the moving into the new barn practically nothing is said. The dishes are mentioned, Nancy is told to go upstairs and pack her things, and Sammy is to help take down the bed. Not another thing is referred to. The inartistic writer would have given two or three pages to this, because in a material way it represents the revolt. He would have interpreted feelingly the difficulties experienced in moving the range and the other heavy household stuff, would have mentioned boxes, baskets, and packages, and would have described the litter in which the old home was left. The little given is suggestive of all this, and the entire omission of such unnecessary details is a great relief to the reader. "The secret of wearying your reader is to tell him all. "

The aspiring writer must not be afraid to "kill. " Again and again he will feel that something already written should really be omitted, but its rhetoric is so charming or its meaning is so close to his heart that he feels he will risk leaving it. If it is not a vital part of the story, omit it. If it is really good it will fit into some future story. Continued pruning is a prime essential to success.