March 12th, 2018 - The Poltroon Husband

Dear TNY,

As I write, I’m listening to the wistful chaos of Sigur Rós’ “Fjögur Píanó” and have just chewed through the deliciousness of “The Poltroon Husband.”  Now, don’t swell your head.  This wasn’t a home-run.  It was a base hit. Maybe even a double.  So I’ll cover what’s working and then we can discuss what the fuck went wrong.

Tension:  Absolutely nailed it.  We started in quickly with the meat of this story (sixth paragraph) and then (kinda) kept that tension through some of the slower parts near the end.  The tension hits its peak when the husband finally makes his way to the kitchen after his paralysis subsides and his wife acts like nothing has happened and goes to bed.  The absence of validation that something definitely is not right is far more terrifying than validation. That gap of data is the driving force of this story and kept this reader gnawing forward.

Voice:  The husband’s voice in this piece has a particular lilt to it.  The sentence structure, vocabulary, and rhythm was so particular that it lent credibility to the character, such that he seemed too astute and self-aware to be affected by paralysis, but was affected just the same.

These two bits of craft were well played.  But when a story starts drawing me in as a reader, as this one did, I find myself saying, “You sure as shit better pay off with these promises you are making.”  But this story did not. Firstly, the tension wasn’t carried as well in the last couple of (my) pages. We find the husband acting in way that seems semi-divorced from the trajectory of the story (see:  robe shopping; see: night wandering). These type of distractions are like pits or scratches in a vinyl album, popping and skipping in an otherwise smooth jam.

Secondly, abode.  We get it.  A few times too many.

Finally, and my real issue with this piece, it goes nowhere.  There is no resolution here. I want to know if the wife will ever reveal what happened, if anything.  I do not get the sense that she will or won’t from the ending, which creates frustration (not satisfying ambiguity).  And the narrative of the husband in the woods, what the shit? It’s a very common theme for TNY stories to do nothing (see:  the existence of this website and project). The reason this story’s nothingness is upsetting is because it has so much inventory going into the final act.  But that inventory is pissed away. I don’t care as much about authorial intention here as I do about you, TNY, not fucking opening your mouth to correct this poor final turn.  Imagine if in "A Good Man is Hard to Find" we never find out what happens to the grandmother.  A fucking tragedy is what that would be.

It is said that English cars built in the Midlands in the 70's were put together with a sense of “good enough.”  This story feels the same. That might be acceptable for a trash magazine, but you’re The Fucking New Yorker.  “Good enough” is not good enough for me and it shouldn’t be for you either.

Here’s to hoping your readership decries this laziness and you change your ways,

Nick