One afternoon many years ago, my neighbor ‘Jay’ and some friends went to a park in the desert. There were rattlesnake warnings on the roads leading in, unfamiliar dangers to the group. At one point, Jay needed to use the park restroom. He made his way to a stall, stamping his feet to ward off any lurking snakes, and gingerly lowered himself onto the toilet seat. Immediately, a sudden, sharp pain in his butt cheek sent him flying from the toilet, howling in pain and fear.
“I’m thinking, ‘None of these people are gonna suck the poison out of my butt! I’m dead! I’m dying!’” he told us. My hands were pressed to my mouth to hide my horrified amusement. I knew he hadn’t died, clearly, but I didn’t know how seriously he’d been hurt or what happened next. At the moment, he was writhing pantsless in the dirt outside the restroom, pleading for someone, anyone to detach the snake from his rear end.
After he’d reached back and pawed at his bare butt, searching for a serpent to dislodge and finding none, he got himself back into his pants and hurried back into the bathroom to look for a disgruntled snake. And that’s when he met his attacker—not a rattlesnake, but a hairline crack in the plastic toilet seat that had squeezed shut when he shifted his weight and pinched the hell out of his ass.
Long after we had died laughing, been resurrected by joy, and died again, the tale stayed with me. It was such a satisfying story, the tone light enough to assure us that no great harm came to anyone but threaded with real fear and stakes. Jay’s details were efficient and specific: the signs about rattlesnakes, the empty restroom, his panicked thoughts.
If you’ve been around fiction writing or screenwriting classes, you’ve probably heard of Chekhov’s gun, a piece of storytelling advice that often gets taken very literally and mangled by brevity. Chekhov advised writers not to put a loaded rifle on stage if no one is thinking of firing it, later explaining that the rifle must go off by the third act, or it shouldn’t be hanging there.
But there are all kinds of reasons to hang a loaded rifle in your scene: It can create an atmosphere of dread or danger, explain a character’s sense of unease, provide context for other characters, and so on. And there are stories to be told about that gun not firing. So what’s this rule really about?
The rifle Chekhov mentions is a stand-in. You’ll likely hear that it could be a sword or a man-eating tiger or an ex's phone number or a rusted hook or a white whale or divorce papers or a patch of black ice.
But I think these interpretations are limited: all weapon and harm, object of destruction, destruction itself. In Jay’s story, for instance, if the rattlesnake is the rifle, does it fire? Not in the sense that it bites or even appears, no. But the anticipation, the looming presence of fear of the snake and its bite, create the tension of the loaded rifle on the wall. And the pain, the panic, the tangle of humor and uncertainty, all resolved with the discovery of the true culprit, make for a satisfying, well-rounded story.
Another thing I love about this story is its ordinariness. I love a story about regular people things. I know it’s not an everyday experience to panic about thinking your ass has been bitten by a rattlesnake, but it’s more regular than being a rattlesnake handler for a year between jobs after you quit the traveling circus you ran away from your graduate school program with and how your sort-of fiancé had a snake fetish and almost died one night, which is why you always had to be on top from then on. (Looking at you, The New Yorker.)
Back to Chekhov’s gun: This is often taught as an exercise in efficiency. No extraneous details, writing teachers say. And I don’t think that Jay’s story has them. But I also don’t think a story that has them is bad, or inefficient—not necessarily.
If we think of it in terms of decor, efficiency being minimalism and richly detailed writing being maximalism, we can more easily see that it’s a matter of taste. The thing about writing is that the way it’s taught and the way we compete for publication and recognition all makes it seem like we have learn the Right Way to do everything, when so much of it comes down to preference.
Think about your favorite author. The one who made you want to become a writer. The one who takes your breath away with every new piece.
Someone thinks they’re overrated. Pretentious. Derivative. A wannabe.
And that author you can’t stand, the one you think is everything wrong with the state of literature today? They have a fanbase. People love them. As they say, there’s no accounting for taste.
As you've probably seen me say before: All the rules are made up.
And they are. Whether we’re talking about language or etiquette or how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the rules were created by people. That doesn’t mean that there’s no point in following any of them or that they’re necessarily bad or unhelpful. But they’re not requirements, and that they can—and will—change.
Two lessons to take away from all this:
Write what you like. Try out different approaches and suggestions and see how they feel, what they do for your writing. But remember that that’s what you’re doing: figuring out how you want to write.
Never go into rattlesnake country without someone who will suck venom out of your butt.
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