The other night, I was lying awake in bed channel surfing with the remote control. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move across the floor. Upon my complete horror, I discovered a rather large scorpion. I realize this is not a great oddity in Austin, Texas; however, having grown up in a house infested with them as a child, I have taken great pains during the past several years to avoid living in an area of town considered indigenous to scorpions. There is nothing in the world that makes my hair stand taller and my stomach flip higher than the sight of a scorpion. I cannot even look at a picture of one.
After lying awake fretting for some time, constantly feeling nonexistent creatures crawling on me, I finally drifted off to sleep. Standing in the shower the next morning, I saw still thinking of this experience. Of all the people living in my house, I have the most unreasonable fear and dread of these creatures and yet it is in my room in which this one makes his debut. This is a house in a lush and low-lying neighborhood. Native Austinites know that scorpions are usually found where there is rock and cedar. This creature was out of place. He faced his death with dignity.
Several thoughts ran through my head as I showered and shampooed. I began trying to figure out the scorpion's purpose and what he symbolyzed. This led to such questions such as, "is he some sort of omen about my life?"; does he symbolize some portion of my life in which I am alone and out of place?'; and, "why am I trying to turn this into a short story?"
It was at that moment that I realized I have been turning most of my daily experiences into short stories. I can drive in heavy traffic and compose a story about the truck that just cut me off. I can play catch with my son in the front yard and my thoughts wander into rhetorical terms consisting of various adjectives and adverbs. As I speak to bill collectors over the telephone, I begin putting together imaginative and eloquent forms of dialogue.
In addition to this, I tend to compare my own life with the lives of the characters in the stories I have read so far this semester. In recently dealing with the breakup of a relationship, I compared myself to Prue in the story of the same name. While reading the early ads for Christmas, Truman Capote and Benjamin Capps came to mind. Finally, there are probably very few students in my literature classes who didn't think of "The Storm" during a recent downpour.
Before this semester started, I worried that taking multiple literature classes at one time was going to be rough. In fact, this has been the most rewarding semester I have had during my college career. By the time mid-terms appeared, I had read close to 50 stories. My biggest problem was remembering which story I read for which professor. With the exception of only one or two, I have thoroughly enjoyed each one.
I have always been a big reader of novels. I usually read two or three books per months. Indeed, I have tried to pass this interest off to my son. He now, however, prefers to read my short story textbooks and collections. A friend recently told me that one class we are in together has ruined her desire and enjoyment of trashy novels. She is a very lucky woman. The same has happened for me.
As we discussed recently in one particular class, short stories represent small episodes of life. Indeed, short stories tend to be parallel to real life. There is not always a clear meaning or understanding of the incident. There is not always a happy ending. There is not always a point. These are just moments in one's life that, for one reason or another, affect the writer in such a way that he needs to put everything down on paper. Sometimes the story will enlighten the reader as to some great revelation of human behavior. Sometimes it will have a deep and significant meaning wrapped up in symbols and irony. Sometimes the story is purely for entertainment value.
I recently read a commentary in which the writer stated he preferred to read short stories because he could never finish an entire book before he fell asleep at night. This person could not tolerate leaving anything unfinished and this caused a dilemma. Upon discovering the short story, he could solve both problems. I agree, and in fact, now have a stack next to my bed that is filled with the collections of Mark Twain, Edgar Allen Poe, Rudyard Kipling, and several others.
Perhaps the scorpion did have an ironic significance in my life. Maybe he was not there merely to scare me to the point of sleeping on the couch. I now believe the entire purpose of the scorpion's short life was to spur my imagination and creativity. Maybe now I can go back to my own bedroom to sleep. Or, perhaps I should stay up and read.
