My Girl

Sophia has taken Bluebeard and made it genuinely tense again. I forgot, while reading it, that I knew how the story ended—had in fact written a version of it myself—so engrossed was I in the characters and their stifling dynamic. The well-known tropes of the Bluebeard story (the bodies, the key, the blood) are understated here, which allows the centering of a different aspect of the horror: the violence simmering under even the tender moments in an abusive relationship.

Santiago makes for one scary Bluebeard. Physically imposing, sexually aggressive, and socially controlling, he epitomizes just about everything that makes a man dangerous. His aloofness and preoccupation with the sea mixed with his possessiveness of Carmilla make him unpredictable and difficult to get a read on. This effect is only heightened after Carmilla finds the corpses of his previous wives, when she joins us in questioning the motive behind his every word and action. Does he know? Surely he must. Surely it must be written all over her face and he’s just biding his time, waiting for the most painful moment to strike. As the heat increased, I found myself holding my breath before clicking each link, even though I knew he would die and she would not. The story had me entirely invested.

For me, the story never quite reaches a boil. I loved every moment of it, but I ache for some catharsis. All of the physical violence happens offscreen, and our protagonist never quite manages to claim her own victory. I know this is true to the original story, though, and I recognize that Carmilla’s powerlessness is part of the horror (and very Gothic, for which Sophia and I share a love).

The prose is beautiful, as usual for Sophia. It elevated the story for me, and I found the overall experience to be a tense, enjoyable, heart-pounding ride.

Played: 7/11/24
Playtime: 30min, read time really

This is a linear work, its aims cleverly clued by its graphical layout which conclusively evokes pages in a book. Its interactivity is precisely that, turning pages at each one’s end. It is exactly as interactive as a short story. As a short story, its effectiveness is entirely in the hands of the author.

Which is a wild thing to say. At some level, all art, interactive or no, springs from an author’s vision and implementation skill. At least in the ways I am interested in talking about. INTERACTIVE art explicitly aims to include the consumer in the art, (for want of a better word) PASSIVE art does not. This is a two edged sword for the author. The promise of interactivity is a deeper engagement, a unique frisson that is the difference between participation and consumption. The peril of interactivity is that the author has no control over the player, and must somehow accommodate or steer the experience to still deliver their artistic statement against an unpredictable range of interactions.

Am I saying fiction is “easier” than IF? That would be a hell of a hubristic thing, wouldn’t it? Let’s dodge that with mealy mouthed “they both have challenges.” The unique challenge of fiction is to get reader buyin, then keep it. The setup, scenario, human behaviors and plot twists all need to be convincingly communicated and sustained. There is no implicit buyin by player typing along at keyboard. In both kinds of art, the prose itself is doing the lion’s share of this convincing.

My Girl worked for me as a short story for most of its breadth, thanks to its prose. It is somewhat dreamy, somewhat poetic, but always cold and unsentimental, befitting its scenario and characters. It compellingly tells the story of an unhappy marriage, a woman abandoned by her husband for long stretches at sea, then expected to service marital and emotional duties during infrequent returns as if these gaps were immaterial. The wife a player in her husband’s story, as almost a glorified extra. Unsurprisingly, she is increasing dissatisfied with that role. For great stretches, the language and turns of phrase terrifically convey the feeling. Some standouts: “ever bending the crooked language of his devotion like a bludgeon” “There is nothing within your dominion that your husband would not claim as his own, in deserved access” “the hymns you sing segment it small, dividing the hours as neatly as in your book”

It is a slow, sad dance of spiraling despair, very effectively and magnetically conveyed… for 80-85% of its length?

Just often enough, there are narrative twists or observations that do not evolve naturally, that jarringly intrude into the narrative flow without prior warning or support. An observation about “frivolity of men” breaks the personal scope of the narrative, suddenly speaking (in isolation) to a larger indictment than the text was previously concerned with. Contradictory descriptions: “sniffing out for traces of betrayal that you could swear are dribbling in red rivulets down the inside of your wrist as he speaks.” vs “He has no reason to not believe you would be truthful, that you would be true.”

And two major plot twists, one of which carried some setup portent only to be so shadowed as to muddy its impact. Then a final twist from nowhere, the more unsatisfying for its terse, disconnected resolution.

There is a school of thought that for short stories, the ending is whole measure of success. I don’t think it has to be true. Certainly I have found any number of longer format works who have bungled the ending BADLY (looking at you The Stand) that nevertheless are fondly remembered for the many, many things that worked like gangbusters before that. My Girl doesn’t beef anywhere near that bad, but leaves me with analogous feelings. Sure, there were glitches at the end, but for great swaths of its length, I was captivated.

Non-interactive, except for page turns. The pacing is good, and the story is solid.