My Problem with Present Tense in Fiction
Steve types, and as he types unease settles over him, a layer of disquiet added to the quiet and emptiness of the room. A problem nags at his concentration but he continues, knowing sometimes the act of writing answers questions. Steve types even as hears a key in the lock and the door opens.
Mike enters, glances at Steve and closes the door. Steve types as Mike crosses to their mini-bar, takes a glass and fills it with two fingers of bourbon. A premonition seems to shiver through Mike as he glances at Steve again and he adds a finger more then takes a gulp. “What’s up, bro?”
Steve finds the question banal, its phrasing too tied to its period in time, and types, “What are you doing, Steve?” Still dissatisfied, he knows he will return to it later.
“I’m writing about the here and now and us. I just typed, ‘What are you doing, Steve?’”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you should have said.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Steve types, then realizes he should say something: “Yes.”
Mike takes a bigger swallow. They have had similar conversations and Steve has seen that expression on Mike’s face before, an expression suggesting perplexity seasoned with suspicion of Steve’s sanity.
“Dude, why?”
“To capture a sense of life as lived in the moment it’s lived, to place the reader in events happening even as the reader reads them. Call it verisimilitude.”
“Uh huh. But what if nothing happens?”
Steve sits stunned as he types, “Steve sits stunned.”
Draining his glass, Mike crosses to the door. He shakes his head as he leaves.
The quiet, the emptiness seem ready to thwart him but Steve types, fighting against the return of his unease, but experiencing a sense of something wrong, some piece of logic eluding him. But what? … what?
The problem suddenly manifests in his mind, the trap laid by himself for himself resolved in one crystalline sentence: I need something more portable than my laptop!