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Selected Short Stories
Dan Schneider's Selected Short Stories culled from his numerous collections of short fiction.
287 pages, Kindle Edition
Published January 13, 2018
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July 20, 2025
The Schneiderian story structure is pretty much the apotheosis of the short story as a literary form.
In most of Dan Schneider's collections, his stories usually range from 6-10 pages, and yet each one sketches out at least one fully breathing human character in as minimal space as possible.
The basic template of the Schneiderian story structure is as follows:
An intriguing or poetic hook at the start
A biographical section that 'tells' the key personality traits of a character
A 'real time' scene of conversation, an intriguing incident, or a scene of descriptive poesy that both affirms and plays off the characterization already established
A poetic ending that caps off all of the themes and ideas established within the story
In a sense, the 'tell' and 'show' (or omniscient and diegetic) sections perfectly complement each other. 'Telling' works to condense the psychological outline of a character, which is both substantiated and transcended by 'showing' a larger reality that grinds up against said character's traits.
Of course, throughout his collections Schneider varies the above template, changes its proportions, cuts it up and rearranges it, rejects it at times, and, eventually, goes beyond its confines in both his novels and later story collections like the 'total immersion' novelettes of I, Imperial.
Stylistically, Schneider's stories (and even moreso his unpublished novels) are plainspoken, but never plain. They are a thousand times more 'experimental' than, say, your average postmodern or magical realist writer, because they actually succeed at creating a simulacra of reality that is not slathered in literary artifice. Only when you really look closely at them will you realize the unconventionalities of phrasing and structure, the deep self-consciousness and playfulness that is hidden behind the seemingly realist exterior.
Take this excerpt from one of the best stories in the collection, The Tertiary Rapture Of Asphalt, for example (notice how the title alone intrigues):
"He’d known it ever since Paolo was four, and they had taken a walk down the street nearest the docks. It was one of the first streets to be paved, after the union of Brooklyn with the other parts of New York City, in 1898. The grand old cobblestones were being paved over with this new black stuff they called asphalt. It was hot, black, gooey, like tar, and smelled like oil- not the kind in oil lamps, but the petroleum they used for these automobile contraptions. It seemed that, near the docks, some duck must have gotten its feet stuck in still drying asphalt, and just perished, for it seemed to have been flattened into the goo by a horse drawn cart, or perhaps one of those newfangled motor cars. It was long dead, and dried, but Tomaso recalled the fascination it held for Paolo, especially since some other ducks that were nearby seemed to not recognize the dead animal as kindred. It was as if the asphalt, morning rain, and sun, had bleached the corpse of everything that defined it in life, save its life, which was the first thing to go.
Fearing the dead carcass might have diseases on it, Tomaso cautioned his son from touching it, but Paolo never listened to such warnings. He did what he want, damn the consequences.
‘Oh, Papa, it is just a duck.’
But, Paolo did not treat it like just a duck- be it a live or dead one. He got his fingers between the asphalt and duck, ripped the body up from the asphalt, where it had left an impression, but in ripping its dried form up, he pulled the body away from its spindly legs, which remained attached to, and buried in, the asphalt, and held the dead legless animal up like a prize, his shoddy teeth gleaming in the morning sun. There was something hideously atavistic in his son’s triumphant killer’s pose, and Tomaso smacked the filthy thing out of Paolo’s hands, rushed him to the dock, and made his son wash his hands in the not much cleaner water, as Tomaso shivered at the remembrance of the sound of the duck’s fragile legs snapping so easily, as its body came away from the feet."
Notice the absolutely controlled assonance and consonance even in innocuous descriptions like 'petroleum they used for these automobile contraptions'; or how Schneider varies the sounds in his writing such that you can feel the way the duck is mangled, through the hardness of words like ripped, dried, spindly, prize- "shivered at the remembrance of the sound of the duck's fragile legs snapping so easily" (alliteration of s, internal rhyme and assonance- check the 'e' syllables); or the little quirks of syntax and wordplay in phrases like "had bleached the corpse of everything that defined it in life, save its life"; or the strange yet resonant details he focuses on like "some other ducks that were nearby seemed to not recognize the dead animal as kindred", "smelled like oil- not the kind in oil lamps, but the petroleum they used for these automobile contraptions", "made his son wash his hands in the not much cleaner water", "by a horse drawn cart, or perhaps one of those newfangled motor cars" which also hews to the details of the time the story is set in (1900s); or some of the phrasings that slip into almost archaic, King-Jamesian rhythms which create a phonetic gravitas: "be it a live or dead one", "as its body came away from the feet", "and just perished, for it seemed to have been..." - this is Schneider's Ubermodern style exemplified: a style that is a perfect marriage of past and present hidden in a seemingly realist form- yet whose uniquity is only apparent when analyzed.
The full force of Schneider's writing ability is usually most present at the ends of his stories, where he channels all his previous skill as a poet and manifests, after a steady buildup, plangent explosions of prose:
"So, he took the sled, walked out of the building, from the side exit, so no one would spy him, and left the old man lying in the cold drafts of the tenement. Old man Hopkins was indeed found some hours later, but only survived a few days, before dying of complications, mostly pneumonia. Then, some blood had clotted, made its way to his brain, and a stroke finished the old man off. His death was talked about, like Albert’s dad’s, for only a few days, by the local gossips, then nothing came of it, as more momentary horrors prevailed. Pulling the sled behind him, his sled now, as more snow fell all about, Albert gave the old man’s money to his dealer, who was so focused on what mattered most to him that didn’t even notice the sled Albert had not had when he took off for the deal. When the dealer told him to ‘Beat it,’ he did. The rest of that day, as the storm continued, and most of the nabe retreated to the warm indoors, Albert Pontano enjoyed sledding down the mounds of snow that garbage trucks had piled up, with his new old sled. He would enjoy its benefits for many years to come, and eventually pass the sled down to his children and grandchildren, although its true origin was never revealed to another soul. It was as if the thing became his clan’s own Excalibur, a thing whose provenance was as mysterious as Albert became in family lore. But, on that first day of its newfound possession, Albert enjoyed the freshness of his visible breath, inhaling the crisp air, so that it felt like he was chewing on minty gum, and the sloshing sound his boots made until the early winter sun grew huge and orange between the deserted husks of buildings, and over the empty lines of vacant lots strewn with every manner of garbage. But it was not that smelly, not on this memorable day, as the layer of cold whiteness made everything seem beautiful, and the chill reduced all things to a certain newness, the sort that lingers toward the edge of a young life that was always framed by rusting old dumpsters and crumbling buildings defined by graffiti, until even that life is lost, sunk into the cold rhythms of the quiet universe, where nothing can be heard, and whose passage will, now and then, even deny the small joy a thing can bring to a boy.
But this is all another place, another time."
And, if any reader out there can read this stretch of text:
"Albert enjoyed the freshness of his visible breath, inhaling the crisp air, so that it felt like he was chewing on minty gum, and the sloshing sound his boots made until the early winter sun grew huge and orange between the deserted husks of buildings, and over the empty lines of vacant lots strewn with every manner of garbage. But it was not that smelly, not on this memorable day, as the layer of cold whiteness made everything seem beautiful, and the chill reduced all things to a certain newness, the sort that lingers toward the edge of a young life that was always framed by rusting old dumpsters and crumbling buildings defined by graffiti, until even that life is lost, sunk into the cold rhythms of the quiet universe, where nothing can be heard, and whose passage will, now and then, even deny the small joy a thing can bring to a boy"
And the countless endings as poetically potent as that of James Joyce's The Dead that Schneider (and his wife for that matter) frequently ends his stories with, and the other reams of his prose, all of which display the qualities I have delineated, and then claim that Dan Schneider is NOT a great writer, then, sad to say, you are blinder than the blindest bat.
After being immersed in Schneider's stories, most of the short stories of the past, even those written by great writers- Chekhov, Melville, Irwin Shaw, Loren Eiseley, Raymond Carver etc...- will seem flabby and overdone in comparison. The only other author who will satisfy the same itch for concision is Schneider's wife Jessica, whose stories take the template but innovate them with a starkly poetic slant. Sadly, it will likely be decades before the world realizes that Dan Schneider existed, and even longer before the literary establishment internalizes his innovations. Until then, the only thing one can do to sate the slight dissatisfaction now appended to any other Pre-Schneiderian short story encountered in one's life is to read the man's works, mull over them, learn from them, and perhaps be inspired to write stories of your own.
In most of Dan Schneider's collections, his stories usually range from 6-10 pages, and yet each one sketches out at least one fully breathing human character in as minimal space as possible.
The basic template of the Schneiderian story structure is as follows:
An intriguing or poetic hook at the start
A biographical section that 'tells' the key personality traits of a character
A 'real time' scene of conversation, an intriguing incident, or a scene of descriptive poesy that both affirms and plays off the characterization already established
A poetic ending that caps off all of the themes and ideas established within the story
In a sense, the 'tell' and 'show' (or omniscient and diegetic) sections perfectly complement each other. 'Telling' works to condense the psychological outline of a character, which is both substantiated and transcended by 'showing' a larger reality that grinds up against said character's traits.
Of course, throughout his collections Schneider varies the above template, changes its proportions, cuts it up and rearranges it, rejects it at times, and, eventually, goes beyond its confines in both his novels and later story collections like the 'total immersion' novelettes of I, Imperial.
Stylistically, Schneider's stories (and even moreso his unpublished novels) are plainspoken, but never plain. They are a thousand times more 'experimental' than, say, your average postmodern or magical realist writer, because they actually succeed at creating a simulacra of reality that is not slathered in literary artifice. Only when you really look closely at them will you realize the unconventionalities of phrasing and structure, the deep self-consciousness and playfulness that is hidden behind the seemingly realist exterior.
Take this excerpt from one of the best stories in the collection, The Tertiary Rapture Of Asphalt, for example (notice how the title alone intrigues):
"He’d known it ever since Paolo was four, and they had taken a walk down the street nearest the docks. It was one of the first streets to be paved, after the union of Brooklyn with the other parts of New York City, in 1898. The grand old cobblestones were being paved over with this new black stuff they called asphalt. It was hot, black, gooey, like tar, and smelled like oil- not the kind in oil lamps, but the petroleum they used for these automobile contraptions. It seemed that, near the docks, some duck must have gotten its feet stuck in still drying asphalt, and just perished, for it seemed to have been flattened into the goo by a horse drawn cart, or perhaps one of those newfangled motor cars. It was long dead, and dried, but Tomaso recalled the fascination it held for Paolo, especially since some other ducks that were nearby seemed to not recognize the dead animal as kindred. It was as if the asphalt, morning rain, and sun, had bleached the corpse of everything that defined it in life, save its life, which was the first thing to go.
Fearing the dead carcass might have diseases on it, Tomaso cautioned his son from touching it, but Paolo never listened to such warnings. He did what he want, damn the consequences.
‘Oh, Papa, it is just a duck.’
But, Paolo did not treat it like just a duck- be it a live or dead one. He got his fingers between the asphalt and duck, ripped the body up from the asphalt, where it had left an impression, but in ripping its dried form up, he pulled the body away from its spindly legs, which remained attached to, and buried in, the asphalt, and held the dead legless animal up like a prize, his shoddy teeth gleaming in the morning sun. There was something hideously atavistic in his son’s triumphant killer’s pose, and Tomaso smacked the filthy thing out of Paolo’s hands, rushed him to the dock, and made his son wash his hands in the not much cleaner water, as Tomaso shivered at the remembrance of the sound of the duck’s fragile legs snapping so easily, as its body came away from the feet."
Notice the absolutely controlled assonance and consonance even in innocuous descriptions like 'petroleum they used for these automobile contraptions'; or how Schneider varies the sounds in his writing such that you can feel the way the duck is mangled, through the hardness of words like ripped, dried, spindly, prize- "shivered at the remembrance of the sound of the duck's fragile legs snapping so easily" (alliteration of s, internal rhyme and assonance- check the 'e' syllables); or the little quirks of syntax and wordplay in phrases like "had bleached the corpse of everything that defined it in life, save its life"; or the strange yet resonant details he focuses on like "some other ducks that were nearby seemed to not recognize the dead animal as kindred", "smelled like oil- not the kind in oil lamps, but the petroleum they used for these automobile contraptions", "made his son wash his hands in the not much cleaner water", "by a horse drawn cart, or perhaps one of those newfangled motor cars" which also hews to the details of the time the story is set in (1900s); or some of the phrasings that slip into almost archaic, King-Jamesian rhythms which create a phonetic gravitas: "be it a live or dead one", "as its body came away from the feet", "and just perished, for it seemed to have been..." - this is Schneider's Ubermodern style exemplified: a style that is a perfect marriage of past and present hidden in a seemingly realist form- yet whose uniquity is only apparent when analyzed.
The full force of Schneider's writing ability is usually most present at the ends of his stories, where he channels all his previous skill as a poet and manifests, after a steady buildup, plangent explosions of prose:
"So, he took the sled, walked out of the building, from the side exit, so no one would spy him, and left the old man lying in the cold drafts of the tenement. Old man Hopkins was indeed found some hours later, but only survived a few days, before dying of complications, mostly pneumonia. Then, some blood had clotted, made its way to his brain, and a stroke finished the old man off. His death was talked about, like Albert’s dad’s, for only a few days, by the local gossips, then nothing came of it, as more momentary horrors prevailed. Pulling the sled behind him, his sled now, as more snow fell all about, Albert gave the old man’s money to his dealer, who was so focused on what mattered most to him that didn’t even notice the sled Albert had not had when he took off for the deal. When the dealer told him to ‘Beat it,’ he did. The rest of that day, as the storm continued, and most of the nabe retreated to the warm indoors, Albert Pontano enjoyed sledding down the mounds of snow that garbage trucks had piled up, with his new old sled. He would enjoy its benefits for many years to come, and eventually pass the sled down to his children and grandchildren, although its true origin was never revealed to another soul. It was as if the thing became his clan’s own Excalibur, a thing whose provenance was as mysterious as Albert became in family lore. But, on that first day of its newfound possession, Albert enjoyed the freshness of his visible breath, inhaling the crisp air, so that it felt like he was chewing on minty gum, and the sloshing sound his boots made until the early winter sun grew huge and orange between the deserted husks of buildings, and over the empty lines of vacant lots strewn with every manner of garbage. But it was not that smelly, not on this memorable day, as the layer of cold whiteness made everything seem beautiful, and the chill reduced all things to a certain newness, the sort that lingers toward the edge of a young life that was always framed by rusting old dumpsters and crumbling buildings defined by graffiti, until even that life is lost, sunk into the cold rhythms of the quiet universe, where nothing can be heard, and whose passage will, now and then, even deny the small joy a thing can bring to a boy.
But this is all another place, another time."
And, if any reader out there can read this stretch of text:
"Albert enjoyed the freshness of his visible breath, inhaling the crisp air, so that it felt like he was chewing on minty gum, and the sloshing sound his boots made until the early winter sun grew huge and orange between the deserted husks of buildings, and over the empty lines of vacant lots strewn with every manner of garbage. But it was not that smelly, not on this memorable day, as the layer of cold whiteness made everything seem beautiful, and the chill reduced all things to a certain newness, the sort that lingers toward the edge of a young life that was always framed by rusting old dumpsters and crumbling buildings defined by graffiti, until even that life is lost, sunk into the cold rhythms of the quiet universe, where nothing can be heard, and whose passage will, now and then, even deny the small joy a thing can bring to a boy"
And the countless endings as poetically potent as that of James Joyce's The Dead that Schneider (and his wife for that matter) frequently ends his stories with, and the other reams of his prose, all of which display the qualities I have delineated, and then claim that Dan Schneider is NOT a great writer, then, sad to say, you are blinder than the blindest bat.
After being immersed in Schneider's stories, most of the short stories of the past, even those written by great writers- Chekhov, Melville, Irwin Shaw, Loren Eiseley, Raymond Carver etc...- will seem flabby and overdone in comparison. The only other author who will satisfy the same itch for concision is Schneider's wife Jessica, whose stories take the template but innovate them with a starkly poetic slant. Sadly, it will likely be decades before the world realizes that Dan Schneider existed, and even longer before the literary establishment internalizes his innovations. Until then, the only thing one can do to sate the slight dissatisfaction now appended to any other Pre-Schneiderian short story encountered in one's life is to read the man's works, mull over them, learn from them, and perhaps be inspired to write stories of your own.
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May 28, 2021This is the worst pile of horse excrement I’ve ever had to endure. Holy mackerel. This guy criticizes everyone (and I mean everyone) without making any real arguments about the work or being specific about anything, all the while appearing to have a mild case of epilepsy and clumsily puttering out his words like a loon ball from a landfill. This guy is the worst no matter how many times he calls himself the “greatest writer ever”. No wonder he’s not published or taken seriously. Haha
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