MFA Life

The Road — Repetition and Emotional Desolation

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McCarthy, Cormac. The Road. Vintage International, 2007.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy is a dystopian horror novel set in an apocalyptic America where cannibalism has become normalized, and survival itself feels unnatural. The story follows a father and son, referred to only as “the man” and “the boy,” as they travel west toward the coast searching for warmer weather and some remaining fragment of hope. Along the road, they encounter starvation, violence, death, and the constant fear of other survivors.

When they finally reach the coast, however, they discover the same emptiness and danger they faced throughout the journey. At one point, they discover an abandoned ship and recover supplies, including a gun. After the boy accidentally leaves the gun behind, the father injures himself retrieving it, further weakening his already dying body. Eventually, the father dies on the road, leaving the young boy alone in a brutal world. By the end of the novel, another man approaches the child, claiming to have a family, and the two continue down the road together.

Repetition as Atmosphere

One of the most noticeable literary devices in this novel is repetition. Much of the story moves back and forth between short conversations between the father and son. The dialogue often revolves around death, survival, fear, or reassurance. The boy constantly seeks affirmation from his father, asking whether his father is telling the truth or whether things will be okay. McCarthy writes:

“The man was trying to kill us. Wasn’t he. Yes he was. Did you kill him? No. Is that the truth? Yes. Okay. Is that all right? Yes” (270).

The repetition creates a bleak emotional rhythm throughout the novel. The dialogue is stripped down, sparse, and often emotionally restrained. Even moments of tenderness feel muted by exhaustion and by the need to survive.

Another repeated element is the physical movement across the landscape: “They slept… They hiked… they followed” (88–89). The repetition of actions and imagery reinforces the emptiness of the world around them. Town after town, road after road, ash after ash, the setting rarely changes. This creates a suffocating atmosphere where time and geography almost blur together.

Emotional Flatness and Monotony

While I understand that McCarthy intentionally uses repetition to create emotional desolation, I personally struggled to fully enjoy the novel because the dialogue and prose became overly repetitive. Conversations often felt dry or emotionally flat:

“Is it okay? Yeah. It’s okay. Does it hurt? Yes. It hurts” (266).

The characters themselves sometimes felt similarly muted. Most people they encounter blend together under the same grayness of survival, fear, and hopelessness. I also noticed repeated imagery throughout the novel that made the world feel emotionally stagnant: “In the morning they stood in the road, and he and the boy argued about what to give the old man” (173). The landscape, conversations, and interactions often carried the same tone, with little variation.

For my own writing, this book helped me think about balance. Repetition can absolutely be powerful when used intentionally to create mood, rhythm, or emotional weight. However, I also realized how important it is for me, personally, to vary dialogue, imagery, pacing, and character voice to maintain emotional engagement with the reader. Even in bleak or desolate worlds, I am more drawn to stories where moments of tonal variation, personality, or vivid emotional shifts break through the darkness.

The Gilda Stories — Chosen Family, Immortality, and Resistance

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Gomez, Jewelle. The Gilda Stories. Beacon Press, 2023.

The Gilda Stories by Jewelle Gomez is a vampire novel that explores racism, queer love, slavery, chosen family, and survival across generations. More than simply a vampire story, the novel examines what it means to belong to one another in a world built on violence and displacement. The story begins with a frightened young woman escaping slavery and finding refuge in Gilda’s brothel, where she is introduced to compassion, education, and community in a way she has never experienced before.

“The gambling, musical divertissements, and the private rooms were all well attended. Gilda employed eight girls, none yet twenty…” (14). From the beginning, Gomez creates a setting that feels alive with intimacy and emotional texture. The young woman remains fearful of white men and the possibility of being dragged back into slavery: “Any of these men could capture her and take her back to the plantation” (29). Yet within Gilda and Bird’s household, she witnesses something entirely different from the cruelty she has known. The women are intelligent, capable, compassionate, and empowered: “They all had manners of ladies, could read, write, and shoot” (24).

Eventually, the young woman learns that Gilda and Bird are vampires, though Gomez reimagines vampirism as something rooted in connection rather than violence. “It is through our connection with life, not death, that we live” (43). The vampires in this world do not exist purely as predators. Instead, they exchange energy, dreams, and emotional understanding with humanity. Gomez writes, “We draw life into ourselves, yet we give life as well… It’s a fair exchange in a world full of cheaters” (43).

Chosen Family and Queer Love

One of the strongest elements in this novel is its exploration of chosen family. The emotional architecture of the relationships feels deeply intentional, especially the connection between Gilda and Bird. Their love is romantic, nurturing, and spiritual all at once. When Gilda prepares to die, she asks the young woman to remain with Bird, believing she belongs among them. Eventually, the young woman takes on the name Gilda herself, continuing the family’s lineage and identity she has entered.

Throughout the novel, Gomez repeatedly returns to the idea that family is not solely determined by blood, but by loyalty, protection, understanding, and mutual care. Eleanor later says, “…to choose someone for your family is a great responsibility. It must be done not simply out of your own need or desire but rather because of a mutual need” (63). That line felt especially powerful to me because it defines family as a responsibility rather than ownership.

The language surrounding community and belonging throughout the novel is often breathtakingly beautiful: “Those of us who can withstand that uneasy pulling of the sea’s waters swirling about the bay feel firmly rooted here and protective of each other” (71). Gomez creates an emotional atmosphere where intimacy and survival become deeply intertwined.

Resistance Against Exploitation

The antagonist, Fox, represents exploitation, cruelty, and domination. Unlike Gilda’s compassionate philosophy, Fox treats working women as disposable and slave-like. Because Gilda herself escaped plantation slavery, her conflict with Fox becomes deeply personal and symbolic. As the story unfolds over time, Gilda also becomes involved in activist movements such as Greenpeace and the Black Panther Party, continuing the novel’s larger themes of justice, resistance, and collective care.

One thing I struggled with personally was pacing. I found myself wishing Fox had been introduced earlier within the story, possibly within the first sixty pages, to create a stronger central tension sooner. I also wanted the novel to slow down more often and remain longer inside the emotional and sensual details of each scene. The relationships, touches, environments, and emotional moments were among the novel’s strongest parts, and I often found myself wanting more time to fully inhabit them before the story moved forward. By the end, the pacing felt rushed to me compared to the emotional depth established earlier in the novel.

Still, what stayed with me most was the novel’s belief in companionship and healing across time. Even after centuries, distance, grief, and transformation, the characters continue searching for connection with one another. The story ultimately suggests that survival alone is not enough; people also need intimacy, community, and love in order to remain whole.

A Swim in a Pond in the Rain — Winning through Authenticity

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Saunders, George. A Swim in a Pond in the Rain: In Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading, and Life. Random House, 2021.

A Swim in a Pond in the Rain by George Saunders is a craft book that examines four Russian authors and how storytelling can reflect morality, culture, human nature, and community. Saunders breaks down the mechanics of storytelling sentence by sentence, showing how every detail matters and how intentional writing creates emotional resonance.

One story that stood out to me was The Singers. The story slowly introduces an entire tavern full of people before the singing contest even truly begins. Saunders writes, “It was an unbearably hot July day when, scarcely able to drag one foot after the other, I walked slowly, accompanied by my dog, up the Kolotovka ravine in the direction of the Cozy Corner” (67). Immediately, we are placed into the exhaustion, the heat, and the atmosphere of the setting.

At first, the pacing almost feels too slow. The first eleven pages are mostly descriptions of people sitting in a bar. But that slowness becomes the point. Instead of simply saying the tavern was crowded, the story allows us to feel the room through observation, gossip, body language, and internal dialogue. The tavern becomes alive.

Community as Character

One of the most interesting craft choices in this story is how the community itself becomes a character. Every person in the tavern seems connected through shared history and quiet observation. The narrator notices Yashka the Turk standing in the center of the room: “a lean, slender man of twenty-three, wearing a long-skirted blue nankeen coat” (69). Small details like clothing, posture, and mannerisms layer the scene until the reader can almost smell the tavern and hear the crowd shifting around the room.

The emotional tension builds between the two singers. The contractor performs perfectly, technically polished and controlled. Yashka, however, sings with emotion and vulnerability. His voice is imperfect, but it resonates far deeper with the people listening.

Authenticity Resonates More Than Perfection

This story reminded me that authenticity will almost always move people more than perfection. A technically flawless performance may impress an audience, but emotional honesty is what creates connection. Yashka’s flaws are what make him human, and because of that, his singing reaches the community in a way the contractor’s performance cannot.

Saunders also discusses how long the buildup is before the actual “heart” of the story occurs. The exposition takes patience, but without it, the emotional payoff would not land the same way. The reader must first understand the people, the environment, and the culture before the climax can truly matter.

The Child Within the Adult

At the end of the story, after the celebration and drinking have ended, the narrator walks home and overhears a boy shouting to his brother, “Dad wants to give you a good hiding!” (82). It is such a small and almost humorous ending, but it carries something universal within it. No matter how old we become, there is still a child somewhere inside us. Across cultures, generations, and countries, people continue echoing the same emotions and relationships.

This book deeply influenced the way I think about storytelling. Sometimes spending extra time in setting, atmosphere, and internal observation can create a much more immersive emotional experience. It also reminded me that flawed characters are often the most lovable because they feel real. Most importantly, it reinforced the idea that, despite our cultural differences, there are deeply human experiences that connect us all.