“Read, read, read,” implored William Faulkner, “Read everything—trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it.  Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master.  Read!  You’ll absorb it.” 

Ray Bradbury shared Faulkner’s exuberant enthusiasm for reading, “If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful.  I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well.” 

Writing begins with reading.  When I teach writing workshops, I choose mentor texts: skillfully-written stories my students can dissect.  How does Hemingway drive drama and compel the reader to keep reading?  How does Plath create a sense of narrative cohesion? 

By reading analytically, my students can steal strategies for their own writing (after all, didn’t T.S. Eliot say, “Immature poets imitate, mature poets steal”?  I guess theft isn’t all bad).  

One of my favorite stories to use is Roald Dahl’s macabre masterpiece “Lamb to the Slaughter.”  First published in the September 1953 issue of Harpers, “Lamb to the Slaughter” tells the darkly funny story of Mary, a devoted housewife who kills her husband with a frozen leg of lamb—then covers up the crime by feeding the murder weapon to unsuspecting detectives.

So what can we learn from Dahl’s suburban horror masterclass?

lesson #1: think about how you introduce your character

Let’s examine the cleverly-crafted opening lines of “Lamb to the Slaughter”:

“The room was warm and clean, the curtains drawn, the two table lamps alight—hers and the one by the empty chair opposite.  On the sideboard behind her, two tall glasses, soda water, whiskey.  Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket. 

Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come home from work.”

The Maloney home appears to be a warm, inviting portrait of domesticity.  The scene opens with two pairs of two: two table lamps and two tall glasses.  These coupled objects signify the husband and wife who live there, a couple we haven’t met yet.  Before they’re even introduced, the pairs of objects suggest they’re perfectly matched. 

However, the “empty chair” hints there may be trouble in their seemingly idyllic marriage.  The fact that the husband’s chair is empty positions him as an absent figure.  Is he the classic head of household: emotionally distant and never home?  Are the husband and wife only technically together?  Do they perform at parties—flirting and dancing and whispering into each other’s ears—but sleep in separate beds and almost never interrupt their evening TV watching to actually talk to each other?

Dahl’s initial portrait of domestic bliss seems to conceal something sadder and more sinister.

The next line reveals almost everything we need to know about Mary’s character: “Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come home from work.” 

In a concise 12 words, Dahl encapsulates the essence of who Mary is (doting housewife) and captures the complex dynamics of her marriage.  Both husband and wife exemplify traditional 1950s gender roles: while Mary is dependent and docile, the quintessentially female character who has no other occupations other than waiting for her husband to come home from work, her husband is the breadwinner, a stereotypically male figure who might love his wife but doesn’t openly express his emotions or show his affection for her.

As any writer knows, nothing is more important than how you first introduce your character.

Take The Devil Wears Prada.  The first time we meet Miranda Priestly, Runway’s notoriously impossible to please editor-in-chief, she’s impeccably dressed in a black fur coat, wine red shoes, and signature Prada bag, her flawless outfit representing the ruthless perfectionism she brings to the magazine.  Everything about her is cold and controlled from the way she struts though the marble-floored lobby with regal self-possession to the way she removes her glamorous sunglasses in one elegant, effortless movement.  

When she steps into the elevator to go to her office, it’s already occupied by a model with impossibly chiseled cheek bones.  “Sorry, Miranda,” she apologizes before exiting and crossing to another elevator.  From her very first interaction, we recognize that Miranda—like a tornado or tidal wive—inspires respect and fear.

When her employees learn she’ll be arriving earlier than expected, it’s all hands on deck.  “All right everyone, gird your loins!” Nigel, Runway’s sassy, stylish art director, shouts with the urgency of a general bracing his soliders for battle.  Miranda’s assistant Emily races to her boss’s desk, neatly arranging magazines and pouring Pellegrino into glasses.  Andy, an outsider to the glossy fashion world and unaware of Miranda Priestly’s iconic status, stares as editorial assistants clear their desks and interns swap their slippers for Dolce & Gabbana pumps and swipe their lips with lipstick. 

The energy of the room is hectic and tense.

The first thing Miranda says is an admonishment to her assistant: “I don’t understand why it’s so difficult to confirm an appointment.”

No screaming, no shouting, no hysterics.  Her restrained reprimand, the equivalent of hearing your mom say “she isn’t mad, just disappointed.”

In one line, we’re introduced to one of the film’s core themes: Miranda has exacting, impossible expectations (at one point in the movie, she’ll demand Andy get the unpublished Harry Potter manuscript).

In a compact 3 minutes and 3 seconds, we get a clear picture of Miranda (controlling, commanding ice queen) and a hint of the story’s central conflict (will Andy survive as Miranda’s assistant?  is sacrifice always a part of success?).

Dahl just as masterfully draws Mary in “Lamb to the Slaughter.”  Like most skillful story tellers, he shows exactly who Mary is within moments of meeting her.  Take, for example, the next paragraph:

“When the clock said ten minutes to five, she began to listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, she heard the tires on the gravel outside, and the car door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock.  She laid aside her sewing, stood up, and went forward to kiss him as he came in.” 

The image of Mary listening for her husband’s car to pull into the driveway strikes the reader as a bit pathetic: does this woman really have so little going on that she waits for her husband at the door like a dumb, too obedient dog?  The fact that she eagerly awaits the signs of his return—the tires on gravel, the car door slamming, the footsteps passing, the key turning—suggest that Mary desperately misses her husband.  When he walks through the door, she abandons everything she’s doing (“laid aside her sewing”), demonstrating her total devotion.  Nothing and no one—Mary thinks—matters more than her husband.

Which leads us to the next lesson…

lesson #2: say less

In a compressed 3 word conversation, we begin to see cracks in Mary and Patrick’s picture-perfect marriage:

“Hullo darling,” she said.

“Hullo,” he answered.

Mary initiates the conversation, calling her husband “darling,” an affectionate term of endearment.  Patrick, who’s just returned from a long day of work at the police station, is more tight-lipped and doesn’t reciprocate her tenderness.  “Hullo” is all he says.

Why is this so significant?  

It may be just the omission of a single word but it reveals everything we need to know about Mary and Patrick’s relationship.  While Mary adores her husband and will do absolutely anything to please him, Patrick isn’t nearly as devoted.  Speaking to his wife, he seems distant, barely mumbling more than a few words throughout their conversation. 

Mary is always attentive to his needs and tries to anticipates them.  Despite her husband’s cold demeanor, she spends the rest of the scene doting on him:

“She took his coat and hung it in the closet. Then she walked over and made the drinks, a strongish one for him, a weak one for herself; and soon she was back again in her chair with the sewing, and he in the other, opposite, holding the tall glass with both hands, rocking it so the ice cubes tinkled against the side. 

For her, this was a blissful time of day.  She knew he didn’t want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she, on her side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long hours alone in the house.  She loved to luxuriate in the presence of this man, and to feel—almost as a sunbather feels the sun—that warm male glow that came out of him to her when they were alone together.  She loved him for the way he sat loosely in a chair, for the way he came in a door, or moved slowly across the room with great strides.  She loved the intent, far look in his eyes when they rested on her, the funny shape of the mouth, and especially the way he remained silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself until the whisky had taken some of it away.”

Mary is only ever seen serving Patrick (making his drink, taking his coat, hanging it in the closet).  Like any good housewife, she’s selfless and submissive.  Her needs come second to her husband’s.  Because she knows he doesn’t “want to speak,” she doesn’t engage him in conversation, though after a long day in a lonely house, she probably longs for companionship.  The fact the she’s described as a “sunbather” basking in the “sun” portrays Patrick as the epicenter of her existence.  In the next lines, the relentless repetition of “she loved” implies Mary’s committed to loving Patrick no matter what.  She loves him for the most mundane reasons: “the way he sat loosely in a chair,” “the way he came in a door.”  So desperate is Mary for any kind of approval and affection that she settles for breadcrumbs. 

How can we learn from Dahl’s consummate characterizations?

Most narratives get bogged down by excessive exposition.  But sometimes omission is better than description.  Rather than tell too much about your characters, show who they are through their words, thoughts and actions.  In the first eight paragraphs of “Lamb to the Slaughter,” Dahl doesn’t go into tremendous detail about who Mary and Patrick are (where they grew up, what they do for a living, how they met, etc.): he simply shows us who they are in a single succinct interaction.  So skip the boring background and get right to the action.  Say more in less.

lesson #3: set a mood & build suspense

In the next few lines, Dahl subtly suggests something is wrong between Mary and Patrick:

“Tired darling?”

“Yes,” he said.  “I’m tired.”  And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing.  He lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it, at least half of it, left.  She wasn’t really watching him but she knew what he had done because she heard the ice cubes falling back against the bottom of the empty glass when he lowered his arm.  He paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair, then he got up and went slowly over to fetch himself another.

“I’ll get it!” she cried, jumping up. 

“Sit down,” he said. 

When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was dark amber with the quantity of whisky in it.

“Darling, shall I get your slippers?”

“No.” 

She watched him as he began to sip the dark yellow drink, and she could see little oily swirls in the liquid because it was so strong.”

“I think it’s a shame,” she said, “that when a policeman gets to be as senior as you, they keep him walking about his feet all day long.”  He didn’t answer, so she bent her head again and went on with her sewing; but each time he lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass.” 

Again, Mary plays the role of dutiful housewife, constantly checking in on Patrick.  The only things she ever says relate to her husband (was he tired?  did he need another drink?  his slippers?).  Much like in the first eight paragraphs, Patrick is withdrawn, his replies becoming more curt as Mary’s bids for connection become more insistent.

Like the classic film noirs of the same period, Dahl’s short stories are taut and filled with tension.  Much like a noir, which famously uses darkness and shadow to create a sense of entrapment and build suspense, Dahl knows how to put his readers on edge.  Though “Lamb to the Slaughter” takes place in a cozy domestic setting (Mary and Patrick’s Beaver to Cleaver-type residence), the scene is undercut with a sense of dread.  Patrick seems to be drinking more than usual (“He lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it, at least half of it, left”).  When he makes a second drink, Mary notices it was so strong it was “dark amber with the quantity of whisky in it.” 

Why is Patrick drinking so much? 

Mary—and the audience—suspect there’s a reason.

As the scene progresses, the ice cubes in Patrick’s glass begin to have a menacing quality.  Every time Patrick takes another sip of the strong amber liquid, they “clink against the side of the glass.”  It’s a small thing but in such an otherwise quiet scene, the clinking of ice cubes is as deafening as a police siren.

So if you want to keep your reader on the edge of their seat, subtly, ever so subtly, hint something is amiss.

lesson #4 subvert stereotypes

What’s perhaps the most genius about “Lamb to Slaughter” is the way Dahl subverts stereotypes.  While he spends the first part of the story depicting Mary as the epitome of the subservient housewife, by the 45th paragraph, he completely rewrites her character in one chilling climax: after Patrick explains he’s leaving her (hence his detached demeanor and excessive drinking), Mary—shocked, devastated, and ultimately enraged by his betrayal—hits him over the head with the leg of lamb she was going to cook for dinner. 

Instead of an aproned Mrs. Cleaver, Mary is a cold-blooded killer.  The leg of lamb—once a symbol of nurturing domesticity—has transformed into a murder weapon, an instrument of violence and terror.  In a moment of ironic reversal, Mary becomes a feminist figure who uses the representation of her domestic enslavement (leg of lamb) to revolt against the patriarchy (her asshole husband who doesn’t appreciate her).  No longer the powerless housewife, Mary not only kills her husband—she outsmarts detectives and ultimately gets away with murder.  Because the police know her as a loyal, loving wife, they can’t imagine she could ever be the person they’re looking for.  Their own understanding of what a murderer should look like (violent, male, mentally ill) keep them from recognizing Mary as the killer. 

Dahl’s ending is a masterpiece of dramatic irony and dark humor.  Mary feeds the police the murder weapon, signifying one of the story’s most vital themes: don’t be too trusting of appearances.  Just as the police dismiss Mary as a suspect because she convincingly plays the part of a harmless housewife, they fail to recognize the murder weapon might be a leg of lamb.  Based on Patrick’s injuries, they assume he was hit over the head with a “heavy blunt instrument”—most likely something more traditional like a baseball bat.  After all, in horror movies and the nightly news, what’s most often the murder weapon?  A gun, knife or metal object—certainly not a piece of meat from a deli counter.  The police are so blinded by their preconceptions that they can’t conceive of other possibilities (“[it’s] probably right under our very noses,” one the detectives says in a grimly funny moment as he destroys all evidence of the very thing that killed his colleague).

By twisting troupes, Dahl surprises his audience and creates an unforgettable ending.  So if you’re writing a short story, undermine expectations: make your hero a violent man with a volatile temper or your sociopathic serial killer a little old lady.