The Endurance of Short Fiction Writing in Apprenticeship: Foundational series, Part 5
Even when I was an early-apprenticeship writer in the 80s, the craft of short fiction was a definable step on the path to “writer.” At that time, there was enough of a hangover from the golden era of Saturday Evening Post and so many more: in Canada, Chatelaine magazine still published monthly short fiction! And Flare, and others. You’d find it in obscure publications—there was a mag called BC Women, even. Gone now.
But it is still a significant way to grow in your work.
When you read a novel or a short story, take time—in your process journal—to ponder:
Why one can’t be the other?
I’ve just completed a second read of Ruth Ozeki’s All Over Creation. (Do that—a second read.) There are multiple main character, even though only one is written in first person. (Note-worthy: the most self-centered/selfish one.) The storylines of all the characters could each be their own novel, really. Ozeki’s work is complicated. Far too complicated to be distilled in the way of a short story.
In my head though, it’s interesting to think of story components that could be short stories. And then to think about Why.
Next step: consider How. And all this might be instructive of the form. (And a little Unschooling.)
The character of Momoko Fuller, in All Over Creation, who grows all manner of plants and has a seed bank, is fascinating. For decades she sleeps in a room separate from her spouse—a result of his refusal to forgive their daughter. The pages in which Ozeki describes her spouse’s return literally and metaphorically—his visiting her garden—are evocative and emotional. In just this single-character strand there are potentially multiple short stories: the moment of decision to sleep alone, might be one; his discovery of the breadth of her gardening activities; her choice not to return to Japan. I could go on. (Practice: do this with novel-threads.)
Single in focus
Short stories are singular in focus in the same way that picturebooks are. I’ve posted about this before, in the picturebook posts (back in June—check the Index), the post of novels vs. short fiction, and for understanding more about the novel/novella.
A short piece of fiction leaves mental and emotional “holes” for the reader to fill, just as you leave visual “holes” for the visual artist to work with in the picturebook.
I don’t want to repeat myself and bore you! But I decided that now—with the ongoing “Holiday Writing” mini-course, in which I expect a number of you to be scribbling and sharing short fiction—would be a good time to post this.
And I think it fits with the “Foundational” series, as writing a solid piece of short work is a step to writing longer works.
I remember reading Catherine Bush’s novel, Claire’s Head, and thinking—at the close—that it was a short story, albeit long drawn out, filled with meandering travel and conversations and introspection… much as one might experience while suffering from migraine. (The introspection, at least; I can’t imagine the travel with a headache! I had a headache for two weeks following the read… seriously.) But ultimately, the idea of the novel could well have been 12-15 pages. It would have made a wonderful short story. (Read, and disagree in the comments—go for it!)
Describe aloud
Try describing your story idea, if not to someone, then to yourself. Aloud, though, even if you are the only one in the room. Words change when spoken.
If you find yourself saying, “and then… and then… ” as opposed to summing in a sentence, you may have a novel idea.
Try writing a covering letter to an agent or editor to put your idea into the world: can you sum it up in one sentence? Short story.
If it requires a paragraph or more, it’s probably a long story.
Collect ideas
One of the significant differences between a new writer and an experienced one is in their attitude towards ideas: the new writer will come up with an idea, and fixate on it until the work is completed—as much as possible (or abandoned). And then be anxious for the next idea. The ideas seem to come one at a time. (Please note… this is not true of all—it’s a generalization. Or it may be a brief phase a new-ish writer goes through.) Each idea is precious. And treated much like the oyster’s grain of sand.
Not a bad approach, really. But as the writer is fixating and nurturing the one, many others are passing by unnoticed. (They are! Dozens even!)
The experienced writer works steadily on the project at hand, whatever it may be, but is also consciously seeking and noting—responding to—new ideas, too.
Before I truly evolved to the computer life, I kept a box on my desk. Into it I tossed scraps of paper with ideas that popped into my head or newspaper clippings or images with words scribbled on the back. True, sometimes I looked at some scribble and wished I knew WHAT I’d had in mind when writing the words. I learned to write some explanation next to anything cryptic… and had to face that it was all cryptic, really. Like writing a note while half asleep or intoxicated—everything required some note of context.
It was not unusual for those scraps to sit in that box, undisturbed for several years. But on dry days, when nothing was coming to mind, I’d review them, and find something to work with—always.
The types of ideas that birth short fiction/poetry tend to be different from the flowing-stream-of-ideas that is necessary to feed the work of a novel.
Short fiction ideas are snippets. Sometimes I used one without the scribbles of some forgotten context—because somehow they would have evolved in my mind to become something else, and that was all right. I let it be and worked with it.
There was a point at which I stopped any panicking about “ideas” and realized that the more I have, the more they come; the more open I am, the more they flow. The less nonjudgmental I am, the same.
This is why, in the “prompts” piece for this “holiday writing” course, I suggest you note any and all thoughts that come to mind—even if you have no intention of using them for the purposes of this course. And here I’ll say, add them to your “box”—whether an actual box (which I still find useful, by the way) or a file on your computer.
Let’s look at a few more attributes of the short form—beyond what I’ve written elsewhere. And try to think of it as a laboratory or a playground—use whichever term serves you best.
List forms and approaches
Along with story ideas, you might want to grow a list of forms and approaches and devices and elements you’d like to try… it might look like this:
take a traditional form of poetry and transform to fiction (I’ve done this, more than once, with the sestina form, for instance. So it becomes a story told in seven parts, each like a stanza, with the repetitive words and phrases of a sestina.)
use the first-person plural (“we”) with subject matter that connects, i.e. some group mentality, functioning in a useful way, or not…
use future tense—give the story either a sense of being within a game, or the sense of falling into the hands of fate or destiny (check out the difference… Write a story with one in mind, and another story with the other.)
consider other art forms as either story framework (and then either visible or invisible for the reader) or approaches: so consider painting, drawing, photographs—snapshots vs film; dance—lone person on stage vs many; music—country tunes, jazz improv; consider character voices as musical instruments—who is the saxophone? who is the bass? who is the vocalist?
These are all examples. But short fiction, much more so than novel-writing, lends itself—generously!—to exploration.
Short fiction offers you the time to explore and “master”
beginnings and endings. In a novel you have only one of each with hundreds of pages in between. Writing short pieces allows you to create many more and learn what makes for resonant openings and closings.
transitions. Often in short fiction, there are more transitions. Learn how to do these succinctly. Often, quick and direct is the best! “The next day” or something like (Hemingway’s) “It was now lunchtime” works perfectly: just move along… and take the reader with you. Without complexity or coyness. Coy is (almost always) never good.
strong dialogue. In all written work, dialogue needs to be purposeful—though also natural. But again, in short fiction, the purpose—with every word needing to do quadruple duty—must be there. If you write a dozen short stories, you’ll be dealing with a breadth of characters and opportunities to develop individual character voices. I struggled with dialogue after years of journal-keeping, and short fiction blew it all open!
descriptions that MOVE. Time cannot be wasted in a short story. Writing short fiction—eye on word count—teaches you to make your words count: no one is paying by the word!
settings that resonate—often in a short piece, you have only one. It has to be the optimal place for the story to grow and take place.
characters that terrify or repel you. People you might not want to spend an entire novel with… Short fiction can allow you to go to shadowy places, because you know you’re not going to be there for too long.
genres that do the same. Again, you might not want to write an entire mystery novel—maybe you’re not ready for the outlining! Or you have a soft spot for magic realism, but are convinced you can’t pull off a 600 page One Thousand Years of Something Like Solace… but a short piece can be your sandbox to play, and to see if you can pull off twelve pages.
And that bug bear of Publishing
Maybe a strange thing to add here, but short fiction is one of the few remaining areas in which a writer actively sells their own work. Seems like an agent is required for everything now (WHAT did we do to ourselves on this one, oh writers??!!)
But with short fiction you can gain a sense of the process of writing covering letters with convincing/selling words! (Ah, the art of the opening line to convey Idea and Why-they-want-to-buy! And the skill you will need to find an agent!)
And the reality of dealing with editors. Contests. Whatever is your approach to trying to publish. This is opportunity to develop that.
Your Unschool Path
Whether or not your works get published, you can use them not just for the pleasure of the work, but to pinpoint your strengths and the areas you want to learn. You can look back and see how you’ve grown, and re-write as necessary.
Eventually, you can pull together a collection (and this is true, whether or not you’ve published any of them—my collection had about a quarter of the pieces published before released in book form). And then publish as a book. In the meantime, you will be learning. Use the other foundational pieces here to guide, to grow: read; journal about your reading, and about your writing process. Read and write more.
Use times such as this “holiday writing” course to post your work here on The Unschool, and get feedback. Use the monthly prompts for the same. If you notice someone posting comments here, don’t hesitate to reach out and connect. I am always happy to set up discussion threads for you-s to share work. Community is a key piece to developing.
Questions
As you write through your stories, post any questions! Here would be a great place …