There has been a long history of misjudgement when it comes to the short story. Particularly in Great Britain and Europe—in the US things are slightly different—writers, publishers and critics alike have deemed the short story to be a mere stepping-stone towards the more ‘mature’ genre of the novel.
The fact that short stories have been published mostly in magazines and newspapers next to journalistic publications and advertisements has not helped their reputation either. As a result, they have been wrongly seen as one of the lowest, written artistic forms: easy to write and geared towards mere entertainment and fast consumption.
Even today, the idea that short stories serve mostly as preparation for the ‘real work’ of the novel persists. A good example is a recent study by literary studies scholar Melinda Dabis of short stories by Kazuo Ishiguro, in which she argues how they should primarily be viewed as predecessors of his later novels (Dabis, 2011).
My own debut novel started as what I thought was going to be a short story too. It went on to live a life on its own, growing on the words and ideas I fed it until it finally turned into Fake Fish.
The short story is indeed a genre that offers authors a testing ground for potentially book-length narratives. Moreover, the short story can be useful to beginning authors to learn how to build a narrative arch with a clear beginning, a firm middle and a satisfying ending. But it isn’t at all such an easy-to-write genre and it also has much more going for it than you might imagine.
As one of the early American practitioners of the genre, Edgar Allen Poe, rightly points out the short story deserves to be valued for its unique combination of lyric and narrative elements, its wholeness, and its picturesque effect (cf. Werlock, 2010, p. x).In short, it is “a distinctive form with its own methods of construction” (Shaw, 2014, p. 3), which is precisely why I think every (aspiring) author should write them.
An experimental genre
If we look at the submission instructions of a contemporary journal like Flash Fiction Magazine, which publishes flash fiction between three hundred and thousand words, one of the defining aspects of short stories seems to be that they should have a plot. Ergo: a beginning, a middle and an end, as well as a conflict that drives the narrative.
Yet many published short stories do not have a clear plot at all. The short story Clothing Dreams by Margaret Atwood for instance, which appeared in her collection The Tent (2006), presents the musings of a nameless female character about a recurring dream.
There doesn’t seem much of a story to unfold here. The piece, in which clothing is used as an extensive metaphor for authenticity, pretence, and restrictive gendered societal expectations, is far more lyrical than narrative. It feels closer to poetry than to the novel.
Atwood isn’t the only author whose short fiction doesn’t have a plot, and which, rather seems to cross over into other genres, such as lyrical poetry, the anecdote, the essay, the memoir, or even painting, cinema, and photography. Adopting such a rigid definition of shorts would mean excluding these stories, and might rob us from seeing and using the potential richness of this hybrid genre.
I like to think of the short story as a playful genre that encourages experimentation. This is also the most important reason why I believe writers should consider short stories worthwhile in their own right.
They can be much more than just a means to test ideas for novels. It allows us to be wild, to do bold things and to uncover new and different literary means to express ourselves.
These may indeed feed into the way we write more generally and thus into a potential novel too, but for some topics or literary experiences, short stories might offer unique opportunities that serve a purpose other than the groundwork for a novel.
One of my current writing projects, in which I am trying to capture the ripple effects of abuse, seems at least to feel more at home in a collection of short stories.
However hard I tried to turn it into a novel—which had been my initial idea—its solid narrative structure did not allow me to explore the myriad and chaotic ways in which abuse reaches places and people far beyond the point from where and when the abuse took place.
Moreover, its narrative form pushed me towards focusing on the actual abuse. After all, questions like ‘What has happened?’ and ‘Why has it happened?’ are typically narrative-driving questions. This is, however, not what I am really interested in.
After switching to short stories for this project, I quickly discovered that this form allows me to work more lyrically. It allows me to suggest more, leave things unsaid, and focus on the moments when abuse seeps into everyday life.
Moreover, by working around this topic in the form of a collection of partially overlapping stories, I discovered that it grants me the opportunity to sketch a more kaleidoscopic picture, which feels truer.
Every word counts
Another thing that stands out from my experience with writing these and other short stories, as well as reading and teaching the genre at university, is that despite their dazzling variety, most of them differ from the novel because they focus on achieving only one or two things.
Rather than dealing with a range of themes and characters, they aim to realise one desired effect, whether that is evoking a certain feeling or response, offering a philosophical musing, or something else altogether.
This stems from their limited form, which compels the writer and the reader to focus their attention on only one thing. Nearly every word used and every choice made by the writer matters and needs to serve that singular purpose.
As a result, the short story is far from the easy genre many think it is, and requires the writer to be in control of every aspect of their writing and to be able to strip it down to its bare essence.
That doesn’t mean that language cannot be embellished, or that stories should be straightforward. Short stories often draw on extended figurative language like metaphors, using ambiguity to communicate more than the obvious meaning of the words on paper. But such “embellishments” should be meaningful and chosen in light of the purpose of the story.
Writing short stories thus can help hone your writing skills in ways that writing a novel, which in comparison comes with a luxurious amount of space to fill, will not immediately force you to.
To conclude
Last but not least, and particularly important for (aspiring) professional writers, publishing short stories can help your writing career. Having published short stories in literary magazines might make it easier to get the attention of a literary critic when you publish bigger works and/or secure a literary agent or publisher.
What’s more, it gives readers a chance to familiarise themselves with your writing and if they like it, they might be compelled to read your book(s) too, whether it is a collection of stories or a novel.
Tips for (Starting with) Writing Short Stories
- Read short stories by other authors. Read widely and omnivorously. Reflect on how they differ from each other: What is the main purpose of each story and how is it achieved? How does the author make use of different aspects of the story to drive their point home—consider the choice of words, use of (figurative) language, voice, characters, layout on paper, use of tense, point of view, setting, and other literary tools? What does this story do particularly well because it is short?
- Authors often claim that short stories come to them in one piece, as a poem would. They thus often have an idea of the purpose and/or ending before they start writing, although this might change in the process of writing. I also need to have an idea for the ending before I start. This gives me a sense of direction, which I find essential when writing short stories. That’s a personal preference, however. Zadie Smith (2008), for instance, lets the writing take her wherever it wants to go without knowing the outcome in advance. Try out both strategies to see what works for you. It might very well be something in between or it might even be different for every story you write. That’s ok. There isn’t one set way, nor one right way to do this.
- You might try working with writing prompts. These can be written ones, like an opening sentence or the last sentence of a story or novel you like. Many short story magazines regularly issue calls for themed issues or contests that revolve around specific prompts too. I enjoy working with visual prompts, such as artworks, paintings or other objects. I’ve published two shorts that were inspired by photos. Take whatever inspires you as a starting point.
- Experiment. Be bold and go wild. Especially if you want to refine your craft and/or discover new literary ways to express yourself. Keep in mind that not all journals accept experimental short stories though; some are looking for the more conventional narrative ones. When submitting your work, make sure to check what that specific magazine or journal is looking for. Read the call, as well as the submission guidelines, and read some of the stories they have previously published to get a feeling for what they like.
References and Suggestions for Further Reading
- Dabis, M. (2011). Kazuo Ishiguro’s Early Short-Stories as Predecessors of the Novels. Proceedings of the HUSSE10 Conference, January 27–29, 2011, Literature & Culture Volume, 146-150.
- Patea, V. (2012). Short Story Theories. A twenty-first-century perspective. New York/Amsterdam: Rodopi Press.
- Shaw, V. (2014). The Short Story: A Critical Introduction. London: Routledge.
- Smith, Z. (2008, June 1). That Crafty Feeling. Believer, 54. Retrieved from https://www.thebeliever.net/that-crafty-feeling/
- Waterstones (2020). STORIES with Naomi Ishiguro, Zadie Smith and Julia Armfield [Podcast]. Retrieved from
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5RPDdChPOrY&ab_channel=Waterstones - Werlock, A.H.P. (2010). Companion to Literature: Facts on File Companion to the American Short Story. Infobase Publishing.
