NEWS
Recommended reading for lovers of flash fiction: the magazine, Flash from Chester University. Available from:
www.chester.ac.uk/flash.magazine
Open for submissions of up to 360 words so definitely worth a look.
A recommendation for all lovers of the short story. To celebrate its 50th year as an imprint, Penguin Modern Classics has released a series of fifty slim volumes of short stories and novellas, each devoted to a single author. They are a great way to discover writers you haven’t looked at before. They cost £3 each and Totnes bookshop has got a three for two deal going on them. Get them while you can.
COURSES
As promised in the last show, I also want to publicise courses that might interest any writers in the area. Chris Waters, one of our readers and a great tutor is putting together a six week short fiction course – Telling Tales – which starts at the WEA in Exeter at the end of May. If you are interested please email the show at submissions@soundartradio.org.uk and I will forward your details on to Chris.
The show had two chilling and evocative stories, from Laurence Green and Carolyn Eddy.
One of the many things I really admire in the stories is the way they avoid the temptation to put all the effects into a surprise ending, to deliberately mislead the reader during the bulk of the narrative just to go for some cheap twist on the end to provide the punch.
There is something about writing short stories that seems to invite some sort of twist ending, the big reveal in the final line that turns the story on its head.
There is nothing wrong with twist endings. Writers from Maupassant to Roald Dahl made an art form out of them. But they are difficult to do well. And, even if they are expertly crafted and entertaining, these stories often feel a bit two-dimensional if the whole thing relies on the effect of the punchline.
One of the problems with the weaker twist stories is that they often keep back crucial information from the reader. Information that the main character must know, but we don’t, or information that would be obvious to us if we were in the same setting as the characters. Of course, stories create suspense by the judicious withholding of information, just parceling out enough to keep us turning the page, but, as in life, timing is everything. If the reader feels they are discovering in a natural way the story, the characters, the motivations, the bigger picture, they will take it on board, suspend their disbelief. If, however, they have to battle through to the end of the piece just to find out that it was all a dream, or the whole thing took place in another dimension, or that the narrator was, in fact, a zebra, without any prior warning, the reader will feel cheated.
The opposite is also true. If there are so many clues given out that the twist is predictable, and the story has nothing else going for it, then the reader is simply bored and disappointed. Not good.
The one thing that will make one story like this stand head and shoulders above other stories with similar payoffs, is simply that they do not rely on the twist for their power. They rely instead on engaging the reader on a much deeper level, through characters and their relationships and our empathy with them, through observations of human society and human nature.
One of the authors featured in the Penguin series I mentioned in the news section is Shirley Jackson. I had not read any of her stuff before but just couldn’t resist. Anyway, this is the opening of her story, The Lottery.
The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o’clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.
The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke out into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix – the villagers pronounced this name ‘Dellacroy’ – eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.
Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away form the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times.
Bobby Martin ducked under his mother’s grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.
I can't give away the ending to the story, because everything you need to know about the ending is there in the opening. There is a lottery that someone must win, and there is a big pile of smooth, round stones, as we are told repeatedly. We may resist it, we may prefer to ignore it, hope that it can’t be true. But we can’t accuse the author of hiding anything from us. What makes this story so chilling is not the ending, the twist, but the way the characters behave in such an appalling yet totally believable fashion, applying a mirror to ourselves and asking some pretty uncomfortable questions.
And perhaps this is the secret of the best twist endings, It’s not the surprise that shocks us, but the inevitability.
Looking forward to the next show on April 5.
(And feel free to add your comments and opinions to the blog, especially if you want to disagree with something!)
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
Show #4: Flash Fiction
The show started with a poignant story from Anna Lunk, Dragons, inspired in part by her holidays in France. The story touches on many themes, as a daughter who cares for her ageing and widowed father approaches a moment that is sure to change her life.
I am sure many of you know Anna as an excellent creative writing tutor. Anna is currently seeking a publisher for her novella Flight, and is currently working on a novel about a lost garden on the welsh borders.
Many of you may also know that one of our regular readers, Chris Waters, is also a superb tutor who, like Anna, has been a mentor and inspiration to many, including myself. It would be nice if this show could be a point of meeting for writers and tutors and writing groups. If you are a tutor with details of courses, a writing group looking for members, or a potential student, please don’t hesitate to contact the show, either through the blog or privately on submissions@soundartradio.com and I will endeavour to bring everyone together.
Flash Fiction
I talked on the show about flash fiction. It would be great to broadcast more short short stories. I have a few submissions that fit this description but it would be nice to have the occasional show devoted to this shortest form, maybe broadcast five or six stories in a single episode.
So, what is flash fiction?
Well in short, it’s short. Really short. One definition of a standard short story is that it is a piece that can be read in a single sitting. Flash fiction is something that can be read between blinks of an eye.
Despite the current flowering of flash stories, it is by no means a new category. Hemingway was famous for his brevity, as was Raymond Carver. Borges wrote many stunning short shorts. We can go back further. Miniature stories were all the rage in 16th century China and I think old Aesop would make a claim for his fables as a foundation stone for the form.
Anyway, the new demand for the shortest stuff sparks the need to define, in terms of word count, what constitutes flash fiction. Some collections allow up to 1,500 words, some reduce it to 250 words, which is the current limit in the Bridport Prize’s flash fiction section, or even less.
Obviously these specific word limits are pretty fluid and meaningless, at least until you come up against a publisher or a competition that demands these constraints be met. For the purposes of Soundart Stories I’m hitting the middle ground and asking for pieces up to the 750 word mark for the flash fiction broadcasts. This is the target length for the stories that appeared in the influential 1992 Flash Fiction compilation and I see no reason to change it.
So, what are the secrets of writing flash fiction?
Precision and concision, basically. It’s a short piece, so you need to make every word count, and to get to the heart of the matter without too much messing about. There is no time for multiple, detailed scenes and an extensive back story for each of the characters. If you are writing a straightforward narrative, think of a single scene or moment that encapsulates the story, start in the middle of the action and go from there.
So far, so obvious.
There are common forms of flash fiction – the anecdote, the fable, the fairy tale and the story with the surprise twist at the end. Straightforward stories, perfectly pleasant, but often pretty forgettable. The truth is that this shortest form of fiction can aim for the same depth of emotional impact and connection with the reader as a longer piece.
You would not dismiss a poem as trivial because it was short. The same applies here. It is true you are limited to a few lines, so this is when you have to make the spaces between the lines do so much of the work. The best flash fiction connects through implication and suggestion. What is not said is as important as what is. Just give the readers enough information to get the hooks in, then let them run with the lines themselves. Let the reader tease out meaning by inhabiting the characters and the moment, seeing things through their eyes.
Try this for size. Hemingway claims it as his shortest ever complete piece. You could argue over whether or not this six word sentence constitutes an actual story, but even if it has no beginning, middle and end, it certainly creates a great deal by implication. Here it is:
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
So many potential stories planted there in the reader’s mind, probably more than Hemingway envisaged, a different shade of story for each reader, the power of implication.
Precision, efficiency, economy of language. Are these techniques particular to flash fiction? I don’t think so. To start in the middle of the action, to make every word count, to engage the reader by making them work a bit, by not serving out all the information on a plate – this is as relevant for the novel, the novella and the longer short story as it is for the very short story. The beauty of flash is that it forces the writer to engage with these techniques, making them a perfect exercise, even if the stories are not destined for a wider audience.
Of course you can set out to deliberately write a flash story from scratch, that central scene with the telling yet enigmatic detail. But, if you’re anything like me, you will have quite a few old and dusty and mediocre short stories lying about that never really got anywhere. Have another look at them, think about converting them to a flash piece. It might seem impossible, cutting a three or four thousand word story down to 750 words or less. Believe me, it isn’t. And I can almost guarantee that if you succeed, the story will be much the better for it.
Before you get too carried away with the red pen, look at the story again and ask a few questions. What is it’s key scene? What actually happens? What is it about? How much information does the reader really need to make it work? Keep that scene and cut everything else. If there’s a paragraph of setting, make it a sentence; the same with dialogue. If there’s any description of a character’s background, get rid and replace it with a single telling action that reveals a nugget of personality. If there are any characters who are not crucial, really crucial to the story, make them disappear. Adverbs, unnecessary adjectives, sentences where you’re telling the reader what to think. Slice a big red line through them all. Be brutal, be savage, and trust the process. You might end up amazed.
And one last thing, don’t feel that flash fiction is some sort of constraining form with a specific formula for success. As Leonardo da Vinci said: “Art breathes from containment.” You might be limited by word count, but that’s all. You can be as wild and experimental as you like. In fact, flash fiction lends itself to the more out there prose styles that might not hold up in a longer form. Stream of consciousness, prose poetry, dream-states, rants, extended lists. You can do what you want, be brave and true!
A few titles that might be of use if you want to pursue this - no better way to learn than to read the good stuff:
Flash Fiction: James Thomas, Denise Thomas & Tom Hazuka (eds) (1992. Norton)
One of the early compilations in the current wave of interest.
ditto
Sudden Fiction International: Robert Shapard & James Thomas (eds) (1989: Norton)
Another great compilation drawn from around the world, including several classics from master storytellers.
A useful textbook I looked at was Short Circuit, A Guide to the Art of the Short Story, ed. Vanessa Gebbie (2009. Salt Publishing). This has a couple of chapters devoted to Flash fiction.
Anyway, the response to show continues to be excellent, lots of stories coming in. Keep firing them at me and think about those really short ones.
Looking forward to the next show on March 22
I am sure many of you know Anna as an excellent creative writing tutor. Anna is currently seeking a publisher for her novella Flight, and is currently working on a novel about a lost garden on the welsh borders.
Many of you may also know that one of our regular readers, Chris Waters, is also a superb tutor who, like Anna, has been a mentor and inspiration to many, including myself. It would be nice if this show could be a point of meeting for writers and tutors and writing groups. If you are a tutor with details of courses, a writing group looking for members, or a potential student, please don’t hesitate to contact the show, either through the blog or privately on submissions@soundartradio.com and I will endeavour to bring everyone together.
Flash Fiction
I talked on the show about flash fiction. It would be great to broadcast more short short stories. I have a few submissions that fit this description but it would be nice to have the occasional show devoted to this shortest form, maybe broadcast five or six stories in a single episode.
So, what is flash fiction?
Well in short, it’s short. Really short. One definition of a standard short story is that it is a piece that can be read in a single sitting. Flash fiction is something that can be read between blinks of an eye.
Despite the current flowering of flash stories, it is by no means a new category. Hemingway was famous for his brevity, as was Raymond Carver. Borges wrote many stunning short shorts. We can go back further. Miniature stories were all the rage in 16th century China and I think old Aesop would make a claim for his fables as a foundation stone for the form.
Anyway, the new demand for the shortest stuff sparks the need to define, in terms of word count, what constitutes flash fiction. Some collections allow up to 1,500 words, some reduce it to 250 words, which is the current limit in the Bridport Prize’s flash fiction section, or even less.
Obviously these specific word limits are pretty fluid and meaningless, at least until you come up against a publisher or a competition that demands these constraints be met. For the purposes of Soundart Stories I’m hitting the middle ground and asking for pieces up to the 750 word mark for the flash fiction broadcasts. This is the target length for the stories that appeared in the influential 1992 Flash Fiction compilation and I see no reason to change it.
So, what are the secrets of writing flash fiction?
Precision and concision, basically. It’s a short piece, so you need to make every word count, and to get to the heart of the matter without too much messing about. There is no time for multiple, detailed scenes and an extensive back story for each of the characters. If you are writing a straightforward narrative, think of a single scene or moment that encapsulates the story, start in the middle of the action and go from there.
So far, so obvious.
There are common forms of flash fiction – the anecdote, the fable, the fairy tale and the story with the surprise twist at the end. Straightforward stories, perfectly pleasant, but often pretty forgettable. The truth is that this shortest form of fiction can aim for the same depth of emotional impact and connection with the reader as a longer piece.
You would not dismiss a poem as trivial because it was short. The same applies here. It is true you are limited to a few lines, so this is when you have to make the spaces between the lines do so much of the work. The best flash fiction connects through implication and suggestion. What is not said is as important as what is. Just give the readers enough information to get the hooks in, then let them run with the lines themselves. Let the reader tease out meaning by inhabiting the characters and the moment, seeing things through their eyes.
Try this for size. Hemingway claims it as his shortest ever complete piece. You could argue over whether or not this six word sentence constitutes an actual story, but even if it has no beginning, middle and end, it certainly creates a great deal by implication. Here it is:
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
So many potential stories planted there in the reader’s mind, probably more than Hemingway envisaged, a different shade of story for each reader, the power of implication.
Precision, efficiency, economy of language. Are these techniques particular to flash fiction? I don’t think so. To start in the middle of the action, to make every word count, to engage the reader by making them work a bit, by not serving out all the information on a plate – this is as relevant for the novel, the novella and the longer short story as it is for the very short story. The beauty of flash is that it forces the writer to engage with these techniques, making them a perfect exercise, even if the stories are not destined for a wider audience.
Of course you can set out to deliberately write a flash story from scratch, that central scene with the telling yet enigmatic detail. But, if you’re anything like me, you will have quite a few old and dusty and mediocre short stories lying about that never really got anywhere. Have another look at them, think about converting them to a flash piece. It might seem impossible, cutting a three or four thousand word story down to 750 words or less. Believe me, it isn’t. And I can almost guarantee that if you succeed, the story will be much the better for it.
Before you get too carried away with the red pen, look at the story again and ask a few questions. What is it’s key scene? What actually happens? What is it about? How much information does the reader really need to make it work? Keep that scene and cut everything else. If there’s a paragraph of setting, make it a sentence; the same with dialogue. If there’s any description of a character’s background, get rid and replace it with a single telling action that reveals a nugget of personality. If there are any characters who are not crucial, really crucial to the story, make them disappear. Adverbs, unnecessary adjectives, sentences where you’re telling the reader what to think. Slice a big red line through them all. Be brutal, be savage, and trust the process. You might end up amazed.
And one last thing, don’t feel that flash fiction is some sort of constraining form with a specific formula for success. As Leonardo da Vinci said: “Art breathes from containment.” You might be limited by word count, but that’s all. You can be as wild and experimental as you like. In fact, flash fiction lends itself to the more out there prose styles that might not hold up in a longer form. Stream of consciousness, prose poetry, dream-states, rants, extended lists. You can do what you want, be brave and true!
A few titles that might be of use if you want to pursue this - no better way to learn than to read the good stuff:
Flash Fiction: James Thomas, Denise Thomas & Tom Hazuka (eds) (1992. Norton)
One of the early compilations in the current wave of interest.
ditto
Sudden Fiction International: Robert Shapard & James Thomas (eds) (1989: Norton)
Another great compilation drawn from around the world, including several classics from master storytellers.
A useful textbook I looked at was Short Circuit, A Guide to the Art of the Short Story, ed. Vanessa Gebbie (2009. Salt Publishing). This has a couple of chapters devoted to Flash fiction.
Anyway, the response to show continues to be excellent, lots of stories coming in. Keep firing them at me and think about those really short ones.
Looking forward to the next show on March 22
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