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
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Show #3
Our story this evening was Untouchable by Wendy Clarke, a powerful tale set in medieval France and the winning entry in the 2009 Totnes Bookshop short story competition.
The second half of the show involved a look at lists as a writer’s tool.
Even the most mundane list can be used to present details of a life without telling the reader how to respond, allowing them to make their own judgements about a character. A list engages a reader on an active level, forcing an emotional response to the text, allowing the reader’s own prejudices and opinions to colour their interpretations of the things they see listed - creating an excellent opportunity for the writer to subvert those expectations.
In a functional sense, a list can also get things done quickly. As an example I mentioned F Scott Fitzgerald’s masterful use of a list to create the atmosphere and detail of a lavish party in The Great Gatsby.
I also touched on the use of a list as a way to introduce poetic, metrical rhythms into a prose piece without drawing attention to itself, without breaking that prose illusion of reality.
I suggested an exercise based on all this. Come up with a list for one of your characters, a shopping list, a list of new year’s resolutions, a to do list, or anything really. Try and twist it around, add something unexpected, subvert expectations, tell a story through it. After all, at heart, most stories can be thought of as an expanded list: a list of events and the insights they trigger, one after the other.
This week’s extracts came from two books that rank pretty high on my own all-time list.
The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien and Let The Great World Spin by Colum McCann
Please feel free to submit anything you come up with here on blog. Or if you have any other comments on the show, again, please post.
Looking forward to the next show on March 8.
Keep the stories coming in.
Our story this evening was Untouchable by Wendy Clarke, a powerful tale set in medieval France and the winning entry in the 2009 Totnes Bookshop short story competition.
The second half of the show involved a look at lists as a writer’s tool.
Even the most mundane list can be used to present details of a life without telling the reader how to respond, allowing them to make their own judgements about a character. A list engages a reader on an active level, forcing an emotional response to the text, allowing the reader’s own prejudices and opinions to colour their interpretations of the things they see listed - creating an excellent opportunity for the writer to subvert those expectations.
In a functional sense, a list can also get things done quickly. As an example I mentioned F Scott Fitzgerald’s masterful use of a list to create the atmosphere and detail of a lavish party in The Great Gatsby.
I also touched on the use of a list as a way to introduce poetic, metrical rhythms into a prose piece without drawing attention to itself, without breaking that prose illusion of reality.
I suggested an exercise based on all this. Come up with a list for one of your characters, a shopping list, a list of new year’s resolutions, a to do list, or anything really. Try and twist it around, add something unexpected, subvert expectations, tell a story through it. After all, at heart, most stories can be thought of as an expanded list: a list of events and the insights they trigger, one after the other.
This week’s extracts came from two books that rank pretty high on my own all-time list.
The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien and Let The Great World Spin by Colum McCann
Please feel free to submit anything you come up with here on blog. Or if you have any other comments on the show, again, please post.
Looking forward to the next show on March 8.
Keep the stories coming in.
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
Show #2
A double helping of stories from Veryan Williams-Wynn, which I am sure you all enjoyed.
The response to the call for stories has been fantastic so far. Please keep them coming in.
There was not too much time in the show for the 'talking about writing' bit, but the stories did get me thinking about research, and what this heavy word means to the writer. Both of Veryan's pieces combined a wide range of research and creative sources, from writing exercises, museum trips and bookwork, through to her own childhood recollections and family concerns.
Of course, external research can be vital for effective fiction, and I can see a future segment devoted to this. To create an authentic, albeit fictional, real world setting requires authentic detail. This type of research is often a creative source in itself, throwing up new ideas and angles and personalities we had not before considered as we delve deeper into our chosen settings and time frames. If you feel this is an area you would like to explore further but don't really know where to start I can recommend Ann Hoffman’s Research For Writers. This is an excellent practical textbook for research sources, techniques and considerations. My copy is the 2003 seventh edition and it is still useful. It may well be into its eighth edition by now.
Still, as writers our greatest resource is ourselves. To search out our memories, to clarify our responses to the world and to map out our personal journey through life is how we develop a unique voice. That is not necessarily to say that all fiction is somehow autobiographical (although there are certainly some who would claim that), but that if we do not give of ourselves to our work in some way, then what is the point of it?
Of course, childhood offers a great well of ideas and insights; this is the time when we are formed, when we make the greatest advances along the road from innocence to experience. It is a heavily mined source for short stories – the ‘coming of age’ narrative, the glimpse of the adult world that awaits us and will forever change our perception of it. Without getting into a debate about when, if ever, our childhood truly ends, it is also a time that is seen from a distance. I have heard writers claim they write most effectively about a country once they have left it. I think the same is true of childhood. Only when we have left it, can we truly understand it.
Here’s an exercise you might like to try, adapted from one in Josip Novakovitch’s excellent Fiction Writer’s Workshop.
Find a bit of peace and quiet and write down your three earliest memories. Try to weave them into a story. Make it someone else’s story and make the links between them something other than your personal history. The memories do not need to proceed in the same order as you recall. Play around, merge, separate, mix and match, cut and paste. In other words, change everything, except for the essence of the memories. Let yourself go!
Feel free to post the results here if you like, or submit to the show, it could make for an interesting section.
I’m looking forward to the next Soundart Stories on February 22. Until then, keep reading, keep writing, and, above all, keep seeing.
(I’m not sure about this closing line for the show. I thought it was concise and clever, both to the point and multi-layered, but I’m beginning to think it just makes me sound like a pompous Edward R Murrow wannabe . . .)
The response to the call for stories has been fantastic so far. Please keep them coming in.
There was not too much time in the show for the 'talking about writing' bit, but the stories did get me thinking about research, and what this heavy word means to the writer. Both of Veryan's pieces combined a wide range of research and creative sources, from writing exercises, museum trips and bookwork, through to her own childhood recollections and family concerns.
Of course, external research can be vital for effective fiction, and I can see a future segment devoted to this. To create an authentic, albeit fictional, real world setting requires authentic detail. This type of research is often a creative source in itself, throwing up new ideas and angles and personalities we had not before considered as we delve deeper into our chosen settings and time frames. If you feel this is an area you would like to explore further but don't really know where to start I can recommend Ann Hoffman’s Research For Writers. This is an excellent practical textbook for research sources, techniques and considerations. My copy is the 2003 seventh edition and it is still useful. It may well be into its eighth edition by now.
Still, as writers our greatest resource is ourselves. To search out our memories, to clarify our responses to the world and to map out our personal journey through life is how we develop a unique voice. That is not necessarily to say that all fiction is somehow autobiographical (although there are certainly some who would claim that), but that if we do not give of ourselves to our work in some way, then what is the point of it?
Of course, childhood offers a great well of ideas and insights; this is the time when we are formed, when we make the greatest advances along the road from innocence to experience. It is a heavily mined source for short stories – the ‘coming of age’ narrative, the glimpse of the adult world that awaits us and will forever change our perception of it. Without getting into a debate about when, if ever, our childhood truly ends, it is also a time that is seen from a distance. I have heard writers claim they write most effectively about a country once they have left it. I think the same is true of childhood. Only when we have left it, can we truly understand it.
Here’s an exercise you might like to try, adapted from one in Josip Novakovitch’s excellent Fiction Writer’s Workshop.
Find a bit of peace and quiet and write down your three earliest memories. Try to weave them into a story. Make it someone else’s story and make the links between them something other than your personal history. The memories do not need to proceed in the same order as you recall. Play around, merge, separate, mix and match, cut and paste. In other words, change everything, except for the essence of the memories. Let yourself go!
Feel free to post the results here if you like, or submit to the show, it could make for an interesting section.
I’m looking forward to the next Soundart Stories on February 22. Until then, keep reading, keep writing, and, above all, keep seeing.
(I’m not sure about this closing line for the show. I thought it was concise and clever, both to the point and multi-layered, but I’m beginning to think it just makes me sound like a pompous Edward R Murrow wannabe . . .)
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Show #1
Thanks to everyone who listened to the first show, I hope you enjoyed it.
Just a brief recap - the Dartington-set short story was followed by the question, what can writers learn from genre fiction?
Using "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" and the trilogy it spawned as an example, I argued that even if you dismiss the books as over-hyped, badly crafted, exploitative tosh, more akin to typing than to writing, the author must still have got something right, something to pull so many people through so many pages.
I think, above all, Larsson understood the essential combination of character and plot.
The Millenium trilogy succeeds because underneath all the reams of Swedish political history, the outrageous conspiracies and the extreme physical action, it is a character-driven story, propelled by Lisbeth Salander, a jagged, antisocial heroine who behaves in extreme ways according to her own moral code. Unlike every other character in the book, who arrive on the page with their biography and cv attached, information about Salander is given out sparingly. As readers we are fascinated by her behaviour but only gradually come to understand the horrifying background that made her this way. And that the plot eventually turns out to be inextricably linked to the resolution of her own personal battles actually makes the books work.
“Plot is character and character plot,” according to F. Scott Fitzgerald. Without character, plot is just one thing after another. The information we often seek is not how something has happened, but why characters behave the way they do. In his “Letters To A Young Poet” Rainer Maria Rilke wrote “The future enters into us, long before it happens,” later adding “that which we call destiny goes forth from within people, not from without, into them.”
We then moved on to a short writing exercise to come out of this idea of character and plot and destiny entwined.
Think of a traumatic, life changing childhood experience for a character, the more imaginative and unusual the better. Then think of an event in adult life that forces that character to confront the past. How does that character react? How does that character change? Does it sink them, or redeem them?
Be careful how you do this, or before you know it the exercise could bloom into a novel.
If you find the idea of submitting a short story too daunting, feel free to send in completed exercises you have found interesting. It would be fun to read them out on the show.
Anyway, be sure to tune into the next show on 8 February at 9pm.
Until then, keep reading, keep writing, and, above all, keep seeing.
Just a brief recap - the Dartington-set short story was followed by the question, what can writers learn from genre fiction?
Using "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" and the trilogy it spawned as an example, I argued that even if you dismiss the books as over-hyped, badly crafted, exploitative tosh, more akin to typing than to writing, the author must still have got something right, something to pull so many people through so many pages.
I think, above all, Larsson understood the essential combination of character and plot.
The Millenium trilogy succeeds because underneath all the reams of Swedish political history, the outrageous conspiracies and the extreme physical action, it is a character-driven story, propelled by Lisbeth Salander, a jagged, antisocial heroine who behaves in extreme ways according to her own moral code. Unlike every other character in the book, who arrive on the page with their biography and cv attached, information about Salander is given out sparingly. As readers we are fascinated by her behaviour but only gradually come to understand the horrifying background that made her this way. And that the plot eventually turns out to be inextricably linked to the resolution of her own personal battles actually makes the books work.
“Plot is character and character plot,” according to F. Scott Fitzgerald. Without character, plot is just one thing after another. The information we often seek is not how something has happened, but why characters behave the way they do. In his “Letters To A Young Poet” Rainer Maria Rilke wrote “The future enters into us, long before it happens,” later adding “that which we call destiny goes forth from within people, not from without, into them.”
We then moved on to a short writing exercise to come out of this idea of character and plot and destiny entwined.
Think of a traumatic, life changing childhood experience for a character, the more imaginative and unusual the better. Then think of an event in adult life that forces that character to confront the past. How does that character react? How does that character change? Does it sink them, or redeem them?
Be careful how you do this, or before you know it the exercise could bloom into a novel.
If you find the idea of submitting a short story too daunting, feel free to send in completed exercises you have found interesting. It would be fun to read them out on the show.
Anyway, be sure to tune into the next show on 8 February at 9pm.
Until then, keep reading, keep writing, and, above all, keep seeing.
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Soundart Stories Press Release
Broadcast Opportunity for Local Writers
Local short story writers will soon have an opportunity to hear their work on the radio.
Dartington-based community station Soundart Radio is calling for submissions to its new creative writing programme, Soundart Stories, which launches on January 25.
Stories on any subject and any length up to 3,000 words will be considered for the Tuesday evening slot.
As well as broadcasting short stories, read by a range of performers, the programme will discuss the art and craft of fiction, and offer encouragement and writing exercises for anyone interested in developing their literary skills.
“There are so many talented and distinctive writers in our area who deserve a wider audience for their work,” said programme host Bill Eaton. “The short story can be an exciting and daring form but there are precious few outlets available for the writer. It is a privilege to be able to offer an opportunity for these voices to be heard.”
Stories should be submitted by email to submissions@soundartradio.org.uk. Further information is available on the Soundart Radio website: www.soundartradio.org.uk.
Notes For Editors
Soundart Radio 102.5 FM is a not-for-profit community arts radio station for the Dartington and Totnes area of South Devon. It also broadcasts live through its website. The station is committed to providing opportunities for local people to make original and creative programmes.
Soundart Stories will be broadcast every fortnight from 9-9.30pm on Tuesday evenings from January 25.
Local short story writers will soon have an opportunity to hear their work on the radio.
Dartington-based community station Soundart Radio is calling for submissions to its new creative writing programme, Soundart Stories, which launches on January 25.
Stories on any subject and any length up to 3,000 words will be considered for the Tuesday evening slot.
As well as broadcasting short stories, read by a range of performers, the programme will discuss the art and craft of fiction, and offer encouragement and writing exercises for anyone interested in developing their literary skills.
“There are so many talented and distinctive writers in our area who deserve a wider audience for their work,” said programme host Bill Eaton. “The short story can be an exciting and daring form but there are precious few outlets available for the writer. It is a privilege to be able to offer an opportunity for these voices to be heard.”
Stories should be submitted by email to submissions@soundartradio.org.uk. Further information is available on the Soundart Radio website: www.soundartradio.org.uk.
Notes For Editors
Soundart Radio 102.5 FM is a not-for-profit community arts radio station for the Dartington and Totnes area of South Devon. It also broadcasts live through its website. The station is committed to providing opportunities for local people to make original and creative programmes.
Soundart Stories will be broadcast every fortnight from 9-9.30pm on Tuesday evenings from January 25.
Welcome To Soundart Stories
Welcome to the Soundart Stories Blog.
I have set this up to support the radio pragramme. This is where I will post links mentioned in the show, repeat some of the material and exercises and look forward to future episodes. It will also be a place for comments from listeners.
I am not planning to post stories on this blog or invite criticism of other people's work - although I am sure most contributors would enjoy positive feedback. I would welcome any suggestions on aspects of writing fiction that listeners might like to hear covered in the programme.
Looking forward to next Tuesday!
I have set this up to support the radio pragramme. This is where I will post links mentioned in the show, repeat some of the material and exercises and look forward to future episodes. It will also be a place for comments from listeners.
I am not planning to post stories on this blog or invite criticism of other people's work - although I am sure most contributors would enjoy positive feedback. I would welcome any suggestions on aspects of writing fiction that listeners might like to hear covered in the programme.
Looking forward to next Tuesday!
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