How to Read (and Write) a Short Story

Oct 18, 2011 10:25

 
I have been reading comments lately on why people are dissatisfied with short stories: they don’t feel like they know the characters, the endings are open, with too many loose ends, the conflict is never resolved properly, not enough setting, etc. I’ve been taking this issue seriously, because I love to read and write shorts, and I feel like many people are missing out on the subtle joys of this form.
When I first started reading short stories, naturally I compared the reading experience to novels, which I was more familiar with. Shorts were different because I couldn’t sink into that fictional dream in the same way. I couldn’t immerse myself in the world of the novel. But before long I realized that the way one read and felt a short was different.

Sometimes I think reading novels is the way I meditate. I’m sure my brain waves would look like a monk in a hermitage if someone were to watch them when I’m reading a good novel. I don’t pay attention to anything but the story. I don’t look at how it’s structured, take notes on clever bits of craft-I’m there, in the story, and I don’t come out unless the house is on fire.

When I read a short, though, it’s a different experience. It feels like I’m reading slower, more carefully, delighting in the subtle use of prose and the quiet, smaller story. I would liken it to holding a small piece of crystal in the palm of my hand, turning it to catch the sun, studying the way the sunlight hits it. A novel is a huge, lovely, baroque crystal chandelier in comparison. While each is beautiful and both are similar, they are not in their essential nature alike, and so should not be compared to each other.  Reading a short story is a new experience, different from reading a novel.

The specific elements of a short are different from those same elements in a novel. I would suggest the major difference is the conflict. Conflicts in novels tend to be broad and deep, and have both internal and external elements. A good novel conflict is a serial killer stalking one hero, while the other is fighting alcoholism and they are both dealing with an episode of cheating while under the influence. While the conflict in a short is smaller, it is no less serious, and can be one of the great delights in this form.

A good conflict in a short is one that is familiar, real, and potentially a deal breaker, but one that can be resolved in a reasonable time-frame. An example: Character A rolls over and studies the face of the man on the pillow next to his. He says, “I love you,” not realizing he has spoken out loud, until he sees the look of horror and stunned disbelief on the face next to his. Character B says, “Oh, shit,” and sprints out of the bedroom, tripping over his jeans as he tries to put them on while running.

Communication, and miscommunication, has been done to death in romance novels, but maybe that is because it is so familiar and so many of us find communication the most dangerous thin ice in a relationship. While it is hard to sustain the conflict over miscommunication over the course of a novel, it is very well suited to a short.

Like the conflict, the time frame in a short is usually compressed. A story can last over the same length of time as a novel, but if so, it tends to be episodic. This is a technique I love but many readers don’t like- again one is more familiar with time-lines in novels- day by day, minute by minute action. But more usually, the time line in a short tends to be a short length of time with the familiar day by day story line.

Characterization in a short is one of the reasons I love this form. Without the depth of a novel, characters retain a degree of subtlety and mysteriousness that makes them feel very real to me. I was in the grocery story today, getting coleslaw at the deli, and thinking of two characters I’m working on now. I wondered if they would prefer chicken tenders or drumsticks? Regular or spicy? I don’t actually need to know this to write their story, but I’m interested enough in them to wonder. That’s what a short does-it gives you enough interest in a character to think about him. Everything doesn’t have to be answered. Besides, people are complicated and mysterious enough we will never really know them. We won’t know them-but we can be friends.

The resolution in a short is as subtle as the rest of the story. Without a myriad of tricky strings that need to be untangled at the end, the short can have an ending that is full of hope and the future, without spelling out every fried chicken sort of detail. What I want to know at the end is that they are on their way. They are walking down the road together, at peace. And I want to know that their story continues somewhere in story heaven, and maybe someone else is writing it. Maybe the characters are writing it themselves. A short story is like an Indian Summer day. There are not many of them. They don’t last long, but they are delightful in a way that is unique to themselves. They live on in our memory.
 
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