The trick to writing a story

The trick, I sometimes think, to writing a story is not necessarily just to get it written down. Stories can pour forth in voluminous quantities, especially when they find their source in deep places. The sheer onslaught becomes a torrent, unstoppable in its force, and prone to setting its own course.

3,500

3,500.  No, this isn’t the title of an upcoming sci-fi series on telly. It’s not the number of days until Armageddon (though, I suppose, it could be). It’s not even how much I charge per hour to be my own fabulous self, although that would be nice.

It is, however a magic number.

For starters, it’s divisible by seven, which is a sure sign of magickness if your favourite number is seven.  But that’s not the reason it’s magical.  I’ll explain why.

For the past year or so, I have been writing short pieces, mostly for my monthly writers’ group.  The criteria there is that they must be readable within about 5 minutes.  So I’ve nigh-on perfected squeezing my stories onto a single piece of paper, printed front and back.  This typically means that these short short stories, or flash fictions, are around 700-800 words in length. If I manipulate the page margins, flout the time limit and read really quickly, I’ve topped out at 1,100. (Naughty, yes. But it was a particularly strong piece).  Which is still a very short story in a genre that requires spaciousness for interesting details and imagined realities.

The result of this is that I have a burgeoning collection of short pieces, which are now arriving at a very polished point. But I’ve no clue where or how to find a home for them.

All of this changed recently when I went along to a Writing fantasy, horror and science fiction workshop with Lisa L Hannett. 

Lisa said that 3,500 words is the magic number for short stories in the speculative fiction paradigm.  It’s the peak word count for publication, and very attractive in competitions.

Neat. Desirable. Magic, even.  

3,500.

I suspect this magic number was buried somewhere deep in my consciousness, because I had one of those zinging moments of recognition.  Did I read this somewhere?  Did I learn it at TAFE 10 years ago?  Or did a parallel self hear it in a writing workshop in an alternative universe? 

Who knows?  All I know is that it was an epiphany. 

This single number awakened in me a way forward.  It is time to break out of the short form, and start moving towards longer pieces with greater complexity.  In her feedback, Lisa gave me some useful tips on how to build on existing pieces to move them towards this goal.  Build the central scene, add another scene on either side of it, layer some nuances into the plot, and voila! 3,500 words. 

To someone else, this might not be a big deal, but my toes are bruised from long dancing past an elephant, so a way forward is worth its weight in steel-capped boots. 

And now, for all the magic number enthusiasts out there, here are some more: 

Magic Square by chrisinplymouth @ Flickr

AND I SHOULD ADD:
Besides the illumination, Lisa also provided some suggestions for markets for the very short pieces that I already have.  Apparently it is not an easy thing to do, to contain a whole story within a small word count, and publications that want short pieces are always on the look out for good ones.  Stay tuned... 

Criticism or compliment?

Why would she ask that?  What did she mean?

So, it was Thursday, and writer’s group day again (my favourite day of the week). Our group is thriving – so much that we’ve now had to close off the membership list.  Once a month we read our themed pieces to the group, originally for feedback, but with all our keen writers, it is an increasingly cursory process.

The week’s theme was Summer Menu.  I read a strange little piece I’d concocted, in which I red-herringed the reader merrily through a scene, then kicked them with a cunning reveal right at the end.  The protagonist, it turns out, is not who the reader thinks he is, and a chilly shadow falls over the previously sunny story line.  As reveals go, it was pretty smooth, and it got a spectacular response.

A wave of exclamations rippled around the table, a good sign that the ending had its desired effect.  A couple of people complimented me on deploying the creepiness factor so well.  And then one lady piped up, “Is this part of a novel you’re writing?”

This threw me, and before I could formulate a counter-question it was time to move on.  And I’ve been stewing it over ever since.  Why would she ask that?  What did she mean? 

Was it a compliment?  Like, “Wow, that scene was so well constructed with exactly the right amount of subtext about the world outside the room, that it could have been a novel excerpt.”  Or was it a veiled criticism?  Like, “I didn’t really get the point of it, and I haven’t read a short story that takes place within a single scene, and I couldn’t recognise a beginning, middle and an ending, so clearly it has to be a fragment of a larger work because it doesn’t hang together by itself. “  

Compliment or criticism?  This is one of those times when I wish for a more detailed feedback mechanism.

I made some very deliberate choices about the structure of the piece.  I placed it entirely within a single scene, because I wanted to flesh it out rather than just narrate through a string of events.  I habitually write characters within a very interior frame, without embedding them into their physical surrounds.  This is disaster-territory for novel writing, where it’s important to show, not tell.  So I’ve been consciously working on creating settings, and moving the plot along in concrete, external ways. 

Everything in the story is there for a reason (something that I’ve been learning since coming very late but passionately to JK Rowling), but there’s no hurry to get there.  I would rather you know that my protagonist wears a cream silk cravat and has long fingers, than tell you that he was impeccably dressed or tall.  If I write enough of these sorts of scenes, it should (in theory, anyway) build the kind of skills that I need to write a first novel that is worth reading.

In the end, I guess it doesn’t matter whether the story was criticised as a short piece.  Regardless of why the question was asked, it was a good sign that I’m developing the kind of tone and pacing that is suitable for longer works. 

One step closer to denouement.