Sometimes I get pleasure from cutting -- really slicing -- a story. I think it has to do with proving to myself that no matter what the word count, I was right to think there was a story at the heart of all those words. I wrote a story about a World War I soldier and magical ghosts. It was 4,342 words and I loved it, but in order to submit it to a contest, I cut it to 1000 words. I loved the shorter story too, and then I heard about another contest so I sliced it to 300 words. You wouldn’t think there would be much story left, but now I’m cutting it to 100 words for (one hopes) the final contest. Cutting to that micro-fiction length is hard but there’s a weird feeling of accomplishment in taking a story down to its real kernel of “storiness.”
My daughter, J., has been after me to start a blog. I’m still trying to figure out the digital responsibilities of the modern writer. This is my short start.
My daughter, J., has been after me to start a blog. I’m still trying to figure out the digital responsibilities of the modern writer. This is my short start.
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