Short On Words.

People regularly ask me where they can buy my book. Which is great, because it means the people I meet and have contact with are genuinely interested.  The problem is, of course, that I don't have 'a book' as such.

As a short story writer, my stories appear in anthologies and magazines along with a bunch of other writers. And so I have to explain this to the person asking. Usually it makes little difference, as they ask where they can get hold of ones of those books.

In the past week I've had four or five people mention to me just how much they've enjoyed not only my story, but the others in the book. They mentioned how it was nice to read something that could be digested in a single sitting. It's as though they've never really read short fiction before.

It's true that we don't teach enough of the short form in school (and there are explanations for that), but a colleague and I have made a concerted effort to try to introduce more into our classes.

And it seems as though the students, although puzzled at first by the brevity of text, are starting to enjoy and appreciate these stories.

Long live the short form!

That Means A Lot.

Last night I fell in love with The Beatles all over again.

I can't remember when I first heard them, although I suspect it was when I was fairly young and probably watching the cartoon series on TV. I know my uncle was a fan and he certainly shared a lot of my musical taste. But I've loved their music as long as I can remember.

I was three when they played their last live show, and six when they broke up. As a teenager I always hoped they would re-unite and I'd get the chance to see them live. That dream was shattered in December 1980.

Some consider me a bit of an expert on The Beatles. I've read as much as I can on them, I collect their music and recordings, videos, interviews and other assorted stuff. I've written articles on them, written stories based on them (or at least inspired by them) - even been acknowledged in a Beatles book.

One of the highlights of my life is the afternoon I spent in Abbey Road studios. I sat at the console in Studio 2, stood where they recorded much of their work and even played the piano Paul used on Lady Madonna.

I've never really been into tribute bands - I guess I always figured they weren't the real thing. And so in all my time as a Beatles tragic, I've never been to see a Beatles cover band.

Until last night.

I made the decision to go and see The Bootleg Beatles in the city. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I figured since I'd never really get to see the real thing, why not go and have some fun and hear these songs live. What I didn't expect was to become so emotional during the first number. The Bootlegs walked out on stage, velvet collared suits like the '63 fabs, and played a spot-on rendition of I Wanna Hold Your Hand. It choked me up completely. And then they continued with three costume changes and two-and-a-half hours of perfect musical replicas of the originals.

The banter, mannerisms, movements were authentic. And there were plenty of little nuances in there that only a Beatles trainspotter like myself would have noticed.

Thanks, Bootleg Beatles. You made a dream of mine (virtually) come true.

It Never Stops.

In my last post, last Sunday, I questioned whether I'd ever be able to find the elusive 'X-factor' that pushes a story head and shoulders above the others.

A couple of hours after writing that, I went to SuperNOVA, my writers' group. I had submitted a story for crit, and was rather looking forward to it. Nobody savaged my story, most people seemed to like aspects of it, and everyone had advice that was pretty good.

But one of my fellow writers, who has previously read slush for a well know magazine, suddenly said "This is a good story. One that I would have pushed up to my editor. But not one that would have excited me enough to text him straight away." (or words to that effect.)

Had she been reading my blog? She did a pretty good job of explaining to me where the story was lacking, along with the others, and the scales fell from my eyes. I could actually see what they were saying, and damn them, they were right.

It never stops, this learning thing, does it?

Now to rewrite the story with what I've learned.

The X Factor?

I read a lot of professionally published short fiction. Sometimes I wonder how some of those stories get bought.

One story I read this week was just plain awful. It had problems with its grammar, had lots of exposition, had inane dialogue and was generally pointless. Yet it had been purchased by a well known and respected editor.

A lot of people revert to the 'matter of taste' argument.  OK, I can buy that in some instances, but not in all cases. And certainly not in this one. Sometimes I read a story I don't like, but I can see why it was bought. This story would have been lambasted at many crit groups. I cannot believe it was published at all - especially professionally. In this case I'm not alone. Online reviews suggested similar points of view.

So what is it that pushes a story up from pretty good to publishable? There is, of course, an 'X factor' involved in buying stories. That indeterminable thing that you can't put your finger on. Some elusive quality that makes the story stand out. It is, of course, the magic ingredient I'm looking for. My stories are yet to sell at the pro level. And it's certainly not merely a 'matter of taste' when my stories are rejected from several pro markets. (And yes, I realise there are other factors at play - suit the market, word length, similarity to other published work, etc)

I suppose the editor saw something in that story that I and a bunch of other readers didn't see.

Or maybe the editor just got it wrong this time.

School Holidays Are Here.

I'm in the first week of my term break, and starting to relax. Although I must say I actually haven't had much 'down' time.

Lots of work to do around the house, particularly with this unseasonably clear weather. It's supposed to rain for the next week or so, which means I'll have some time to get some writing done.  I did manage to free up Monday, and spent the day writing, and tweaking a story for a deadline. I sent it off with a couple of hours to spare. No we wait. And the waiting can be long. 

It's an unusual story for me. Different style, different genre, and different format.  Hopefully it pays off. If not, then I've tried something and pushed my own personal writing boundaries.

Apart from that I've built a gate and a fence, repaired outdoor steps that had broken, and generally done stuff around the house.

But the physical work has been good. It's a nice change from the classroom, but it's not something I'm particularly suited to, or something I would want to do full time.

Distant Lands.

Once again I'm teaching Tim Winton's short story collection, Minimum of Two, to my senior students. This is about the fifth year in a row I've done so. I never tire of it and the writing never gets stale.

Want to learn how to write a short story without a word out of place and no excess? Read these stories.

Distant Lands, The Water Was Dark And It Went Forever Down, and No Memory Comes just to name a few. Brilliant. Concise. Descriptive. Detailed. Emotive. The writing is superb. Efficient use of words and layer upon layer of meaning.

If I could write half as well as Winton.....

Sigh.

It's enough just to read these stories. Go ahead. As Molly used to say, Do yourself a favour.

Vale: Richard Matheson.

When I think back to films that scared me when I was young, there are two titles that leap into my mind. The original War of the Worlds is one, (I think I was very young), while Trilogy of Terror is the other. Especially the third segment, Amelia.

It was only a few years ago I realised Trilogy of Terror was based on three unrelated short stories written by Richard Matheson. I was reading a collection of his short stories, and one of those pieces felt very familiar.

I went and rewatched Trilogy of Terror, and it had held up surprisingly well. The first two segments were better than I remembered them, and the third section still held suspense. (OK, the doll was a little unconvincing in these CGI days.)

He also wrote sixteen episodes of The Twilight Zone, as well as Rod Serling's famous introduction. And then there's the other TV stuff, and the movies, and...

Richard Matheson was 87. He will be missed.