A Few Words About Flash Fiction

Flash Fiction is more or less a derivative of the short story. Through the years many great authors have said so much with so few words. O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi comes to mind, as does the work of Poe and Maupassant. Aesop’s Fables are another fine example. Flash Fiction takes this one step further.

Consider Flash Fiction is to an author what the 100 Yard Dash is to a Marathoner; or, for the fitness crowd, Pilates for the brain. To sharpen the point even more, it’s the telling of a complete story in the least amount of words–usually 500 or less. The important thing here is you tell the whole story. Taking an excerpt from a longer story does not constitute flash fiction. Despite what others might think, that would still be considered an excerpt.

Hemingway is credited with penning the most celebrated with this 6 word story: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Tucked into those few words are all the elements of a good story. There’s a protagonist, conflict and a resolution. The remarkable thing about this type of fiction is the brevity of the work allows the reader to extract all that is implied, leaving them to interpret and draw their own conclusion of the author’s intent.

So, next time you have the seed of an idea and a little time to kill, put your story down on paper. When finished, start distilling it down to the least amount of words. Remember, implication is your friend, and brevity your motivation.

For example:

Call me Ishmael. I find myself alone, bobbing in the blood-stained waves, hoping the masts in the distance are that of the Rachel and not the delusions of a man half crazy with thirst and the visions of the great white whale that has brought about this end. The once turbulent waves are calm, devoid of any trace of the mysterious captain and his obsession with finding and killing the whale responsible for the loss of his leg. Gone, too, is the Pequod, an ominous looking ship festooned with the bones and teeth of the very devils its captain sought with murderous intent.

If I’m to die, so be it. All that’s left of this nightmarish voyage is the unused coffin I cling to–the coffin of Queequeg, a fellow harpooner. His repulsive appearance hastened my opinion of him as a savage, though our brief time together proved me wrong. Now, even in death, his kind spirit and selflessness will most likely save me from the tragic end I’ve witnessed to this brave crew.

It's a shame Melville didn’t have a blog.

A Few Words About Rejection

So you got rejected. As a writer you should understand this is all part of the process. It’s not like this is something new. We have experience rejection since we were old enough to draw on a wall with a crayon. We saw it as art, but mom saw it as a reason to hide the crayons. It doesn’t mean it wasn’t art.

We put pen to paper (or actually fingers to keyboards) with the idea of one day standing beside those literary giants that inspired us to do more with our thoughts and imaginations than just daydream. We toil over a keyboard for what seems like an eternity. Editing, then editing again. Reading, editing, moving this, adding that, until we are certain we hold within our hands exactly what the world has been waiting for–the novel all future novels will be compared to.

With the query written, and the first chapter attached, the email shoots off into hyperspace in search of a worthy agent for such a masterful work of fiction. You start the next book, certain your offer of representation is being drafted simultaneously. Maybe just one more cup of coffee as you await the email alert indicating your invitation to success has arrived.

Then it happens. You open the email and, with little more than a polite salutation, your heart is ripped from your breast. It’s a short paragraph, and the only word that stands out is – ...unfortunately.

No need to read on. That same feeling comes over you. The painful vision of mom collecting up the crayons and carrying them off to another room flashes through your mind. You weren’t old enough to understand then, but you should now. Even though mom took the crayons away, you didn’t stop finding ways to express yourself or finding an audience for that expression. You continued on despite the rejections you faced. For those who didn’t give up, the roots of those scribblings blossomed into true artistic expression.

Remember, as with every artistic expression, it’s not suited for everybody. Patience and a belief in what you’ve produced should keep you to task. I read somewhere 90% of writers don’t become published authors because they quit after the first sense of rejection. If you look at this from a glass half-empty/half-full perspective, what really happened is 90% of your competition has been eliminated. You can certainly compete with the other 10%.

With the New Year upon us, it’s time for a new resolution. You felt strongly enough about putting those fingers to the keyboard, now keep at it until your query lands in front of the right person at the right time. Do your research, continue to develop your writing skills, and get the next idea on paper and out the door. There is an agent out there waiting for you’re your submission, don’t disappoint them.  

A very bright and Happy New Year to all the soon to be authors out there!

The New Client

For those of you venturing out of town this weekend, you might find this little tale of mine interesting. It's flash fiction, a short story in 300 words or less.

The New Client

Carol was miserable by nature. After an exhausting 4 hour flight the last thing she was in the mood for was finding out the midsize coupe she reserved was not to be. This lead to a heated, albeit one sided, argument with an unconcerned agent at the rental counter.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” interrupted a sharply dressed woman with a restrained voice. “I’ve had someone bring around a luxury sedan. Please accept this with my compliments.”

Carol dismissed the agent at the counter with a piercing glower, followed by a condescending smile to the gracious manager.

In the car Carol regained her composure. This was her first meeting with the client; they had only spoken once on the phone. The address was unfamiliar, so she was grateful for the GPS.

Merge onto Interstate 84 West.

An hour went by. The sky was turning darker ahead and the surrounding area less inviting. Carol was getting anxious about being on time.

Turn left .5 miles ahead onto Charon Avenue.

“That voice sounds very familiar,” Carol mumbled to herself. She became increasingly distracted by the drastic change in scenery. “This can’t be right. There’s nothing out here.”

Turn Left onto Charon Avenue.

“This is absurd,” Carol remarked, making quick glances out of each window.

The road narrowed to one lane. Turning around was not an option.

Turn right 2 miles ahead onto Acheron Drive.

Something wasn’t right. The sky was pitch black with a deep red horizon.

Turn right onto Acheron.

As Carol turned the corner the scene ahead startled her. She stomped on the break. The car stopped inches from a sheer drop.

You’ve arrived at your...final...destination.

The doors locked. Carol panicked, pushing with all her strength on the brake pedal. A moment later the taillights disappeared over the edge.