I've been writing a lot of little things lately. Not quite stories, largely devoid of character or plot. But definitely 1,000 words or less. At an AWP panel this year, Steve Almond said that if they're written by fiction writers, they get classified as fiction; if they're written by poets, they're prose-poems." When these little monsters fall on the fiction side of things, they're known  by a host of hideous, self-important, artificially-assigned names: flash fiction, micro fiction, postcard fiction, sudden fiction, quickies, quick fiction, and short-shorts.

I hate the names. But writing them is good. They are sort of analogous to photographs, or very short films, best-suited to small scenarios that would weaken if you tried to stretch them out into more than a half-scene or two. It's precision work--you have to set up the tone really quickly, get the gist of the thing down on paper, then carefully slice away any fatty tissue. Strong images are best.

You can finish them rather quickly, without fumbling around trying to figure out "what happens next."

These pieces are what I'm having success with. One, "War Story," was published in 3:AM before becoming a finalist for Glimmer Train Stories' Very Short Fiction Award. Another, "When the elderly horse is near death and lying, broken, in the mud lot" was a finalist for Redivider's AWP Quickie Contest. And "Snake" is forthcoming in Fringe, thanks to several of my colleagues' recommendation that I just send it out as-is, at 800 words (Kate McIntyre and Jo Luloff, thanks!).

I am digging this.

Still, it's a bit worrying, thinking that I might end up specializing in these from here on out, though writers like Jayne Anne Phillips, Stanley Donwood, Steve Almond, Miranda July, Arthur Bradford, Richard Brautigan, and Thaddeus Rutkowski have all done things with 'the form' that I've enjoyed.

But, I mean, how do going to talk about that at a party?
(Scene: beside the canapes.)
You: "I write short-shorts."
Asshole eating celery: "Who wears short-shorts?!"

J'accuse Nair.

I walk down my street at night
The city lights are cold and violent
I am comforted by the approaching sound of trucks and sirens
Even though the world's so bad, these men rush out to help the dying
And though I am no use to them, I do my part by simply smiling

The ghetto boys are catcalling me
As I pull my keys from my pocket
I wonder if this method of courtship has ever been effective
Has any girl in history said "Sure, you seem so nice, let's get it on?"
Still, I always shock them when I answer, "Hi, my name's Amanda"

And I'm not gonna live my life on one side of an ampersand
And even if I went with you, I'm not the girl you think I am
And I'm not gonna match you, 'cause I'll lose my voice completely
No, I'm just gonna watch you, 'cause I'm not the one that's crazy

I have wasted years of my life agonizing about the fires I started
When I thought that to be strong, you must be flame retardant
And now to dress the wounds calls into question how authentic they are
There's always someone criticizing me: "She just likes playing hospital"
Lying in my bed, I remember what you said: "There's no such thing as accidents"

But you've got the headstone all ready, all drawn up and pretty
Your sick satisfaction, those his and hers matching
The headstones all push up in pairs to the horizon
Your eyes full of ketchup, it's nice that you're trying

The headstone's all ready, all carved up and pretty
Your sick satisfaction, those his and hers matching
The daisies all push up in pairs to the horizon
Your eyes full of ketchup, it's nice that you're trying

But I'm not gonna live my life on one side of an ampersand
And even if I went with you, I'm not the girl you think I am
And I'm not gonna match you, 'cause I'll lose my voice completely
No, I'm just gonna watch you, 'cause I'm not the one that's crazy

As I wake up to a cough, the fire burned the block but ironically
Stopped at my apartment and my housemates are all sleeping soundly
And nobody deserves to die for you were awful adamant
That if I didn't love you then you had just one alternative

And I may be romantic and I may risk my life for it
But I ain't gonna die for you, you know I ain't no Juliet
And I'm not gonna match, 'cause I'll lose my voice completely
No, I'm just gonna watch you, 'cause I'm not the one that's crazy.

mood: pensive

it's true!

actually, i seem to suck at all forms of non-face-to-face communication, and possibly that, as well. i've got a bruise on my right hand now, disproportionate to the force (not much) of banging it against the bathroom doorknob.

i think i may try to post on here more often, if only to open the steam vents. second year of ph.d. is far harder than the first, which i anticipated, but honestly...juggling two seminars, french class, and teaching three undergraduate courses is more than "a bit much."

trying to winnow "war story" down to 1,200 words for the kenyon review contest. trying to find ways to write more. argh.

-j.

mood: stressed music: radiohead, "last flowers"

look at me, i have a livejournal.
i suck at this.

yup.

mood: uncomfortable