The Short Story
(Whatever that Is)
There is always an exception that proves the rule, or, as the
Romans would say: exception probat regulam in casibus non exceptis.
Latin will have to do. I couldn’t find the phrase in Greek, but it might
as well be in that ancient and difficult language when you try to
ferret out the logic of the phrase. You would think that exceptions
don’t prove a rule at all, but, to the contrary, prove the fallacy of a
rule. The more exceptions, the less validity a rule can claim.
You simply can’t take the phrase literally, unless you apply the
proper applicable meaning of the key word: exception. Usually
defined as something out of the ordinary, an exception neither
follows nor proves a rule.
If you apply this definition of exception, as being something left
out or ignored, the phrase starts to make sense. It then becomes
something like, “Ignoring that, the rule applies.” Then it becomes a
matter of differentiating the exception(s) from the rule. Were we to
study our idioms and pronouncement-like phrases—our rules—we
would find similar disconnections between reality and the words.
Rules might better be described as habituated statements than
reliable guides.
Efforts to teach writing are loaded with rules fraught with
exceptions. There is one that gets bantered about a fair amount that
needs clarification, especially for the writer working to gain
experience—that novelists do not write short stories, and the reverse,
short story writers don’t write novels. There are dozens of
“exceptions.” So let’s generalize the rule a bit in an effort to add a
little efficacy to its credibility: “Typically, people who write short
stores, don’t write novels.”
The word “typically” removes the finality of the original
statement, but in reality, we’re probably not talking about a rule at
all, but a stereotype based on some anecdotal statistics that prompted
someone to write something akin to a commandment and thus a rule
is born/created. Once picked up and repeated, even an unsupported
1 allegation takes on the visage of truth. Hitler relied on this as a key
element in his propaganda efforts.
Were we to divide writers into three categories: (1) short story
writers, (2) novelists, and (3) those who do both, the latter group
would probably have the least number of members, but the list
would be impressive nonetheless. The important thing, especially for
the new writer, is not to get caught up in pronouncements and rules.
You risk limiting the range of your potential talent or, worse, creating
false boundaries you’re not supposed to cross.
So what am I saying? You’re either a novelist or a short story
writer? No. What I am saying is that before you lock your allegiance
to one form or another, it might be best to first understand the
distinctions between the forms.
Who might best help us with these distinctions between novel
and short story but Philip K. Dick, who wrote 44 novels and 121 short
stories. He actually addressed the issue in an unpublished forward to
a book.
He wrote, “The difference between a short story and a novel
comes to this: a short story may deal with a murder; a novel deals
with the murderer, and his actions stem from a psyche which, if the
writer knows his craft, he has previously presented. The difference,
therefore, between a novel and a short story is not merely one of
length . . .
“There is one restriction of a novel not found in short stories: the
requirement that the protagonist be like enough or familiar enough to
the readers so that, whatever the protagonist does, the readers would
also do, under the same circumstances . . . or, in the case of escapist
fiction, would like to do. In a story, it is not necessary to create such a
reader identification character because (one) there is not enough
room for such background material . . , and (two) since the emphasis
is on the deed, not the doer, it really does not matter—within
reasonable limits, of course—who in the story commits the murder.
In a story, you learn about the characters from what they do; in a
novel it is the other way around: you have your characters and they
do something idiosyncratic [that emanates] from their unique
nature.”
2 At this point, let’s cut Mr. Dick off before he drags us into the
brambles of a graduate school seminar. I want to keep things simple
so we can appreciate the fundamentally basic similarities and
differences between the novel and a short story. To do this, let’s turn
to Gustav Freytag, a nineteenth century German novelist. He
observed some common patterns in the plots of novels and stories
that are worthy of further inspection.
Likely you’ve seen a diagram called Freytag’s Pyramid or
something based on it. At the left base of his pyramid, the beginning,
you start with the idea of “exposition” (synonyms include:
explanation, description, elucidation, explication), which we can also
call the set up in modern parlance.
But before you can move from description to a story’s action, you
need what is called an “inciting incident” that kick starts the story.
Typically, this is a single event that initiates the start of the main
conflict (ignore subplots for now). It is sometimes called the
“complication,” although I prefer “incident” because that’s what it
usually is. There might be a confrontation followed by a fight and
flash of steel and somebody falls to the ground with a shiv
protruding from his or her ribs. Add copious amounts of pooling
blood for effect. You can shorten the incident. Have the paperboy
come around the corner whistling Dixie in the predawn hours and
suddenly trip over the dead body with a knife protruding from his,
or her, ribs. Both are the same thing: the “inciting incident.” Action
must follow, and the action must respond to the questions: “what
happened, who did this, why, etc.?”
The heart of a story takes place on the left, rising side of Freytag’s
triangle and is labeled “rising action.” It’s where all the conflicts and
interactions of the story take place. The characters meet challenge
after challenge in their efforts to solve the crime or to reach and
diffuse the bomb before it blows up. All that conflict and tension
rises—crescendos—to its highest point of conflict—the top point of
the triangle—which is called the “climax”—frequently the most
exciting event in a story and after which the only thing that can
happen is explanations and solutions, or “falling action,” where all
the pieces come together and the solution is reached or the puzzle of
3 who, what, when, and why are identified. The climax is a sign,
usually, that the end of the story is approaching. You’re on the
downhill side of the triangle at this point. But don’t get me wrong,
the action may not end. It’s not called “falling action“ for nothing. But
the action here is associated with the wrap up and solution and
clarifications that bring about the resolution, all of which leads to the
denouement—French for ending—where everything is neatly
concluded, solved, or resolved, wrapped up . . . bow added. “I knew
it! It was the maid, in the library, with the candelabra!” She breaks
down into a tearful admission, or makes a break for it after pulling a
pistol hidden in her uniform and firing at the protagonist/hero.
Think of most any fiction you’ve read recently and you can
probably locate and identify these parts. If you can identify these
elements in the writings of others, you’ll be better able to employ
them effectively in your own efforts. Watch a TV cop show and you’ll
find them along the way. A writer might try to Canasta the deck on
you or tweak their order, but the parts are there. (Don’t forget that in
the visual world of television and movies, some of Freytag’s elements
might be purely visual.)
The closer you are to a short story, the less complicated and
obscure these ingredients. A short story doesn’t have the time for a
complicated exposition leading to the inciting incident. The rising
action can’t be populated by a dozen complicated characters running
amok in several subplots. The plot—that common core upon which
the details that makes the story hang—can’t devour too many words
before the climax is reached. The greater the simplicity of what
happens that leads to the climax, of course drives the simplicity of the
falling action and resolution. In fact, the falling action, resolution, and
denouement might be crammed together, sometimes in a single
sentence (or scene).
To prove my point: Hemingway is credited with writing the
shortest of short stories at six words: “For sale: Baby shoes. Never
used.” Think about it. Are Freytag’s elements in there? Yes, but the
reader creates them as his or her mind explores the
potential/alternative details to this plot. Hemingway gave you the
plot. Your imagination provides the details that make a story. Plot is
4 the skeleton to which is attached the muscle, flesh, and skin of a
story.
Let’s try this. Many versions of “Appointment in Baghdad” have
been written. This one, by Edith Wharton (1862-1937), has all of Mr.
Freytag’s elements:
One morning, the Sultan was resting in his palace in
Damascus. Suddenly the door flew open, and in rushed a
young man, alarmed, for the young man was the Sultan’s
most skillful assistant.
“I must have your best horse!” the youth cried out.
“There is little time! I must fly at once to Baghdad!”
The Sultan asked why the young man was in such a
rush.
“Because,” came the hurried reply, “just now, as I was
walking in the palace garden, I saw Death standing there.
And when Death saw me, he raised his arms in a
frightening motion. Oh, it was horrible! I must escape at
once.”
The Sultan quickly arranged for the youth to have his
fastest horse. And no sooner had the young man
thundered out through the palace gate, than the Sultan
himself went into the garden. Death was still there.
The Sultan was angry. “What do you mean?” he
demanded. “What do you mean by raising your arms and
frightening my young friend?”
“Your majesty,” Death said calmly, “I did not mean to
frighten him. You see, I raised my arms only in surprise. I
was astonished to see him here in your garden, for I have
an appointment with him tonight in Baghdad.”
Freytag’s elements almost stick out like sore thumbs, or, in this
case, raised arms!
You also notice some other elements/characteristics of the short
story format.
5 • Concise descriptions.
• Tight dialogue.
• Closer links between items of action and conflict.
• Clear
descriptions
and
precise,
but
limited,
characterizations.
• A simplification of the plot and the number of facts that
bring it to life. Note: Simplification is not an exact synonym for
simple. The short story can be a wonderful weave of facts and
suppositions that are deceptive in their course. The true artist at
this was O. Henry (William Sydney Porter), and his “Gift of the
Magi” serves as the classic example of a surprise ending that
usually results, although my favorite in this regard is his “The
Last Leaf.”
• Use words loaded with action and/or meaning.
• Don’t float around in passive voice very long, either. Get
to the point. (If you reread Wharton’s version of “Thief,” I bet
you could find a couple places where you could shorten even
her version of the story a little more.
• Limited
complications.
Complications
require
explanations. Any additional complication requires additional
words. The more complications, the more words. Too many
words and the concept of short story is lost and the effort
morphs into something else.
By way of illustration: what would happen to Clement Moore’s
“The Night Before Christmas” if you expanded its simple story from
a poem to a short story or into a novel? Think of what you might add
or expand to broaden and deepen the story:
• Details about the family. (Always room for subplots here,
especially if in-laws or a black-sheep family member is
involved.) It could become a family saga.
• Perhaps conflicts between/among family members
regarding the belief in Santa or the “true” meaning of
Christmas.
6 • Going into the woods—a family tradition—to find the
perfect tree—the annual challenge. You could write a whole
story about Junior scouting for the perfect tree—“OMG why
isn’t that boy home already. It’s late and getting dark!”
• The tradition of decorating the tree and all the potential
family tensions that might surface during that process, not to
mention little side vignettes that could run rampant, especially
when the family dog crunches Aunt Minnie’s brand new
ornament and she’s certain to ask about its whereabouts.
• Baking the cookies and milking Bessie for the freshest
milk. (Ah ha! That’s how the Chicago fire of 1871 got started!)
In a short story, you pick one, at most two, complications that
lead to a climax. In fact, what is the climax—Santa’s arrival? Or do
you create a new one that arises from a modification to the plot line
when you expanded the story?
Any complications need to be tightly woven together. There’s
little room for subplots in a short story, unless the short story is in
some way about subplots. (Perhaps some angel on the “big screen” at
the North Pole negotiating and tweaking several lives to make sure
the fellow looking for the perfect mate bumps into her at the glove
counter in Macy’s, as he looks for a gift for his dominating mother.
Or, a computer glitch that causes the “wrong” people to meet at the
“wrong” place and the story is about how two wrongs ultimately
make a right.)
In a novel, it comes down to how many words or pages you want
to invest in weaving together all the potential lose ends (subplots) to
ultimately merge in a common point, or perhaps, several common
points. But you simply cannot shove a 600-page novel into a five or
ten thousand word short story.
Suffice it to say, a short story is not a novel. The challenge
becomes how much can you cram into a short story before it
collapses in a pile of muddled confusion or demands more time and
room and words. There’s an appropriate medical term applicable
here. If you cut a nerve—especially something as complicated as a
cranial nerve—the severed ends blossom into a frayed mess called a
7 neuroma. Try to make a short story too complex and the same thing
happens.
The solution? The realization that the short story, despite having
the same elements as a novel, is a form all its own and offers up
special challenges to those inclined to want to dive into detail and
complexity and prolix exposition. As T.S Elliot said so eloquently:
“If I had more time I would have written a shorter letter.”
Back to Hemingway. To him on a good day he was happy to
produce 500 words. Pick up anything he wrote and read 500 words.
You’ll get a sense of what writing a shorter letter entails. To get to 500
words, Hemingway probably did a fair amount of subtraction rather
than addition to his drafts.
Mr. Dick’s comments probably make a little more sense now. But
the challenge of the distinction between a novel and a short story is
best discovered in the doing, or as Mark Twain said:
“I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told. I only
claim to know how a story ought to be told.”
Twain has me there. I’m not so sure I can even tell you how a
story ought to be told. I only mention the key ingredients shared by
novels and short stories so you might better and effectively
distinguish their application. With those ingredients you create the
recipe and bake the cake. But like a cake, a good short story needs a
little frosting.
So your challenge: write a short story that would make Mr.
Freytag happy.
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