News

The very lovely Claire Marriott has a piece in the current issue of Writers’ News about the evolution of language. It’s a good piece, and interesting. And there’s a bit from me in there too, on why I’m drawn to short fiction.

And I said (among other things you’ll have to buy the magazine to see..) this:

“I like that, in the short form, we’re able, as writers and as readers, to get right to the point. We have the opportunity to tell the story of a moment, or a series of moments, efficiently and in one sitting. Often, the stories are exactly as long as the moments they’re telling and I think that means that they can be effective, affecting and – I hope – accessible and, in some way, familiar. It’s a bit like a first kiss – it may not last all that long but it stays with us for a long, long time.”


I just thought I’d mention it.

This is a Good Idea

There was a period last year when, for various reasons, I kind of fell out of love with short stories. I think mostly, that I’d been thinking about them so much over the past few years that I needed to take a break from them.

Anyhoo – the love has returned. Which is lucky cos short stories is what I do, yannow?

And seeing good people like this doing things like this makes me happy. It’s good to champion good things and, from what I can tell from the list, the books on there are very good indeed. So, go have a look at Him and His Short Stories. Please.

A Little Bird Told Me that No Bookmarks Are Required

A little while ago I invited top writer/teacher/publisher chap, Nicholas Royle to come on the blog and say a little about Nightjar Press, the small press he runs which publishes individual short stories as chapbooks (an idea that I think is just brilliant).

And, top chap that he is, he agreed.

So here’s what he had to say about Nightjar Press:

NO BOOKMARK REQUIRED

We don’t give away free promotional bookmarks at Nightjar Press. We don’t need to. You don’t need a bookmark for something that’s only 12 or 16 pages long, and four of those are prelims. Nightjar Press publishes individual short stories in the form of chapbooks. What are chapbooks? They’re not books for chaps. Well, no more than they are books for women. They’re not books either about or made from leather protective coverings for trousers. They’re pamphlets or booklets. They used to be sold by travelling salesmen or chapmen. Chapbooks.
In 1987 I read a story by Joel Lane, ‘The Foggy, Foggy Dew’, in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XV edited by Karl Edward Wagner. It was a wonderful story, poignant and creepy; the editor’s notes said it had been published originally as a small-press booklet. I wanted to own an original. I wanted to see what form that might take. How could a short story have been published on its own? It didn’t quite make sense, somehow. It didn’t add up.
Some time later, having made contact with Joel Lane, I received from him a photocopy of the original publication – the chapbook – in which it had appeared. It was almost as good as the real thing. Almost. The name of Mark Valentine, the publisher, acquired iconic status for me. I gazed admiringly, longingly at the elaborate typeface he had used for his colophon. There was no point in writing to him, though, as Joel had told me the title was out of print.
Later still, I did get an original. Either Joel sent me one or Mark did, or I bought it online from a collector. I don’t remember and it’s not important. What was important was that the seeds had been sown. I wanted to publish some of these things. In the early 90s I dabbled in small-press book publishing (a couple of anthologies and a collection of Joel’s stories) and a few years ago I felt the urge to return to that shadowy world. This time with chapbooks.
I do two in the spring, two in the autumn. Editions of 200 or 300, all copies numbered and signed by the author. There’s not a lot of money in this game, but I am enriched. I get as much enjoyment and satisfaction from publishing these tiny things as I used to get from editing anthologies for Penguin and Gollancz. Short stories are special; sometimes they deserve their own individual covers. I’m enormously fortunate to be working with a brilliant designer, John Oakey, who understands that simplicity is the key. A clean, simple, consistent look; attention to detail; peerless professionalism. And no less lucky to enjoy the support and understanding of my hard-working wife. There are now six chapbooks. The first two – by Michael Marshall Smith and Tom Fletcher – are sold out. I receive requests for copies almost daily. The next pair, by Joel Lane and Alison Moore, are still in print and available. And the two latest Nightjars, by RB Russell and Mark Valentine, are just out. I am, of course, delighted to be publishing a new story by Mark Valentine, without whom I might never have developed a taste for the chapbook in the first place.”
***
Thanks to Nicholas for that. And if anyone would like to get in touch with him, they can do so by emailing him at nicholasroyle at mac dot com.

Tom Vowler Interview

It’s a huge pleasure to welcome fellow short story writer, Tom Vowler, to the blog today, ahead of the release of  ‘The Method and Other Stories‘, due to be published by Salt on November 1st.


Hi Tom. Welcome to the blog. It’s a pleasure to have you here. So. Your short story collection, The Method and Other Stories – could you tell us a little about it? What kind of stories are we talking about here?
Hello Nik. Thank you for having me. Perhaps I should start with the characters, who are all rather good at losing things – lovers, children, hope, the plot. The past themes heavily in the book, with its inexorable grip on the present. There is humour, tenderness and tragedy in equal measure. Or as some kindly reviewer said: ‘Vowler’s characters hurtle merrily towards self-annihilation so that we don’t have to.’


The collection won Salt’s Scott Prize. Could you tell us a little about that as well?
The Scott Prize is an international annual prize for a first collection of short stories by a single author. This was its inaugural year.
How’ve you found working with Salt?
I was fascinated to see what they’d do with the book, how much input I’d have. Writers are often better at storytelling than putting books together, so whereas I was grateful to have some say in the order the stories appeared, and indeed the cover, I was happy to let Salt make the important decisions. It’s also important to trust your publisher, as you’re handing over a little piece of your soul.
What are your thoughts on Creative Writing MAs? What have you learned from doing one?
That you can’t teach people to write, but also that you can. I suppose I regard the act of writing as more of a craft than an art, so in this sense you can certainly learn its constituent parts: dialogue, structure, character development, viewpoint. You need to know the rules in order to break them. But what you’re really learning on such a course is a critical awareness, of your own and others’ writing. The MA was the first time I took my writing seriously, so for me it focused my energies, gave me the initial motivation to write every day. But no, I think there’s only one way to learn how to write, which is to read. Everything.
So. Short stories. What is it about them that appeals to you? As a writer and as a reader.
In the right hands they are, for me, the most exhilarating, visceral literary form. Combining poetry’s cadence and precision of language with the novel’s narrative dynamism, a great short story, while usually depicting reality, can transcend it, perhaps delighting, shocking and moving the reader all in a few thousand intense words. Or as Kafka said, the story should be ‘the axe to break up the frozen sea within us.’ Some of my favourite short stories resonate more powerfully than, for example, the novels I’ve most enjoyed, which is something I never thought I’d say. As a writer I find them the hardest and most rewarding form to compose.
What do you think a story has to have for it to be great?
Well, it needs to entertain for a start. And I’m not one who believes stories should be overly didactic; I like space to move around in the narrative, rather than it being fed to me a spoonful at a time. For me voice is everything. Essentially, though, a story must reveal some small truth, so that I suffer or laugh or feel shame alongside the character(s). Whether an epiphany occurs or is resisted, I want to be exhausted or breathless or stunned in wonderment once the end is reached. I want to learn something about myself, perhaps something I feared was true. There should be the sense that if anything was added or removed, the story would suffer. Ideally, it needs to make me forget I’m reading.

Who do you think writes great short stories?
I find myself going back to Carver again and again. William Trevor’s deft obliquity and masterly control never fail to astound me. Ali Smith, James Salter and Jane Gardam are also favourites. When I think of younger contemporary writers that excite me, Kevin Barry, Clare Wigfall, Adam Marek and Philip Ó Ceallaigh are hard to top.
What advice would you give to someone wanting to be published?
It’s certainly a tough time for publishing, and as new writers we’re at the bottom of all the food chain. But it’s a myth that it’s impossible to find an agent, or to be published. Most submitted work is simply not good enough, so asking yourself honestly if your prose is as strong as you can possibly make it is a good start. The answer will almost always be no. Don’t be tempted to submit too early. Learn to value criticism and regard rejection as a prompt to make the work even better. Think long-term – there are no shortcuts. Take risks with your writing. Read. Read. Read.
If you could recommend just one book, what would it be?
Just one! Impossible. William Trevor’s Cheating at Canasta is a masterful, I’m tempted to say flawless, collection. But if I had to choose just one, it would be Gerard Donovan’s Julius Winsome – a short novel that I suspect one day will be compared to Camus’ L’Etranger.
What’s next for you?
Apart from reviewing your splendid collection? There’s a novel (based on one of the stories in The Method…) that’s getting a final polish, and a second germinating.
Anything you’d like to add?
Is there beer? I’m sure you said there would be beer when I got here. [Nik scuttles off to see if he can find a can while thanking Tom for coming on and wishing him all the best with the collection…!]

***


Tom Vowler lives in the south west of England where he writes and edits fiction. A blog about writing his current novel can be found here. The Method and Other Stories can be bought direct from Salt or pre-ordered from Amazon or the Book Depository before its official publication on November 1st. Tom is the assistant editor of the literary journal Short FICTION.

The Bristol Prize Anthology, Volume 3

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I was thrilled to see that Valerie O’Riordan had won the Bristol Short Story Prize. Valerie’s both a lovely person and very talented writer – two reasons for me to be happy for her.

And because those Bristol Prize folks are also lovely, they were good enough to send me a copy of the anthology. I’ve read it now and I must say I’ve been very impressed. Very impressed.

Some of the people whose stories made it into the anthology are people I know (and like!) so you might think I’d say that anyway. Nope. Not at all. I’ve said it because I mean it. The quality’s really, really high. And that doesn’t change whether we’re talking about stories in there by Clare Wallais, Claire King, Ben Walker, Joanna Campbell or Jon Pinnock – or Valerie’s story – a deeply affecting one told in only a few hundred words (size ISN’T everything, see!). I was also particularly taken with ‘Being Mother’ by Sherri Turner – that nearly made me cry.

It’s an excellent collection – as varied in its content as it is good, and I’d recommend reading it.

And by the by, I interviewed the brilliant Joe Melia, the prize’s coordinator, a little while ago here. And I’ll be interviewing, the equally brilliant, Valerie here soon too. Lots to look forward to.

Aimee Bender Interview

So. How do you write an introduction for an interview you’ve done with someone who you regard as the best writer alive today?

Maybe you say something like, this person’s books are my favourite. Or, this person’s stories are the ones I’ve re-read the most often and enjoyed a huge amount every time. Maybe you say that reading this person’s books changed you as a writer, that they made you realise what can be done with the short form and that, actually, you CAN write the stories you wanted to write in the way you wanted to write them.

All of the above is true.

So, I guess, all that’s left to say is: here’s my interview with magnificent, the wondrous, the lovely and the brilliant Aimee Bender. Enjoy. I certainly did.


Welcome to the blog, Aimee. It’s a huge honour to have you here. To be honest, there are so many things I’d like to ask you I’m not too sure where to start. But I’ll go for here…
Thanks for having me, Nik.  It’s really a pleasure to talk to you about fiction!
You’ve just published your fifth book, ‘The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake’. Could you tell us a little about it? What’s it about? Who’s it for?
So, it’s a novel about a family, really, with some strange twists along the way.  It begins with Rose, a character who discovers she can taste people’s feelings, usually their unknown feelings, in the food they make, something she does not really want to deal with.  But then it starts to also be about the other members of the family, in particular her brother, and how his secrets mirror or stretch  hers.  I feel like it’s about all four members of the family, and how they impact one another.  But presented in a strange way, which is the only way I knew how to talk about it all.  Who’s it for? I guess people who are interested in reading about a family from a really skewed perspective?
How do you think it compares to your previous books?
It’s hard for me to tell.  It’s magical, but it’s also set in Los Angeles, grounded in more reality, too.  But the strange parts are really strange– though for me, they’re the way I’m trying to figure out how to talk about who we are, with ourselves, in families, on our own, all of it.  I feel happiest when people seem to go for both the real and the not-real—they go for the strangeness, and in the strangeness they find something familiar.  
I know I’ve said it many times before, but reading Willful Creatures changed me as a writer; after reading it I realised that I could write about what I wanted to write about in the way that I wanted to write – I wonder, was there ever a moment in your writing career where you said to yourself: Ah ha! Yes! I can do this! I know where I’m going now!

I’m so glad to hear that.  Really, really nice to hear. 

I have had that same feeling, often, when reading, and writing.  That, ‘really? This is allowed?’ feeling.  So it’s particularly gratifying to hear you felt that reading my book!  I had always felt very boxed in with what might make a story ‘work’—it had to be realistic, and about adult issues, and told in a straightforward way—I thought all that even while I was reading plays by Ionesco, and seeing dances by crazy modern dancers wearing bear costumes, and seeing paintings by Magritte.  It was shocking, and thrilling to me, to remember that fiction is expansive, and can do a lot more than we sometimes think.   In fact, I think fiction is one of the most flexible art forms there is—we can jump time/place/interior/exterior/build buildings/explode buildings/be a building/talk as a building/morph into a butterfly-building, in a paragraph.  Unbelievable!

In graduate school, I felt suddenly encouraged to write the more magical/stranger/more abstract work because my peers and teachers were wonderfully encouraging.  I didn’t expect that—I was turning in two stories at a time, because my stories were short, and one was designed to impress, and was realistic, and the second was usually one I liked more but didn’t think would ‘count’; I thought they’d prefer the ‘real’ story, but to my shock, they far preferred the one that felt more my own.  That was a huge gateway for me.
In terms of shape and, to some degree, content, your short stories regularly remind me of Fairy Tales – what would you say to that?
I love fairy tales—I teach a class on them at USC, in downtown L.A., the classics and some contemporary take-offs.  I read them a ton as a kid, and there’s something in their shape and style that is incredibly contagious and inviting.  Recently, I wrote a story for Kate Bernheimer (who does all sorts of great stuff with fairy tales) and my assignment was to retell a story of my choice, and I chose Perrault’s “Donkeyskin” [this was the only version I could find on the net – Nik] because I loved how in that the king’s daughter has three dresses made for her—one the color of sky, one the color of the sun, and one the color of the moon.  How that enchanted me as a kid! And still does!

Anyway, back to shape.  Calvino talks about the economy of fairy tales, and how they move fast without getting into much detail and we go into the movement happily.  I love that about reading them, and with contemporary versions, it’s fun for me to step into that form and then tweak it a little, see what happens next.  To use a familiar shape but hopefully in an unfamiliar way.  And I like the freedom of not naming, of the mythic words like king and castle, alongside our regular daily selves.  I really like just about everything about fairy tales.

And sticking with shape – how do you think the shapes of shorter stories compare to those of novels?
I’ve heard Rick Moody talk about this a bit—how with stories you can experiment more easily because there’s just a smaller commitment to what you’re doing.  And I can see that—I love JD Salinger’s Nine Stories so much because of the shapes of those stories.  They’re going along and then they end and suddenly as a reader I have to think about what just happened.  I didn’t see any of it coming.   Everything has changed.  So your question really hits at the heart of what I often love in stories: unusual shape.  Unexpected shapes.  One my greatest pleasures as a reader is going along in a story and not knowing where I’m going but wholly trusting the writing to take me somewhere new.
 
I also love strangely shaped novels—Wind-up Bird Chronicle, My Happy Life, by Lydia Millet, So Long, See you Tomorrow, by William Maxwell, which is so gently shaped but also unusual.  That’s a book that hinges on one quiet moment/memory and the way it has changed the narrator.
What do you think a story (of any length) needs to have for it to be great?
Nice question.  I think it needs to move a reader somewhere, to lift us up from wherever we are, and to move us, and therefore we might call it ‘moving’—really.  I don’t care if the character changes if there’s a classic beginning middle and end, if there’s denouement, if it’s happy or sad—what I want is to feel like I am sitting in a slightly different world than I was when I began.
What’s the Aimee Bender Writing Process?
Get up in the morning, check email, write for two hours.  Stop usually right around the minute—sometimes I’ll go a few minutes over but rarely more than that.  I like structure a lot—the more structured the writing time, the freer I feel to write whatever I want.
What do you think is the most difficult, or the scariest, thing about writing or being a writer?
Seems like being a writer runs a true parallel to being a person, and the same things are hard in both!  Pushing for growth, trying to explore, sitting with hard feelings, concentration, patience, faith in the process.
And the most joyous?
The discovery!  The discovery is almost always the best part, I think.  Finding something unexpected, in a sentence, or scene, or whole book.
Who is Aimee Bender? Can she tell us a secret?
I often take the long route just to avoid backtracking.
As well as being a wonderful author, you also teach writing. I’m curious: to what extent do you think that writing can be taught? And what tips would you give to someone hoping to be published?
I don’t think the core act can be taught, but I strongly believe that we can all get a little more open, and take down some of the obstacles that get in the way.  And a writing teacher can help with that.  Writing exercises help with that.  A sense of play can help a lot!  For someone hoping to be published—I think the act of writing is the main reason to do it.  If the person is valuing publication over writing itself, then it can be a real drag of a ride—the rewards are thinner there.  But if the writer wants to do the work, and work at the work, and push on the work, and open up the work, then I think at a certain point sending it out is an important step, too. 
What’s the best piece of writing advice that you’ve been given?
My friend Phil said something very key to me, when I was in workshop with him in graduate school.  He said, “just write what you feel like writing every day, and then the language will never be dutiful.”  It was so clear, once he said it, and yet I had spent day after day writing what I felt I should be writing, (not necessarily what I wanted to write) and his permission there was wonderfully freeing.
How do you think the short story’s doing at the moment? Healthy? Popular?
Okay.  People still don’t read as many stories as novels and that’s too bad.  But there are new collections still coming out regularly, and that is comforting!  Lots of good stories floating around.
What’s next for you?
Not sure!  Probably stories though I’m sniffing around some other ideas too.  I was just asked to try to do a picture book (the word part), which sounds incredibly fun.
Anything you’d like to add?
Thank you!!
***
Aimee Bender is the author of two collections of stories and two novels– the most recent is The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, called “oddly beautiful” by the Washington Post.  Her short fiction has been published in Granta, GQ, Harper’s, The Paris Review, Tin House and more, as well as heard on “This American Life”.  She lives in Los Angeles and teaches creative writing at USC.

Photo courtesy of Max S. Gerber

Foxy. And my 5 Favourite Stories

I’m delighted to be over at the fabulous Vulpes Libris today, talking about short stories and about my book. It’s, perhaps, the meatiest interview I’ve given and I thoroughly enjoyed doing it – even though Rosy’s questions, occasionally, made my brain hurt.

I’ve also listed my five favourite short stories. One of them’s the wonderful ‘Temp’ by the brilliant Mary Miller (I interviewed her here).

Also in there is ‘The Meeting’ by the super-brilliant Aimee Bender.

And talking of Aimee. You might be interested to know that, despite my borderline fanatical love of her work, she’s let me interview her. And let me tell you what she’s had to say is just brilliant. It’s a real gem and it’ll be up here shortly. I’m just glad I haven’t freaked her out. Too much.

Mary Miller Interview

I read ‘Big World’ around about this time last year and I utterly loved it. It’s up there with my favourite short story collections of all time. It’s one of The Incredibles. When I listed, in an interview for the terrific Vulpes Libris, my five favourite short stories ‘Temp’ from ‘Big World’ was one of the first that came to mind. (The interview’s due to go live on Friday, so you’ll have to wait until then to see the others.) It’s that good. And look – it’s little, like mine!

And so I am utterly delighted to welcome ‘Big World’s’ author, the lovely Mary Miller here for a chat. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!


Welcome to the blog, Mary. It is a huge pleasure to have you here. I utterly loved ‘Big World’ and have even mentioned that one of its stories, ‘Temp’ made in onto the list of my five favourites from living writers. So yes, it’s a real pleasure to have you here.

Yay!  Thanks for having me, Nik.

So, on to the questions! First of all, could you tell us a little about ‘Big World’ – how would you describe it and who would you say it’s for?

I’m terrible at these sorts of descriptions.  I love what Sean Lovelace wrote on his blog (his blog is amazing, btw): “The characters would not bowl. They would watch others, disinterestedly, like observing flies on a windowpane. They would sip from those little crinkly bowling alley cups…they would watch, watch so closely (as in exactly) the pain of others (that they don’t [can’t?] express), that pain a moiling presence, or a caught truth, like hangover sweat seeping through pores…” 

I thought the book would mainly be for girls like me: vain, insecure women who have never stopped thinking of themselves as girls, women who would fail a personality test at Applebee’s (I was proud).  But a lot of men seem to like it, too, which has been nice.    

How would you describe a typical Mary Miller story?

I seem to be best at disintegrating male/female relationship stories.  These are always my best stories.  People ask me to write stories set in the year 2050, funny letters to the editor, etc., but I can’t do these sorts of things well.  I wish I could.

How and why did you start writing?

I was 27, lonely, and unemployed.  It was a way to be someone other than who I was.  It was awesome, actually.  I started writing at a time in my life when I didn’t feel like I had much of anything and it made me feel good about myself, gave me a sense of purpose. 

As a child, were you a big reader? What kinds of books did you like and what sort of stories were you exposed to at school?

I read a lot of Stephen King (I loved The Talisman, which he co-authored with Peter Straub).  And I’d read what I was assigned in school, but I didn’t like any of it.  We were pretty much just memorizing Frost poems, stuff like that.  It was terrible.  I hope schools are doing better jobs of making children into readers now, but somehow I doubt it. 

Was there ever a moment in your writing career where you thought: Yes, I can do this ?

Sure.  There’s a lot of ‘Yes, I can do this,’ but then it can quickly turn into ‘There’s no way I can do this.’  When I sit down to write, I can feel both of these things in a span of ten minutes.  It’s really hard.  There’s a lot of time and energy put into writing hundreds and hundreds of pages of stories that go nowhere and failed novels. 

Your stories are mostly realist. Is that a conscious decision or is that the kind of thing that comes naturally?

I just started reading Blake Butler’s Scorch Atlas (I’m late, I know), and I’m so impressed with what he’s able to do.  It’s like he has an actual imagination—an ability to see beyond what’s there and make it real.  I don’t have this ability.  I write about the things I know and see and hear and feel.
   
As I mentioned, ‘Temp’ is one of my all time favourite stories. Could you tell us a little about how it came about? The story behind the story?

Thanks!  That’s really cool, especially since this story is never mentioned as one of the “best” in the collection.  I worked as a temp at a financial office one summer and I was a disaster.  I really would disconnect everyone and jam copiers and give myself paper cuts.  There was also a guy like Jason, who was a bouncer at night.  I didn’t go home with him, though.  And my mother is still alive and I never dated a bad drunk (only medium-bad drunks).  Everything is just pieces of things I’d gathered, some fiction, some non-fiction, and put together. 

My favorite paragraph in the story is the one that starts: “The two of us together can’t even keep small animals alive.”  I remember the dog at the pound that was “old and mangy with a bad hip,” how he looked at me.  I still think about that dog.  

What’s your writing process?

I write as much as possible, which isn’t that terribly much, usually in bed.  I’m trying to write faster, just get things down, and then go back and edit.  The way I’m used to writing, trying to perfect a sentence before moving on, doesn’t work well for longer pieces.

Who is Mary Miller?

A perfectionist, too judgmental, a Mississippian.  Who knows?  I like myself more and more every day. 

What do you think a story needs for it to be great?

Great stories are inexplicable.  There’s no model, no explanation for how to write them.

And advice to any aspiring short story writers who may be reading this?

Read short stories, poetry, novels, everything you can get your hands on.  Don’t try to start at the top.  I know people who have never published who will only send to the very top tier magazines—this is preposterous.  If you consider networking a dirty word, think of it as supporting and being nice to the people you like.  Don’t ever burn bridges because you will always be forced to repair them (it’s a small community).  Support independent bookstores and presses.  Publish online.  When bad things happen to you, remember that at least you can turn your misery and humiliation into a story.  Non-writers, the sorry bastards, don’t have this pleasure.

If you could recommend one book to me, what would it be?

City of Boys by Beth Nugent.  I would like for everyone to read this collection.

What’s next for you?

I’m moving to Austin soon.  I have three years to write and the support the Michener Center at the University of Texas.  If I don’t make something of this, please track me down and knock me over the head.   

Mary Miller is the author of a story collection, Big World, and a chapbook of flash fiction, Less Shiny.  Her stories have appeared in McSweeney’s Quarterly, Black Clock, Indiana Review, Oxford American, Mississippi Review, and others. 
***

And, finally, you can buy Big World here. And you should, you know. Because it’s excellent.