By Raegan Teller
\In a blog post I wrote nearly three years ago, “In Praise of Short Fiction,” I committed to honing my short fiction skills. While also publishing two more books in my Enid Blackwell series during this period, I diligently began studying this short form of writing. As a result, I’ve learned a lot and have been exposed to some wonderful short fiction writers and their stories.
Recently, I attended a virtual event hosted in Cork County, Ireland, “In Praise of the Short Story.” Three renowned Irish writers discussed the difference between writing novels and short fiction. I took pages of notes, but one nugget stuck with me: novels expand meaning; short stories concentrate meaning. But how does one achieve concentrated meaning? I wanted to learn more.
As a result, I began studying George Saunders. His story “Sticks” is the epitome of concentrated meaning. Last year, I read a collection of his stories, but the most valuable information on short fiction is in his latest book, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain. Saunders is a professor at Syracuse University, and reading this book is like sitting in his classroom. He uses translated Russian short stories by Leo Tolstoy, Anton Chekhov, and others to teach short fiction. Saunders instructs the reader on what makes each story work and how it’s done. All the stories have universal, timeless themes. But it is Saunders’ analysis of each story that makes this book worth reading.
One of the best chapters in his book is “The Heart of the Story,” which contains this quote by Saunders: “To write a story that works, that moves the reader, is difficult, and most of us can’t do it.” Later in the chapter, he goes on to discuss some of his earlier stories. “I had chosen what to write, but I couldn’t seem to make it live.” These comments reflect on his earlier struggles with the form and how he eventually found his short fiction voice. His comments were both sobering and inspiring.
In his chapter “The Wisdom of Omission,” Saunders quotes Anton Chevkov: “The secret in boring people lies in telling them everything.” Saunders reiterates that learning what not to include in your story is just as important as what you do include. It’s a lesson I revisit again each time I write short fiction.
Saunders’ book is not an easy read. In fact, I’ve read portions of it dozens of times to understand his teachings. Of one story, “Alyosha the Pot,” Saunders proclaims it “perfect.” Ironically, Tolstoy himself didn’t like the story, calling it unfinished. I can’t claim to know a perfect story when I read one, but I do know this: some stories stay with me long after reading them. Like all good short stories, this one brims with concentrated meaning, forcing the reader to keep processing it. If that means “perfect,” then I agree with Saunders.
As for me, I’ll likely never reach Saunders’ level of perfection. But I’ll keep trying.