Posted: Jan 3, 08 3:40pm
Colleagues, if your playing field is fiction and you haven't done so yet please purchase a copy of Janet Burroway's "Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft." Now in its sixth edition, Burroway's book is considered the bible of such guides. It is an invaluable tool - rich, comprehensive, full of examples that demonstrate technique. (The book is generally available at Amazon.com.)
In her fifth edition Burroway used a particular story to demonstrate the process of revision. The exercise is brilliant (and the story only appears in the fifth edition). I bring this up because I am a student, an ardent disciple of "flash" or "sudden" fiction... stories so short you can read them between breaths. The form fascinates me for many reasons, not the least of which is the arduous and revealing nature of the revision process.
The story, Stephen Dunning's "Wanting to Fly," won the 1990 Best Short Short Story Contest. It is, I think, one of the best examples of this niche I have ever read, and I offer it here, all 245 words worth.
"Wanting to Fly"
Stephen Dunning
At State Fair a man in silver tights and handlebar moustache - some name like The Great Zambini - blasts from a cannon. Driving home, Father calls me "Goosey Zamboosi" and "Flying Weenie." But later, when I spray my BVD's with Ma's birdcage paint, he paddles me good.
Again.
For my ninth birthday, Ma gives me a silver-grey t-shirt with Halley's comet flashing across. I can fly in that shirt - arms stiff, tilting. The Mrs. McKissup catches us on the kindergarten slide. "You boys! Let the children use it."
In two minutes Duncan and me're in Beaver's office.
"Childish," Mr. Beaver says. "Selfish." Duncan giggles. "What would you do, you're trying to run a decent school?" We both giggle.
Father uses the hairbrush.
Duncan and me nail a refrigerator-carton to Frenzels' porch roof. Duncan falls awful hard, grabbing his ankle. "It's broke," he hollers. I run for his ma. Next rain the Frenzels' roof sprinkles like a watering can.
My last beating ever.
Wallace's Carnival hires me to assemble rides - dollar a day, food, sleep anywhere I can. We head for Toledo, Wilie Farley driving the ferris-wheel truck. It's Willie teaches me cannon-flying. I get pretty famous.
Then of course Father and me get along. I'm home from Cole Brothers when Father drowns, ice-fishing with Arn Bower. Before they hook him, I see his face - mouth open and lopsided, a giant perch.
Arn Bower starts keeping Ma company, and that's good. There's women wherever I fly.
> > >
Westerly, you in particular have a gift for condensing scene, history, motivation and movement into very few words. If I haven't convinced you yet to try this dauntingly brief form of writing, I urge you once again.
- akabukowski
