21 verses on writing a short story

We all write all the time: texts, emails, memos, project plans, slide decks, shopping lists. We probably do more writing on an hourly basis now than at any other time in history. Perhaps that’s why many of us think, if only we had the time, we could write a book.

But (and I did not know this) creating story is a whole other thing. Somehow, you have to draw a reader into a made-up world and make them care. Turns out a novel is not just 70,000 words; it’s an act of emotional manipulation. And a short story needs to do the same with less.

When I first attempted a short story, I was working as a copywriter and magazine editor. I could knock out a blog or a press release, so I could write fiction, right?

Hush

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Here’s how it went, in 21 verses:

I did it! I opened a document and wrote a story which would later have the title ‘Taylor’s Rock’.
I used the word thrum. Thrum is an excellent word, but no one ever uses it outside of creative writing.
It was the worst story I have ever written. And of course that’s true. Just like the first leaning, wobbling coffee mug I scraped off the pottery wheel at my community centre pottery class, it was rough.
I didn’t know it was bad. This is a cruel twist and I suspect it’s universal. Unlike the coffee mug, I didn’t know what good story craft should look like yet, or that Taylor’s Rock wasn’t it.
And because I thought my story was awesome, I sent it away to literary journals. I’ll be honest, I sent it to some of the big overseas ones. It was not accepted, and that was because it was awful.
I took a class. It was during the first weeks of lockdown and my magazine job disappeared temporarily. I stumbled on a creative writing school with online short fiction classes and signed up.
I got feedback. We each had a workshop week, submitting a story for our classmates to read and critique. Posting the story in the portal and waiting a week was excruciating. Then, the feedback arrived.
It wasn’t great. Oddly, for such an amazing story, I got some harsh notes. I thought so anyway, and I was steaming mad.
It wasn’t ALL bad. Our tutor, Jaime, gave us each several pages of careful encouragement and direction.
I rewrote it. We had a second shot at workshop, and I revised every sentence in Taylor’s Rock. I was pretty sure going into feedback week that I’d nailed it.
I hadn’t nailed it. But almost everyone said, ‘Wow this is so much better.’ Whoop. Then they told me what was wrong with it.
The class ended. I thought maybe the story was good enough. I sent it to more literary journals who replied with stock rejections.
I read the feedback on Taylor’s Rock again.
I rewrote it.
I hired Jaime as a mentor and sent her my revised story.
Jaime said, ‘Wow this is so much better.’ Whoop. Then she told me what was wrong with it.
I rewrote it.
Jaime said, ‘Wow …’ More feedback. More rewriting. We kept this up for six months. And then …
Taylor’s Rock was unrecognisable. Whiffs of the original remained, but over time almost everything in the story was altered, and a lot was sliced out. Finally, Jaime said, ‘This is close.’

That was as near to a seal of approval as I would get. It came more than a year after I wrote that shaky first draft. By then I had rewritten it more than 30 times. Not editing. Not proofreading. These were slash-and-burn, blank-page rewrites. If Taylor’s Rock were a coffee mug on the potter’s wheel, the result was not the same mug at all, nor even the same clay. I kept a spreadsheet of my rejections. There were more than 70.

I had gone into the process knowing how to write. I came out with a thickened hide and a novice-level idea of how to tell a story. So …

I rewrote it.
I submitted it to takahē, an Aotearoa literary journal. The guest editor Leanne Radojkovich wrote to me and said, ‘I love your story, we’d like to publish it in our next issue.’

Footnote: Because I wasn’t immediately good at pottery, I gave up the community centre class. Consequently, I still cannot make a mug.