short-stories

She shuffled with her head bowed, her dark eyes drifting to avoid contact, and she screamed in bed at night. (Dark City Lights)

We do not know if she collapsed because of overwhelming joy, extreme surprise, grave disappointment, or heavy anxiety that for the next months and years she would live with a human male, because in fact she had been honest when she told her girlfriends that she had given up on men, OR NONE OF THE ABOVE.

I live in a house over there on the Island, and in that house there is a man waiting for me. When he drove up at the door I drove out of the dock because he says I__ his ideal.

The rain still drummed on the roof, like fine needles striking the shingles. The family sat silently around the table, each one wrapped in their own thoughts.It was Matthew__ voice that broke the silence, asking, __nd what happened after that?___fter that,_ said Paul, __ame Gettysburg.

Thank you father, thank you. I know you watched me from above and protected me. I promise I shall serve the Magnarian Confederation with all my body and soul. I shall dedicate myself fully to our confederation, the family that you so loved. And I love it too. I shall protect, love and respect it always. This is my promise and commitment. Thank you

There are always messages, even enigmas to be searched, mysteries to be solved in all of my books. I like to puzzle readers, but I do not make so to the point of being so complex that they will lose interest in the plot. And that for me is the essence of every great literature around the world, and that__ been so for ages.(....)Some were inpired by real life characters, some other books I wrote are hybrid fiction/non-fiction, so I pretty much get inspired by people who have lived, and even who are still breathing among us_ so don__ get discouraged if I didn__ mention your personality traits yet. I might even have your name over my books, I must some day_

Do you mind?_ she asked.__ind what?___hile you were looking in the mirror I couldn__ help myself and I began fantasizing about you. And I figured if I was going to continue to fantasize about you, the only polite thing to do was to ask your permission. So now I__ doing the polite thing again and asking, __o you mind?____o, Nina. I don__ mind at all.__hen she leaned down and kissed him.

She knew breaking up with Ethan was going to be a full-time job because being in a relationship with him had also been a full-time job.

I watch people sometimes, wonder how they can walk around with the weight of what they know.

When well told, a story captured the subtle movement of change. If a novel was a map of a country, a story was the bright silver pin that marked the crossroads.

For the source of the short story is usually lyrical. And all writers speak from, and speak to, emotions eternally the same in all of us: love, pity, terror do not show favorites or leave any of us out.

Yes?_ he asked, looking at me over the sheet.____ a writer temporarily down on my inspirations.___h, a writer, eh?___es.___re you sure?___o, I__ not.___hat do you write?___hort stories mostly. And I__ halfway through a novel.___ novel, eh?___es.___hat__ the name of it?____he Leaky Faucet of My Doom.____h, I like that. What__ it about?___verything.___verything? You mean, for instance, it__ about cancer?___es.___ow about my wife?___he__ in there too.

My short stories are like soft shadows I have set out in the world, faint footprints I have left. I remember exactly where I set down each and every one of them, and how I felt when I did. Short stories are like guideposts to my heart...

We all dream dreams of unity, of purity; we all dream that there's an authoritative voice out there that will explain things, including ourselves. If it wasn't for our longing for these things, I doubt the novel or the short story would exist in its current form. I'm not going to say much more on the topic. Just remember: In dictatorships, only one person is really allowed to speak. And when I write a book or a story, I too am the only one speaking, no matter how I hide behind my characters.

Write a short story every week. It's not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row.

A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.

Short stories are often treated as the poor cousins of novels.

I think it is the art of the glimpse. If the novel is like an intricate Renaissance painting, the short story is an impressionist painting. It should be an explosion of truth. Its strength lies in what it leaves out just as much as what it puts in, if not more. It is concerned with the total exclusion of meaninglessness. Life, on the other hand, is meaningless most of the time. The novel imitates life, where the short story is bony, and cannot wander. It is essential art.