Welcome to the Short Story Hub!
Why? It has something to do with our expectations.
We expect ourselves to be experts writers on day one.
We have these great stories in our heads and we expect ourselves to be able to just write them out. Maybe we’re not naïve enough to expect writing to be easy, but we definitely expect ourselves to be better at it. Don’t we?
But we’re not.
In the early days—while we’re going through the process of learning how to write stories—we’re terrible at it.
Our writing sucks. They never seem to live up to the masterpieces we see in our heads. We refuse to show anyone this supposed-to-be-awesome story we’ve been working on because, well it’s embarrassing.
We’re just, really really bad at writing. We’re like a toddler learning how to walk—taking shaky steps on wobbly legs with absolutely no sense of balance.
We take one step, and then we fall down. We pick ourselves up, take another step, and then we fall down again.
We try to tell our story one way—and then we fail. We try again—and fail, again.
Write, fail; step, fall—over and over and over again. It’s a frustrating cycle that, in the moment, seems pointless to put ourselves through. Why would we keep picking ourselves up, if we know we’re just going to fall down again?
Why would we keep trying to write our stories, if we know we’re just going to fail?
It never crosses our minds that it’s natural to be this terrible at writing.
It never occurs to us that when we first learn to do something, we’re always terrible at it—just like we were with walking. We were terrible, that is, until we learned how to stay on our feet.
But we don’t think about it that way.
We’re too busy thinking about how bad we are. Too busy thinking about our numerous failures to be day-one-expert-level-awesome to look passed our perceived failures and see them for what they really are…
Lessons.
Valuable, crucial, necessary lessons that teach us how to grow and which mistakes to avoid.
The same lessons we learn when we write short stories.
That’s what’s so great about these things. When we write short stories, not only do we learn how to write entertaining stories, but we also learn how to be writers.
Featured Short Stories
I don’t Write Poetry
The way he bit his lower lip when he wanted to look like he was concentrating, well, it was perfect. He was perfect. Just as he should be. Just for a moment, I actually believed that he needed to concentrate, but just for a moment.
He was walking beside me again, up on the low rock wall that lined the path. His arms spread wide, as if he were walking a tightrope and needed to keep his balance. He was never in danger of falling, of course—I wouldn’t let that happen—I think the real reason he spread his arms like that was because it made him feel like he was flying.
“Why don’t you like your poetry, Bigs?” He was saying. I had almost forgotten about this part, he always brought up the poetry thing around here. “I like it a lot. It’s pretty. Makes me feel… Oh, I don’t know! It just makes me feel.”
I didn’t have to take the sidelong glance at his shining face, or hear the ringing of silvery bells in his voice, to know…
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Music Worth Dancing To
“No. NO! This can not be happening!” On top of everything else, how can he get a flat tire here? “We’re in the middle of the desert. There’s nothing but sand and scrub for miles, what could I have possibly run over?” He knew she wouldn’t answer—neither of them had said a word for the last three hours—but that didn’t stop him from glaring at her as he pulled over. This had to be her fault, somehow. He was sure of it.
She was leaning heavily against her window, chin resting in her hand, the corners of her mouth turned decidedly down as she stared out through the glass.
What has she been looking at? There’s literally nothing out there for her to see.
She probably wasn’t seeing anything through those misty eyes anyway. As he watched, another tear appeared and rolled down her cheek, with even more of her mascara streaming in it’s wake.
What has she been looking at? There’s literally nothing out there for her to see.
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Until Next Time, Dear Intruder
Business and responsibility: the two things that had been running through my head all night. They were the two things that kept me cooped up in my office way past hours. Honestly, I shouldn’t have even been here, not at this ungodly hour—but business and responsibility kept me much later than they usually did.
It was well past four in the morning by the time I had finished my work. I was asleep on my feet as I left my office and made my way to the front of the theater, thinking I would have to grab some cheap coffee or something for the drive home. I never made it out the door though, because that’s when I first noticed her.
One of the smaller doors near the rear of the main auditorium was slightly ajar, and as I walked passed I heard the faint sound of a violin coming from the darkness within. At first I thought I was just hearing things, because who else would still be here? But the longer I listened the stronger the sound of the violin became and soon convinced me that I indeed wasn’t alone in this old theater.
Read MoreThe Short Story Master List—all of the short stories on Surviving the Novel
I Don’t Write Poetry—A poetic genius, or a schizophrenic victim?
Music Worth Dancing To—Hard times require furious dancing.
The Fourth Gift—When everything else falls apart, you’re left with what matter.
To See a Fish—There are no fish in that pond.
Until Next Time, Dear Intruder—What better way to end the day than with a little enchantment?