So much for the short story. Modest in its pretensions, shyly proud of its petite virtues, a trifle anxious in relation to its brash rival, it contents itself with sitting back and letting the novel take on the big world. And yet, and yet. That modest pose — am I mistaken, or is it a little overdone? Those glancing-away looks — do they contain a touch of slyness? Can it be that the little short story dares to have ambitions of its own? If so, it will never admit them openly, because of a sharp instinct for self-protection, a long habit of secrecy bred by oppression. In a world ruled by swaggering novels, smallness has learned to make its way cautiously. We will have to intuit its secret.Read the whole thing (it won't take long).
"The Ambition of the Short Story"
Back in December 2016, I wrote this, called “Soup.” You can write poems about anything, and I decided to write a poem about soup. And because I…
“Luckily many [whales] know how to be gentle. “(This is somehow a real fact and not a detail of a Chuck Tingle novel.)”
Video. Talking on camera. I…I haven’t used it much; I haven’t done it much. I decided to change that. Now that my new tablet has enough ability to…