What Is a Story?

Happy November! How many of you are participating in this year's NaNoWriMo? With thousands of stories being written this month, it seems like a good time to take a step back and answer the question: What is a story?

In some sense, it's easiest to start with what a story is not. A story isn't simply plot. If "things happening" was sufficient for story, then anything and everything would make for a good one. Plot, of course, isn't merely a series of events—it's certain events with a specific purpose, moving pieces into place for the climax and then resolving any tension established.

But even a great plot isn't the core of what makes a good story. Recounting events, after all, is something most anyone can do. Weaving those events into a compelling story is a different skill entirely. Consider how some people at a dinner party will bore you to tears and others will have everyone on the edge of their seats listening, even if both are sharing something about their day in the office.

"Of course!" you may be thinking. "A story also needs characters."

Well, a sequence of events happening to a specific person (or character) still isn't enough. If it were, then anyone's diary of what they did that day would make for fascinating reading. Cultural anthropologists may disagree, but most of us wouldn't enjoy reading (most) random people's diaries. Let's be honest, many of us can't be bothered even when the person recounting the minutiae of their days is a friend. (Remember the early days of blogging?)

"But wait!" you may be thinking now. "The events have to be exciting."

Well, that's not quite it either. Exciting, dramatic events—even ones with inherently high stakes—still aren't enough to make a story. Every war that ever took place was filled with dramatic, important events with high stakes. But think back to your history classes. Did you always find learning history exciting or engaging? A lucky few may be thinking, "Yes, of course!" This means you had amazing teachers, and that's wonderful. Most of us probably experienced a range—some teachers wove stories out of historical events that captivated us, while others recounted events and made classes drag on. Even if they were teaching the same events, our experience as the audience was drastically different.

Writers with a little more experience will have encountered the advice (or critique) that in a story, we only need to see the events that matter. But matter to what? To whom?

"To the character's goal!" you may be tempted to respond. And yes, we are indeed getting closer. Your character's goal is what they want to achieve (or avoid). Obstacles in the way of that goal help make the sequence of events in your story more interesting. But the goal and even the obstacles your character faces still aren't the main thrust of the story. Or else a "good" story could be said to be one in which the goal is achieved, a "bad" story one in which it isn't. Readers know that this isn't the case. It's also not about how big the scope of the goal is (e.g., getting a promotion vs. saving the world—both can make for compelling stories).

At its core, a story is how pursuing the goal impacts your character internally. 

While plot certainly matters, and the character does need to have a goal to pursue, a story is what allows us to experience the effect of the plot on the character. We invest emotionally in the journey not simply to find out what happens, but rather to vicariously navigate the obstacles alongside the character for the sake of learning how the consequences of the plot influence them as a human being. That is, how the character changes from the opening scene to the closing image.

The balance of plot (external goings-on) vs. story (internal change) can shift depending on the genre. Literary fiction will focus more on the internal, whereas a thriller will likely devote more space on the page to external events. But even an action-heavy story featuring a character who isn't in some significant way impacted by those events will end up as a disappointing read at best. Sure, she beat the bad guys and saved the world. But if she's the same person the day after the plot as she was the day before—if her internal status quo wasn't challenged in some way by the events—why should we care?

So as you're working on your NaNoWriMo (or any other) projects, don't forget to ask: How does your main character change from the first page to the last?

The Sometimes-Glamorous Life of the Editor

Editing can be a pretty lonely business. For the most part, it means sitting in a room by yourself, in front of a computer screen, for hours upon hours. Depending on the length of the book, it can take weeks to edit a project and days more to formulate your thoughts into coherent, constructive criticism. Once you’ve sent your edits to the author, you might hear back right away with a confirmation that they received your email, follow-up questions to your edits, and maybe even a note of thanks (always nice to hear!).

But it’s pretty rare nowadays to get to meet your authors in person, especially outside of major industry conferences. So it was with considerable excitement that I attended the book release party for a book I edited: Zapata by Harper McDavid.

Zapata is a romantic thriller about Avery, an engineer who gets kidnapped by an infamous drug cartel and taken across the border to Mexico. Luckily for her, the cartel’s attorney, Alejandro, comes to her rescue, and hijinks (and romance) ensue as they try to escape the cartel and get Avery home safely. I had a blast editing this book (I mean, with that kind of a plot, how could I not?), and it was with no surprise that I heard from Harper that the book had won contest after contest (at least six, last she updated me) and had been accepted for publication.

So when Harper emailed me last month to invite me to her book release party, I was over the moon. Meeting her in person would have been exciting no matter what, but it was even more exciting to celebrate this milestone with her. Of course I would be there!

It was intimidating to walk into a bar/café filled with dozens of people who all already seemed to know each other. But as soon as I met Harper, she made me feel welcome. It was a surreal experience, meeting another writer from her writing group, who exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, you’re the editor!” And it was so much fun meeting Harper’s non-writer friends, who wanted to know what in the world an editor even did. Harper did a brief reading, signed some books, and even paused to take a picture with me.

I couldn’t be happier for Harper about her book’s success—or more grateful that she included me in the festivities! Check out Zapata if you get the chance, and look out for book two in the series at some point soon.

And, hey: maybe invite your editor to your release party. You never know when she’ll show up!

How and Why to Write Flash Fiction

Last time we talked about the differences between a short story, a flash fiction, and a microfiction. To recap, microfictions are a subset of flash fiction, which is itself a subset of short stories. But why would you want to write a tiny story in the first place?

From the reader’s perspective, we tend to have short attention spans nowadays. Some days we love to sink into a novel, but other times we just want something quick and bite-sized to digest. Maybe your reader is in the middle of ten other projects and doesn’t have the mental energy to devote to a longer story, or maybe they have three kids and only five-minute snatches of time to read. Whatever the reason, tiny, bite-sized stories fit that need.

From the writer’s perspective, writing flash fiction can help you sharpen your prose. To tell the same story in 500 words that you just told in 2,000 words, you’re going to have to make sure every word is that much more carefully chosen. Instead of describing the sky as “a pale blue flecked with green like a Caribbean sea when the light catches it,” maybe you’ll simply use the word “turquoise.” You’ll have to figure out which parts of your story can be condensed and what can be figured out from context rather than being explicitly stated. Maybe that entire subplot with the twin sister isn’t necessary; maybe we don’t need to see the scene where the character is at the hospital, and this can just be mentioned in passing. In short, it’s a good exercise in learning to be intentional with each word you put down.

I don’t mean to imply that with longer fiction you should use that extra space to convey superfluous information. The truth is, you want to choose each word with care in any piece of writing, regardless of length or genre. Maybe that subplot with the twin sister is absolutely vital to the plot, or maybe it tells us something about our main character that we wouldn’t know otherwise. My point here is that the brevity of flash fiction can be helpful in forcing yourself to be more deliberate with your prose.

That’s why someone might want to write flash fiction. The how of writing it is a little harder to quantify.

Many of the same things that apply to writing longer fiction will still apply. You’ve probably heard the oft-repeated edict: “Show, don’t tell.” One common mistake is thinking that in flash fiction you have to resort to telling in order to summarize large chunks of story that you aren’t able to show. But with a story of any length, showing rather than telling is still good advice. Similarly, you’ll still want to make sure you have good characterization, conflict, setting, etc. And like I mentioned last time, flash fiction stories still need to be complete, with their own story arcs of a beginning, middle, and ending.

Another common mistake is “running out” of words and rushing the ending. A helpful tip here is to write the story out as long as it wants to be, and then figure out how to make it fit within the 1,000-word limit once you’re revising. Especially for writers new to the shorter form, trying to write a story that will hit a certain word limit in the first draft can feel impossible.

It may be helpful to keep in mind that flash fiction always starts in media res, or in the middle of the conflict. This is common in most popular fiction nowadays, but until the past couple decades, it was typical for novels to start with a slower buildup, describing the scenery or the time period before centering on the main character(s). Even nowadays, some genres and writing styles still prefer this kind of measured, gradual opening. But in a shorter piece, we don’t have time to describe the countryside, then the farm where our characters work, then the field they’re standing in, before coming to rest on the characters themselves. We don’t have the space to describe the years of animosity between our characters, or the way Character A has always been jealous of Character B. Instead, our story is going to start the moment Character A flings a clod of dirt at Character B, and we’re going to have to figure out our characters’ long, complicated history together through the ensuing action or dialogue, while at the same time seeing how they handle this new conflict.

Another important thing with flash fiction, particularly microfiction, is that you need to hook your reader even more quickly. In a longer story, you have a little more leeway to build up to what’s interesting. (With the caveat that, in any story of any length, if your opening doesn’t intrigue your reader, they’re going to stop reading.) But in a tiny story, since each word carries more weight, your initial hook is even more critical. It’s also a bit more complicated, since the opening line has to not only hook the reader, but also still function as a necessary part of the overarching story because of your limited number of words.

It can be hard for novel writers to rein in their words and focus on brevity, but it’s a worthwhile challenge that can help you sharpen your prose. But be forewarned: flash fiction can be addictive! Some writers like the challenge so much, they get hooked on writing flash fiction and never go back.

So what do you think? Flash fiction: love it or hate it? Let me know in the comments!

What’s the Difference Between Short Fiction, Flash Fiction, and Microfiction?

If I asked you to explain the difference between a novel and a short story, you’d easily be able to sum up the difference: a short story is, of course, much shorter than a novel. But once writers try to drill down further, they often get a bit confused. Is “flash fiction” just another term for “short story”? And what in the world is “microfiction”?

Let’s start with the largest category. A short story can be as short as a few words or as long as 20,000 to 30,000 words—which, you may notice, is a huge range. But most literary magazines won’t publish short stories longer than 10,000 to 15,000 words, and many will want you to stick to more like 4,000 to 6,000 words. Back when magazines and literary journals were exclusively published in print, there was an economic reason behind wanting shorter stories: it cost more to print something longer. But even now that most publications are digital, readers’ attention spans are still only so long. Thus, when submitting to magazines, shorter is often better.

So what’s shorter than a short story? Flash fiction.

“Flash fiction” (sometimes also called “short shorts” or “sudden fiction”) is a term used to refer to particularly short short stories. Simply put, flash fiction stories are typically defined as stories under 1,000 words. You’ll find the odd exception here and there—publications that will allow up to, say, 1,500 words—but by and large, 1,000 words is accepted as the maximum length of a flash fiction story.

Within the category of “flash fiction,” there’s also “microfiction.” If flash fiction stories are typically under 1,000 words, microfiction stories are even shorter. Typically, these are stories under 300 words, though publications will often have their own limits (such as accepting up to 500 words, or only accepting stories of exactly 100 words).

Keep in mind that despite their brevity, these are complete stories with a full arc. The idea is to pack a lot of punch into a very small story.

Consider one of the most famous microfictions ever written: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” (This story is commonly attributed to Ernest Hemingway, but we don’t actually know for sure who wrote it.) With the first two words, the author lets us know that this is a newspaper classified ad. The words “baby shoes” seem innocuous enough until you get to the final two, “never worn.” The author succinctly delivers a gut punch here, immediately conveying not only that the writer of the ad is a grieving parent whose child died, but also that they could use the extra cash. There’s no cliffhanger here, no “but I want to know more”—they told you everything you needed to know, made you instantly aware of this down-on-their-luck parent, and conveyed such a somber tone in such a short space that you’re left feeling a little shell-shocked. It’s a hell of a microfiction.

So far, we’ve gone short story > flash fiction > microfiction. It might help to instead think of short story categories from small to large. The tiniest stories are microfictions, the slightly longer ones are flash fictions, and then longer stories are just plain short stories. Put another way, it’s like squares and rectangles: all microfictions and flash fictions are short stories, but not all short stories are microfictions or flash fictions. And of course, any longer than a short story, and you’ve got a novella or novel.

Hopefully this helps clear up some confusion about “short story” versus “flash fiction” versus “microfiction” for you. Are there any other terms you’re confused about? Let us know in the comments!

What Do Your Characters Want? (Part 3)

We’ve reached the top of the pyramid! Your characters have food, water, shelter, physical safety, emotional stability, a community, self-respect, and external respect. What else could they possibly want?

Missed the previous posts? You can read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

At the top of Maslow's hierarchy, there's fulfillment and self-actualization:

By Chiquo [CC BY-SA 4.0]

In a general sense, this means not having obstacles (external or internal) between your character and what they need to fulfill their potential. Some people seek to get rid of or overcome any remaining obstacles; others seek to minimize what they need to feel fulfilled, for example through mindfulness and meditation. Where one person may aim to attain more money than they can ever spend to "buy" the freedom to pursue what they want, someone else may work to find contentment with what they already have, or sacrifice luxury to pursue self-actualization (e.g., a writer working a lower-wage 9-to-5 job to have time to write, rather than pursuing a more lucrative but also more time-intensive career that wouldn’t leave space for creativity).

Because this builds on everything else beneath it on the pyramid, what your character needs to find fulfillment is far more complex and individualized than something as basic as "not starving." Still, once your character otherwise has their needs met, striving for this self-actualization will be part of their underlying motivation, whether they realize it or not.

Another thing to consider is that we don't want to just attain the things on the pyramid; we want to hold on to them. The fear of losing any of these needs will impact a character's behavior, and as you go down the pyramid, that fear will become a more pressing problem. Someone wouldn't be thrilled to be working at a dead-end job (for safety and stability) instead of following their dreams (self-actualization), but they would be terrified to lose access to food and water. A character's behavior will be significantly impacted by the extent of that fear, which circles back to the need to both be and feel secure, as we discussed in Part 1.

Also keep in mind that in all cases a character's motivations don't have to be rational. The motivation has to make sense to the character. Someone who believes their physical safety is in danger will fight to protect themselves, even if the threat is objectively small or nonexistent. Someone with depression may not feel loved and connected to their community, and act accordingly, even if externally that love and community is there. 

Pinning down a character’s motivations boils down to understanding that character's subjective perspective on whether their needs are being met. This is true for every character—villains and side characters are also the heroes of their own stories. One character’s decisions don’t have to (and may not) make sense to another. And don't forget: societies are made up of individuals whose needs and goals may or may not be aligned. 

• When a large enough group's needs aren't being met by society, we often see revolution, but when individuals are discontented, peer pressure may keep them quiet. Or they may choose to leave their community behind (if that doesn’t risk losing their other needs) and create/find another.
• Exiled characters aren’t given a choice, but usually someone choosing to leave a community with which they’re disillusioned (like in many dystopian stories) has a choice because there’s an alternative community waiting, so there’s hope of having their needs met elsewhere. But as I said in Part 2, rare characters (e.g., hermits and recluses) may be comfortable without a traditional community.

Once you've figured out which needs aren't currently being met for your characters, you'll have a stronger sense of what their immediate goals are, of what's driving their decisions and behavior. So it will be easier to know what choices they would make in every situation they face.

Developing new characters can feel daunting, but by traveling up the pyramid one section at a time, you can create layered but cohesive characters—and complex casts of characters—that your readers will love.