Is There Really A Crisis Gripping Short Story Writing In Australia Today?
A Talk Given at Melbourne Writers Festival, August 2004
The
only crisis gripping short story writing in Australia today is, the way
I see it, a failure of imagination and nerve on the part of both those
who write and publish. The stuff that gets published in the magazines
is, for the most part, stylistically and structurally conservative
social realism, written to a certain word length and to a vague
hand-me-down notion of what a good stolid Australian short story should
be. Rare are the times when you come across something that falls
outside this paradigm. Short story competitions, the only other
potential outlet for this kind of work, likewise (perhaps unwittingly)
reinforce this outdated notion of what a ‘good short story’ should be
by rewarding (for the most part) conservative over radical forms. As
for the big book publishers, their failure of imagination and nerve is
legion. Short story collections by Australian authors (even
conservative ones) are ‘out of fashion’, they won’t sell; the received
wisdom apparently being that, particularly where a new untried writer
is concerned, you’re better off publishing a badly-written novel than a
brilliantly-written collection of stories because-well, I don’t really
know why.
So what is a short story? What’s it for? Why do we
bother? Why don’t we write a poem or a novel instead? Why don’t we
write a letter to The Age? I do think there is some imperative about
the art and purpose of short fiction, something about the form that by
necessity concentrates the mind-both writer’s and reader’s-and gives us
an experience, a brief glimpse into something else, that no other form
of writing can. A good short story has a concentration, a compaction or
concertina-ing inwards of language that is all its own. Sure it tells a
story, but its ability to tell more than just a story is dependent upon
this intensification of language which is of course also an
intensification of feeling. Its effects are lasting not just because of
‘what is told’ but precisely because of this concentrated method of
telling. It achieves the maximum narrative drive with the minimum
amount of narrative machinery.
We simply don’t allow or
encourage let alone invite our short fiction writers to be adventurous
with the form. To vary the length, to play with the voice, to
experiment with structure, to invent new narrative engines, to get
outside the straightjacket of realism, or to at least find a new
realism that’s not out of the Chekhov/Carver handbook.
A better
kind of short story will be written and more (and more varied forms of)
short fiction will be published, only when we isolate the art of short
fiction writing out as distinct and separate from all other artforms,
an art demanding and unique.
In the same way that we wouldn’t
suggest to a poet that he or she is writing poetry really only as a
prelude to becoming an opera librettist, or to a ceramicist that
they’re well on their way now to becoming a sculptor-so we shouldn’t
insult the writer of short fiction or their art by suggesting that it’s
an apprenticeship to something else, something bigger. Bigger is not
always better, in fact, it’s often much worse: we could all care a bit
more about the words we use, use them more sparingly, more precisely,
more diligently, hitch them more tightly to the things worth saying.
When
we start seeing short fiction writing as a thing-unto-itself, an
imperative art, with its own restrictions and demands, its own freedoms
and joys, its own unique ability to nail an idea, image or a sensation
in a way that longer forms of prose simply cannot, then we might be
heading towards a revitalisation of the artform. And I suspect, once
revitalised, those ivory-tower publishers who have looked down on it
for so long might start looking up at it instead.