I hated short stories. I found them unfulfilling. I was stupid and blind.
Then I did Highbrow’s short story course. They sent me one a day – The Furnished Room by O. Henry, Eveline by James Joyce – and I realised I’d just been reading the wrong short stories.
I suddenly saw how incredible they are – like a snapshot of a situation; the perfect soundbite of verisimilitude. Rich, earthy, crystalline, unctuous description.
So, recently I wrote one for myself. It turned out to be a fairly long short story but it was one none-the-less. And today, I found a proper short story I wrote years ago. What was I thinking? I hated them, didn’t I?
I read it and thought it quite good. Good enough that I’ve published it on Medium, if you’d like a peek.
Read A Dying Sun.