The Long and Short of It!

Today, there are seemingly endless ways to tell stories; from the traditional narrative prose of the much-revered novel and short stories to the more contemporary esoteric forms of flash fiction, social media micro-fiction threads, interactive text messages, audio-only voice notes, to collaborative community storytelling apps to name just a few. Whatever your favorite genre happens to be, there is no shortage of literary forms that can be adapted to tell a great story.

In the midst of my charting out the storyline for my third manuscript, I realized that my ideas were much more suited for a short story rather than a full-length storybook. It had all the necessary prerequisites: A single focus (only three characters); Limited time (it takes place over a single evening); Tight space: One scene occurs in a single open room; Finally, high stakes: a singular event is the crux of the story.

As far back as I can recall, I have been enamored with the notion of taking an idea that might revolve around a single moment, decision, or revelation and bringing it to life, telling it effectively without requiring hundreds of pages……pure genius! I vividly recalled how a well written short story could deliver a really powerful  emotional punch that left me thinking long after I’d finished reading.

Taking a stroll down memory lane in my head, helped me understand why I was so drawn to this particular literary form. And then it hit me! It was back in high school (early ‘70s) that I became enamored of the well written short story. I specifically recall how these stories allowed me to explore a wide range of styles, voices, and themes without having to commit an entire  semester to reading just one author or novel. Of course, Shakespeare remained a constant in the curriculum, from Julius Caesar and Romeo and Juliet to Hamlet, Macbeth, and several comedies, but I especially treasured the short fiction we read.

I was particularly drawn to gothic suspense and psychological tales by the nineteenth and early twentieth-century writers, such as Washington Irving’s gothic “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” and Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher” and “The Tell-Tale Heart.”

My love of suspense deepened with Wilbur Daniel Steele’s “Footfalls,” about a blind cobbler who recognizes people by their footsteps. How ingenious! And W. W. Jacobs’s “The Monkey’s Paw,” a cautionary tale about wishes with horrifying consequences….absolutely riveting! So, I headed straight to my local library and checked out a copy of  The Best American Short Stories of the Century 1999 edition (curated by John Updike and co-edited by Katrina Kenison). I made my way through the 800 pages of the works of notable literary giants of the day; Dorothy Parker, Willa Cather, James Baldwin, Jean Toomer, and a host of others whose works span across all genres and styles. What a delight! I fell in love all over again.

But what really sealed the deal for me was taking a four-week writing course called “Submitting to Literary Journals and Magazines.” After completing the course, I posited that published short stories could be a great way to build an audience and stories might also be an excellent way to introduce readers to my writing style or explore ideas that don't fit into a full-length children's book. A polished short story could be completed in a matter of weeks or months, half the time of an illustrated full-length story book or novel which could take years. I’m thinking it could also be an opportunity to help establish my reputation with editors and publishers before or alongside publishing longer works.

From the reader’s perspective, in today’s world of expediency, the beauty of the short story is that  it can be finished in one sitting, making it an appealing format, particularly for reluctant young readers. Short stories also lend themselves as ideal teaching tools because they can be read and analyzed within a few class periods.

Growing up in the Deep South in the ’60s, short stories were woven into everyday life. A simple encounter with a neighbor, a sweltering Sunday afternoon, or a forbidden swim in the creek behind our grandparents’ house could become a story. For generations, particularly when literacy was limited or forbidden for many, storytelling and folklore were powerful ways of preserving history, traditions, and connections. Stories lived in handmade quilts, with each panel carrying its own history; in cherished family recipes passed down selectively; in hymns and lullabies that connected us to where we came from; and in stories of deep sorrow born of the unimaginable, distant journeys that paved roads to success,  the joyful laughter of reunions, and fortitude anchored in hope and faith. Perhaps this is why the short story form feels so deeply personal and dear to me.

So for my next publication, I’m stepping off the familiar path and into something a bit more nimble, a bit more daring. Instead of pursuing a full-length work, I’ve decided to submit a short story to a literary journal. The piece I am currently working on is more concise, yet no less meaningful. It is an amalgamation of lived experiences from my childhood that left lasting impressions on my understanding of the world and how to navigate life.

The first event occurred when I was nine years old. One evening, while our parents were out for the evening , my two older sisters, then thirteen and fifteen, were left in charge of us younger siblings. After dinner, we gathered in the living room to watch television when someone knocked at the door.

My thirteen-year-old sister, acting as the lady of the house, approached the screened-in porch and saw a man who bore a striking resemblance to our neighbor next door. Assuming it was him, she called out his name. When the man answered affirmatively, she unlatched the door and let the man in. Almost immediately, we realized he was not our neighbor. What followed was a brief encounter that lasted only a matter of minutes, though to a frightened nine-year-old it seemed like an eternity. The stranger asked for nothing and simply required a moment of respite before going on his way. No harm came to anyone. What remains with me is not simply the fear of that night, but the composure of my older siblings. They remained calm and respectful toward a stranger whose intentions were uncertain, while quietly keeping watch over us younger children. From them, I learned an early lesson about measured courage in the face of the unknown.

The second formative experience occurred in fifth grade through the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Reading The Harp-Weaver, and Other Poems, I discovered for the first time that poetry could tell a story—that lyrical language could carry in unison plot, character, setting, and profound emotion. The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver, with its depiction of maternal love, poverty, and sacrifice, captivated me. I often returned to it throughout high school, drawn each time to its emotional power.

In high school, my fascination with this genre amplified through other narrative poems such as Samuel Taylor Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Alfred Noyes's The Highwayman. Their haunting imagery, internal rhythms, refrains, and unforgettable characters showed me that a story could live simultaneously in language, music, and memory.

And then there was the parable—the ancient form of metaphorical storytelling embedded in the Christian scriptures. The story of the Widow's Offering in the Gospel of Mark has remained especially meaningful to me: a poor widow gives the last coins she possesses, an act of generosity that carries a meaning far greater than its material value.

Looking back, these experiences seem less like separate moments than a continuous education in the power of story. From that frightening evening at nine, when I witnessed courage and compassion in action, to the poems and parables that taught me about sacrifice, love, generosity, and moral courage, I learned that stories do more than entertain. They reveal who we are, what we value, and how we choose to meet one another in the world.

Those lessons were not learned from just books or stories alone. They were lived by my parents and grandparents, whose example instilled in me and my siblings the moral compass of generosity, cheerful giving, and sharing hope with others. In many ways, their lives were the first stories I ever learned to read. Together, these moments imparted a guiding sense of purpose and taught me how to navigate life with empathy, respect, and attention to the dignity of others.

Weaving borrowed elements from each of these lived experiences, I have crafted my first short story, Once Upon a Silent Night, a lyrical narrative that brings to life a story of how the lives of a widow and her son are changed after an unexpected encounter with a stranger on a cold winter night.

And while I have not abandoned the storybook or the prospect of a novel (I’m working on a mystery trilogy as I write this post), this shift feels both practical and creatively refreshing. In this space, I’ll share how the process unfolds—from selecting the right journals, to navigating submission guidelines, to managing the emotional terrain of waiting, rejection, and (hopefully) acceptance. This is as much an experiment as it is a transition, and I’m inviting you along for the journey.

Here’s to trying something new, embracing the unknown, and trusting that even the smallest stories can find their way. That’s the long and short of it !