The Short Story Reconsidered

     First of all, let me say that this is not a book blog, nor am I in any shape or form a literary critic. Everyone who knows me knows that I love reading as an educational activity and as sheer entertainment as well as companionship, and also that I love the physical book, period. Most of all, I read for love of language.

     However, since this is a blog about my different perspectives on life, and since reading has formed and continues to form many of those perspectives, I do feel obliged to write about books from time to time, including my personal opinions of, and reactions to, same.

     The novel has always been my favorite literary form. Years ago, I bought a volume of short stories by Laurie Colwin, a writer whose novels I rather liked at the time, in an attempt to widen my horizons; however, I didn't really "take" to the form, so naturally assumed afterward that I never would. I should have known that tasting only one writer's stories does not form a good basis for judgment, but in my defense, I felt there were certainly enough novels to keep me happily occupied for the rest of my life, so who needs short stories, anyway?

     I have loved the novels of Elizabeth Taylor for many years now, ever since Virago first began reissuing them, so when Nicola Beauman's biography of Taylor came out a few years ago, I immediately bought and read it. Beauman praises Taylor's short stories highly, as do many other critics and authors, proclaiming her a master of the form. According to Beauman, Taylor likened the short story to the lyric poem in arc and movement. Since I am a poet, this comparison struck a loud chord in me and prompted me to give short stories another chance—and whose stories but Taylor's would serve me better in that capacity?

     I recently finished reading her collection The Blush and absolutely loved all the stories in it. I now have a genuine appreciation for the difficulty of writing what are essentially, to me anyway, novels in miniature, of cramming so much information and impact in so few pages. And to do so with as much grace, humor, perception, and seeming ease as did Elizabeth Taylor is nothing short of astonishing; that she is able, with just one little tale, to elicit so many varying reactions from me—amusement, sympathy, indignation, surprise—is enough to erase forever my former indifference toward the form. I feel I am now ready to sample another author—another Elizabeth, perhaps? Elizabeth Bowen?

Whassup?

     I seem to be experiencing a kind a trough at the moment, one of those hopefully short-lived phases in which nothing interests me, I can't be bothered, it's difficult to rouse myself even to read.

     By the way, did you know that, according to Webster's Dictionary, "short-lived" and "long-lived" are pronounced with a long "i"? All my life, I've heard people pronounce it with a short "i." I myself have always pronounced it with a short "i." I've also always heard "reptile" pronounced with a long "i," but Webster's says it's a short "i." Go figure.

     Because of this trough, it took me forever to finish Diana Tutton's novel Guard Your Daughters. I liked it quite a lot, and were I not in a trough I would have zipped right through it, it being the kind of easy-going read that makes no great demands on concentration or analytical powers. It's a straightforwardly delightful book, one that I'll most probably read again sometime down the road, and probably when I'm in another trough and can't be bothered with anything heavier.

     Though not really a short story fan, I find that short stories, along with essays, of which I am a big fan, do very well for me during troughs. I can finish one story or essay in a matter of minutes rather than hours or days, and when finished reading it, I can enjoy that particular self-congratulatory satisfaction of having done so. Currently, I'm leisurely making my way through Elizabeth Taylor's short story collection The Blush and continuing to dip occasionally into Christopher Morley essays. I must say, Taylor never fails to impress me. What a stunning writer.

     As for my own writing, the past two months have yielded eight new poems and one major revision, quite a lot when you compare it to the two little measly poems I squeezed out between last December and this past September. Honestly, I had all but given up. Despite this recent writing surge, it's been difficult to summon the motivation to submit anything for publication; finally mailing off six poems to The Lyric was done with a marked lack of enthusiasm. They'll probably hate them.

     Heigh-ho.

     On the plus side, The Next Iron Chef: Redemption and Dancing with the Stars: All-Stars have provided much in the way of amusement. And I can just feel another new poem or two tickling the back of my brain. Or maybe it's just allergies.