Ask A Flash Fiction Editor: Is this Flash Fiction or a Prose Poem?

On By nancystohlmanIn Uncategorized10 Comments

Alright Rosemary, with your piece “Flashback” (full text below) on the docket and your comment to me about “is this flash fiction?” you have now made it impossible for me to put this conversation off any longer!

ImageMy hesitation, of course, is that definitions can be slippery, and the minute you try to define something it quickly escapes its own definition (recently I had a similarly challenging conversation about defining “erotica”). And because flash fiction and the prose poem share many traits, and the boundaries are somewhat fluid, the best we can do is clarify the shades of gray and make the two more distinct from one another.

So here goes: Prose poems are poems crafted with the traditional sentences and devices of prose writing but still relying heavily on poetic devices such as heightened imagery and precision of language.

Flash fiction are stories crafted with the devices of storytelling such as story arc and tension but compressed into limited language, normally no more than 1000 words.

So obviously there is already much natural crossover, particularly around their use of deliberate and concentrated language. But what separates the two? Can’t flash fiction use imagery and emotional effects? Absolutely. Can’t poetry tell a story? Of course. I think the answer lies in the primal impulse or driving force of a piece: Prose poetry is driven by imagery and emotion whereas flash fiction is driven by narrative.

So Rosemary, let’s look specifically at your piece, “Flashback”, with these thoughts in mind. And rather than worrying about defining it, let’s instead push your story unequivocally into the realm of flash fiction.

First off, I have to admit that I am a big fan of the mini-mini, the extra short flash piece, so I love when a writer has the precision of both language and focus to craft a tiny little nugget, as you have done here. And right away your first sentence pulls me in with an action (story movement) a pointed finger (characterization), and an ownership: I surveyed that (tension).  It suggests conflict and narrative brilliantly without any wasted words or time.

But the story starts to lose that initial tension and eventually feels more like a snapshot. Remember, one of the keys to flash fiction is a sense of urgency, of something unfolding—or having just unfolded. I think you can bend your story arc a bit more prominently to let your message be driven by the narrative rather than be implied. Currently the narrative becomes downplayed in favor of the message about land and ownership. In a poem you can deliver this message in many ways, but in a flash fiction piece you always have to get there through narrative.

One way you might do this is to craft the backstory leading up to this moment. Perhaps you do this in a series of escalating images that deliver us to this act of (subtle) defiance, so that even though we are entering the story at the end of the story arc, what comes before still feels prominently bent. Consider one of my favorite (tiny!) stories that does just that:

The Scarlatti Tilt—by Richard Brautigan

“It’s very hard to live in a studio apartment in San Jose with a man who’s learning to play the violin.” That’s what she told the police when she handed them the empty revolver.

OR you could make the action—her defiance/confrontation—happen more in the present moment. Right now your driving energy seems to be the message, but this message could be delivered more effectively by never actually saying it.

For example: Currently the man drives by at the beginning of the piece, points his finger, and then he’s gone (taking a lot of the tension with him). So the woman, our protagonist, is literally just standing in his dust. What if you were to let that moment—him driving by and her coming to the porch to meet his gaze…what if you were to let that moment build? He’s driving slowly, and she’s walking to the porch to stare him down—she’s not about to cower. In that moment when their eyes meet we feel the defiance, and then the dust rising between them becomes something much different. And you will have delivered your message obliquely through narrative rather than through a straight polemic.

And one last (minor) thing: Watch your sentence fragments. They seem to reflect possible previous line breaks, but an abundance of sentence fragments can become distracting unless they are directly supporting the content (for example, if you are talking about chopping up the land into parcels they might work well).

Rosemary, thanks again for letting us see your process on this piece, as I’m realizing that this is a conversation that many poets and flash fiction writers are currently having, and thanks for allowing me my two cents on the topic.

Please feel free to comment and continue the conversation. And if you would like me to consider your flash fiction piece in progress for the topic of a future conversation, please email me at nancystohlman@gmail.com or find me on Facebook.

Happy Writing!

~Nancy Stohlman

Flashback

By Rosemary Roysten

The man who surveyed the land drives by, points his finger:  I surveyed that.  The woman looks out, sees large brick homes with only a few feet between them.  Empty wooden decks.  Blinded windows.  The man who surveyed your land does not live on it.  He makes money from marking what you believe is rightfully yours.  An imaginary boundary that appears very real – one that will hold up in court.  A deed, a document you can find in the county courthouse.  Plats.  Plumb lines.  But all this makes the woman laugh, because she neither believes in the calculation of time nor the ownership of land.  How does one own what owns itself?  Land Is.  It exists with or without boundaries.  Just look at a map.  The Panhandle of Florida.  Where does Alabama end and why?  Because a man drew a sword and drew a map and then drew a claim.  The land is the land.   None of it is yours.  All of it is.

Self Promotion is Not a Dirty Word: Six Tips For Writers

On By nancystohlmanIn Uncategorized6 Comments

ImageIf I hear another writer tell me they are no good at self promotion, I will eat my computer. Let’s face it: We all want to be left alone with our writing and let someone else handle the promotion part. I mean, I’d love to have checks arrive effortlessly in the mail as well. But most of us realize that this is not a reality in today’s world, and that the fantasy of someone important happening to stumble upon us in our scotch-laden bunker and catapulting us to success with little effort is just the last dying breaths of the Oprah mythology.

So let’s get to work. Here are six basics to help every writer step confidently into their own advocacy.

Step One: Write a good bio. I emphasize good, here. We are writers, this one should be easy—so why does your bio put me to sleep? It’s because even writing a bio is often the first resistance that writers must face. If you find yourself saying, “I don’t like to praise myself” then I ask you this: If you can’t praise your work, how do you expect anyone else to? Find that balance between impressive and humble, between professional and still reflecting your writerly personality. Read lots of other bios and make note of the ones that stay with you. First impressions are important, and your bio is often the first contact a potential reader has with you.

 Step Two: Take a real bio picture. You don’t have to spend money on this, but don’t just crop your face from the group New Years Eve shots.  You must know someone who knows someone who is dabbling in photography—do a little bartering. Buy them lunch in exchange for giving them a subject to practice on. Take a walk and take a few dozen interesting pictures. My first author headshot, taken by Ivan Gomez, was shot while we were playing with his new camera and walking around my neighborhood, and I still use it today. Again, it’s all about first impressions: your potential reader will only take you as seriously as you take yourself.

Step Three: Have a website. Facebook doesn’t count. It’s important for people who are or will be looking you up on the internet to land on a real website: one concise place where they can find out about you, see your pic, read your publications, check out your upcoming events, and purchase your work.  Again, you don’t have to spend money on this. My website (here) is hosted through wordpress.com, which is free, and there are plenty of other free sites. If later you want to upgrade to a particular domain (such as my nancystohlman.com above), you can always reroute your domain name to your blog for minimal fees—less than $20 a year.

Step Four: Publish stuff. This kind of goes without saying, but you would be surprised how many writers guard their work as if it can only be published in one holy glob—and it ultimately puts them in a position of trying to publish a novel with no other publishing credits. The best way to get people excited about your work is to let them read pieces of it. It’s impossible to be excited about your work if it is guarded away in your bunker. So publish stories or excerpts, offer to guest blog or write book reviews for your colleagues—but publish stuff. I personally aim to publish 12 pieces a year—which means I send out at least three times that many.

Step Five: Thou Shalt Not Promote By Internet Alone. Get out of the house! Again, the days of hiding in your bunker are over. If you want to gain readers you have to be part of the community and publicly promote your work by reading it at literary events in your town. Can’t find a literary event in your town? Then it looks like it’s time for you to start one. Some of my earliest public appearances were “salons” held in the generous living rooms of others. Invite some other writers, bring some wine, and you have just created a literary event that may grow legs and a become a vortex of community.

Step Six: Support other writers. It’s easy to get into a scarcity mindset—a fear that there is not enough money or readers for everyone, and that every other writer is a threat to your success. That is just not true—there is plenty for everyone, and the best way to get the flow coming back to you is to send it out to others. Openly support the work and promotional efforts of your colleagues. We are all in this together, and we all do better when we all do better.

Happy Writing!

~Nancy Stohlman

Questions? Email me at nancystohlman@gmail.com

Welcome to the Monster Opera: Chatting with Nancy Stohlman About Relationships, Writing, and Flashing

On By nancystohlmanIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

by Nathaniel Tower

Read the original here

A few months ago, Bartleby Snopes Press announced its call for Flash Novels. This was an idea that had been brewing in my mind for a couple years, but I wasn’t quite sure how to do it. When the idea for Flash Novels just wouldn’t go away, I decided it was time to go for it. Similar to last year’s shortlisted Post-Experimental issue, I knew it would work its way into something real.

So far, we’ve accepted three Flash Novels, all of which we’re excited to publish. Perhaps the quirkiest, and maybe the most important, is Monster Opera by Nancy Stohlman. Unbeknownst to me at our original launch for submissions, Nancy Stohlman had actually already invented the term “Flash Novel” and published one of her own.

I had the pleasure to sit down and chat with the self-proclaimed (and confirmed) creator of the Flash Novel. Here’s what she had to say. Nancy Library Close up 2 (1)

Nancy, it’s an honor to chat with you today. As Managing Editor of Bartleby Snopes, I must say that I am extremely excited about publishing Monster Opera as one of our first flash novels this summer/fall. Let’s get down to business.

First, tell us about yourself as a writer. Don’t forget to include the details of the grand revelation occurred that made you become a writer (we all have one, right?).

Thanks, Nate! I’m so thrilled for this collaboration with Bartleby Snopes!

Well my grand revelation was more of a slow seeping…I came of age in the library. We were a military family, we moved every few years, so my connections with others were always fleeting. When I was learning to read I lived in Europe: West Germany, Spain. No internet. No American television. Long distance calls were expensive and rare. The library became my connection to the States, and then eventually to the world. I was volunteering at the library by the time I was 9, reading Nancy Drew and stamping people’s books.

So I guess I’ve always known. At nine years old I wrote a screenplay called Superman: The Musical.

The word “flash” always seems to pop up wherever I see your name. You work with the Flashbomb Reading Series, you run the website Ask a Flash Fiction Editor, and now you have this Flash Novel coming out. What’s with you and flashing?

I’m cracking up—maybe I’m just a literary exhibitionist! “Flash” is the safety word.

So my work has never fallen neatly into categories. This used to be extremely frustrating—I spent many years and several practice novels trying to make it behave. Finally in grad school a professor suggested I get a bit more ragged around the edges. I guess I just needed permission. But I think that can be said for genre as well—Flash is roughing them all up, calling them out. I believe we’re witnessing an artistic movement that’s creating an entirely new kind of writing. So for me the word flash means freedom—a true surrender into art.

Monster Opera isn’t your first Flash Novel. In fact, it seems you coined the term “flash novel” (although I hadn’t actually read any of your work when I decided to make up the term myself a couple years later). What inspired the flash novel?

I coined the term in 2008 for my Master’s thesis, The Flash Manifesto, at about the same time that I was finishing Searching for Suzi. Suzi was the first novel where I gave myself permission to stop writing a novel. At the time Wikipedia wouldn’t let me create a page for “flash novels” (they said you couldn’t create a page for a term), so when the book came I insisted that we put “flash novel” on the cover, even though it felt sort of silly at the time. “Flash novel?  You mean novella?” everyone asked.

No. See, we’re writers, we know the power of naming. I know very few writers aiming to write a novella, and I find this problematic, because there are many, many, many stories that don’t require 60,000 words. A lot of stories would be smothered in 60,000 words. But novelists continue writing novels with parameters set by big publishing, which is really the antithesis of the creative process. The story takes as long as the story takes.

So does that mean that flash novels are novellas with a makeover? No. Shakespeare knew it, Orwell knew it: thought follows language. We create a word, we create a possibility. We write things into being. Language creates meaning where there wasn’t meaning before. The flash novel is becoming, right now.

In one sentence, what makes a good flash novel?

A flash novel is an exquisitely sliced novel.

Tell us about Monster Opera. It’s been around for a while, hasn’t it?

Okay, so I have to confess that the same morning I got Bartleby Snopes’ email, I was in the process of breaking up with it again: “Look, you’re just too weird, I don’t think we can make this work.” It’s probably the most audacious thing I’ve ever written, and I doubted myself a lot in the process. Readers had only two reactions: dazed/awe, or complete confusion. So I had to really trust my vision, even when it didn’t make sense to me.

About two years ago I decided to do a staged reading (still unfinished then) with composer Nick Busheff and a small cast of opera singers and actors. We performed in an antique warehouse to a full house of people who all left with the “Monster Opera” daze on their faces—I actually overheard someone say, “I have to go home and think about what just happened.” All the enthusiasm gave me the confidence I needed to finish it. And though it lends itself to performance, I firstly see it as a written work.

Where did you come up with the idea for this cross-genre masterpiece?

Blushing. I was already a lover of opera and classical music, but then I discovered Gertrude Stein’s libretto Four Saints in Three Acts. For those of you who don’t know, composers usually hire a librettist to write the words to their music. When I discovered Stein’s libretto (in the library!), I was stunned. It was both pure opera and pure Stein. It was an amazing piece of writing.

Susan Sontag says the novel and opera are the two most antiquated artistic forms, not having evolved through the stages of modernism, post modernism, etc., that have shaped the other arts. Being a lover of both, I saw how these two forms were fighting for their own relevancy…and I wondered what would happen if I let them fight it out on the page?

You describe yourself as a promotional fiend. What are your promotional methods? What have you found that works and what doesn’t?

Ha! Yes, it’s a necessary evil, and one that I don’t think writers take seriously. People tell me, “You’re so good at it!” But my promotional methods are about 85% naïve audacity. I think my greatest strength is that I’m not afraid to fail—I’d rather fail than not try. When I hear (every!) writer say, “I’m not good at the promotional part,” I want to say, “Neither am I, I just show up and do it anyway!”

If we don’t use the same passion to put our work into the world, then we’re ultimately birthing it and abandoning it. And I’ve learned collaboration is crucial: None of us have to do this alone. That’s why I started the F-Bomb reading series—I wanted a place where I could put other people in the spotlight and say: Look! Look at yourself. See….own it. You are awesome.

What are your ultimate goals as a writer?

To write, full time, and make my living that way. I’m pretty sure if I were given the gift of time I might take myself into realms of creation that are still inaccessible to me right now. Ultimately I envision a world where artists are acknowledged as visionaries and paid accordingly.

Fill in the blanks: If Monster Opera doesn’t__________________then I will _____________________________________.

If the Monster Opera doesn’t leave you 100% satisfied, then I will personally come to your house with a bottle of wine and a VHS copy of Fatal Attraction, and you can explain your grievance in great detail.

Which of the following is most closely associated with Monster Opera (and why):

The Muppets

The Phantom of the Opera

“Monster Mash”

Monster Magnet

Monstropolis

The Phantom of the Opera, but unlike Phantom there’s a self-awareness—not unlike a Shakespeare comedy—of being inside of one’s one melodrama. It’s funny and tragic and haunting all at once. But Miss Piggy might make a fantastic Magdelena.

What’s one piece of advice you have for any writer, seasoned or rookie?

Stop worrying about publication! And most importantly, cross-pollinate: go to museums, orchestras, operas, fashion shows, comedy shows, go to movies alone, cook, draw, dance, take photographs, take adventure walks, read random things off library shelves. Being an artist is a way of life.

Now it’s your turn. Ask me one question. It could be about anything. Make it count.

Okay (rubbing hands): Why did you choose to actively seek flash novels for publication?

Fantastic question. Part of it, like with our Post-Experimentalism issue, is to explore the possibilities of writing. We’ve seen the short story condense itself in recent years. Could the same thing happen to the novel?

Maybe it stems from my desire to be able to read more books. I never seem to have the time, and often when I read novels these days, I often find myself disappointed in the end. It seems like many authors rush to create some finality or twist or shock in order to bring the thing to a close. That’s obviously a blanket statement that doesn’t reflect every novel, or probably even half the novels written. But it seems to be a trend in modern novel writing. So let’s buck that trend. Why spend all this time developing a plot and characters, making a reader invest all this time, just to let us down at the end? As you said, let’s slice that novel into something we can read maybe in one sitting and still feel the fulfillment of a great novel. I think you make an important distinction in your responses. A flash novel is not a novel. It’s not a novella. It’s not a short story. It’s something else. Something new. Hopefully something grand. Whatever the case, it’s a new monster.

Ask A Flash Fiction Editor: Size Does Matter

On By nancystohlmanIn Uncategorized2 Comments

I’m excited to feature my old colleague, Nicholas Michael Ravnikar’s, piece in progress, “The New Addition”, for this conversation. Nicholas and I worked together on two flash fiction anthologies with Fast Forward Press, so I’m thrilled to revisit his work!

ImageOne of my favorite exhibits in the Chicago Institute of Art is the Thorne Miniature Rooms: tiny replicas of actual rooms painstakingly crafted on a scale of one inch: one foot. You press your face up to each of the 68 windows and gaze at the tiny world inside: fully formed rooms, complete with intricate period details, exotic woods, fabrics, chandeliers and hand-woven rugs. The attention to detail in each room would be fascinating even at life size, but the true fascination is the fact that they are just so damn tiny! Like painting the Mona Lisa on a grain of rice or a sculpture of Charlie Chaplin balanced on an eyelash.

So let’s go ahead and debunk flash fiction myth #1 right now: Just because it’s small doesn’t mean it’s easier. Anyone who has written poetry knows how long you can agonize over 100 words.

One of the reasons people love flash fiction is, like the Thorne rooms, there is something awe-inspiring about entering a perfectly formed little world. If it’s done correctly, the stature becomes part of the art: readers can’t believe they just had such a complete story experience in such a tiny space. It becomes more of a testament to the skills of the writer, not the other way around.

So Nicholas, let’s talk about your piece, “The New Addition” (full text below).

When I enter your piece it’s like I’m entering one of these exquisite little rooms. I’m immediately grabbed by the description of the ketchup sandwich all the way to the insect paste, and there’s an urgency that yanks me into the sentences like I’ve been kidnapped into your world. It’s so exciting. Within seconds I feel implicated in the story, as if by witnessing the action I’ve somehow participated in it. And that is really the beauty of abstract art: to invoke feelings that you couldn’t get to by more conventional ways.

But there is a lack of coherence that ends up pulling me into this exotic world and then leaves me stranded and confused. And I realize I’m in touchy territory because coherence isn’t always a goal for a writer. You are admittedly in love with language, and your world is so cleverly fragmented and infused with intrigue…but I feel like you lead us into the room and don’t lead us out.

And we’re so smitten that we almost want to forgive you for this.

But let me offer this suggestion: even if coherence wasn’t your original goal…we want so badly to understand! Because we want to stay in this world. Therefore, if you can give us both this imagery and intrigue and the satisfaction of really allowing us cognitively into the piece, it will go from beautiful to phenomenal and have a more lasting effect.

One of the ways that I think you could bring clarity to the story without sacrificing too much abstraction is to let your characters themselves be signposts: Right now the story begins with “they”, which we know includes her and someone else. Then we meet “you” narrating. Then we meet “her girlfriend” in Mexico—and we’re not sure if this is the other half of the “they” from the beginning or a fourth character. There is a “girlfriend’s drug dealer” as well as a “he’ that shows up at the end, which could be the other half of the original “they” or could be referring to the dealer. By the end of the story my brain is holding onto to all six threads trying to make them connect. But eventually I surrender and decide that in order to really get it I’m going to need to be 25% smarter.

So this is actually the flipside of what I was saying a few weeks ago about trusting the reader: Trust the reader, but leave breadcrumbs just in case.

Again, I realize that being crystal clear doesn’t have to be a goal. But the lack of coherence might be keeping readers at an unnecessary distance when you want them enmeshed, and I don’t think it wouldn’t take too many strategic clues to keep the reader fully engaged. Right now we’re being pulled out too often trying to make sense of it. But the bottom line is we want to stay in this room you’ve crafted, so throw us some crumbs and we’ll follow you, I promise.

Happy Writing!

~Nancy Stohlman

 (I welcome all comments and conversations, so join in! And feel free to find me on Facebook or contact me at nancystohlman@gmail.com)

THE NEW ADDITION

by Nicholas Michael Ravnikar

Ketchup sandwich in hand, the crest of winter, St. Patrick’s day. It’s around the time of the new addition. The wedding was last June. This is the first time since that they’ve slept apart. The sheet-plastic walls and the sawdust got to be too much for her. Then she thought of you, filled the gas tank and booked the same room. At least, she thinks it is. What a mouthful. No more of this.

Notice the sweet summer storm sort of sunset in this photograph she’s thumbing. You never gave her this one: your shirt after the plate glass lacerations, lying on a concrete Embarcadero bench. She had to dig around for a copy online—it wasn’t hard, with your public profile. She ordered a print from the Walgreens by the overpass. The blood dyes the fabric, amplifies her pulse. When did you last investigate the seams of her tendons audibly?

The telephone you left smeared with Jiffy your last night here sits beside her. She indexes your flat-naked craw, recalls how you threw the plastic salmon base cradle at her girlfriend’s dealer when you discovered them. Her loud skin, this browsing of images, and your thin grimace wondering back into her figure to arch her spine again. Slightly clad in low-thread count rough motel sham, her thighs fold over memories of you, of your calluses.

More of them are like us here.

Two blocks from Broadway, you meant. You could always appear tender.

Flamethrowers, she said.

Or else they had assault rifles.

Big difference.

Why did you have to see me first?

Then one can’t locate the other, and the latter keeps quiet. Eventually, she’ll call. Or he will, impossibly. Even if that, holding withered boundaries. And then captions run in yellow Ariel across the bottom of the flat screen: “Either the Vikings or the Raiders will kill us next year.”

You need to call babies human babies. She makes this resolution. And that helps a bit.

It’s even weirder when starlit seas compound her view of the village as she leans across the harbor, squinting. The next step of her calming calls for an insect paste smeared across the map of her features. It burns some. Then it comes: a sisterly smile. Stunning. The next morning, she drives home mumbling her five-year-old response to you: Life is never normal.

 *

Nicholas Michael Ravnikar saddles the tears of Mesoamerica with committees that bloom out the windows of his hopscotch factory. “Nine years ago, I watched a fire consume a kindergarten school desk,” he says. “We poured a makeshift absinthe on the embers. Today, I delight in more sordid fancies — for instance, skateboarding after three years at twelve in the afternoon.” With 83 texts (mostly English) in circulation at many small venues online and in print, he resides between one and twenty miles from the coast of Lake Michigan, just past the northern limns of the Illinois-Wisconsin border. Look for his haiku on Facebook.