The short story is in essence, a liqueur.
It is best distilled, concentrated until the proof of its potency is brought forth as a stronger liquor. Amber in the glass.
The less amount of words in a story, the more powerfully a story can be distilled. If done correctly (what is correct, Sapha, in this realm of relativistic reader response? All people have different opinions, you know), and I define “correctly” in this case as a condition on how effective a piece is in titivation, emotional captivation or worth in being remembered, a short story becomes the sip of divine ichor which resonates for the remainder of the reader’s life.
I think of the short fiction which inspired me, of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings, William Gibson’s Johnny Mnemonic, or Albert Camus’s Le Mythe de Sisyphe, none of them would have been improved by added word length. They were as succinct as they needed to be, and left vast impressions on my creative mind. On life.
When we as creatives approach a short story, it behooves us to think of the distillation. In the process of distillation, impurities are removed and time is given to allow the particulates left behind to settle in. Get comfortable.
A liquor with too many notes is clouded, uncomfortable and unbalanced.
Hard to swallow, or so overwhelming a person has no choice but to choke it down or sip it in a mundane and unremarkable fashion, until it’s forgotten in favour of that really good brew one had before.
This timely process happens before liquid is placed in bottle. Before the cover art label with its cheeky or prestigious marketing is affixed to the side of often smooth glass. Plastic, if you’re in for that sort of mixer.
Part of the distillation process is a condensing of character, like the condensation of a series of tasting notes into a fine blend. Let one predominant note stand out, let it shine as your main character.
The protagonist and narrative driver of the story.
Who are they? What are they, if you are inclined toward fantasy or non-human characters? What is it they represent? An idea, an expression, a question which cannot stop whispering in the back of your mind, when you get to work on something entirely different? How do they view the world?
What is it, through the change which happens in the story (there is always change in a good story, whether emotional, mental, external or circumstantial), the protagonist learns, inhabits or destroys?
Are they, and thus the story, going from a place of chaos to a place of order, or are they going from an orderly beginning to a chaotic shake-up from which they might never recover? Is this a descent to madness, an ascent to clarity or a battle to cling to their norms, however much they’re being torn one way then the other?
Is it a docile but emotionally fulfilling slice of life, where the circumstances might not be dire, but comedic, or romantic or comforting? We need those sips of storytelling gold, too.
How do you get them there? What antagonist is necessary, what complimentary flavours to bring the protagonist to that place of change or a re-affirmation of the status quo?
Who do you need as a compliment or foil? Is the foil human? The secondary notes of a fine liqueur lend balance and support to the primary. Condense down. A reader doesn’t need six half-approached caricatures to confuse or muddle the blend, when two will do. If a character note is worth the concentration of the reader, distill them too, learn them, inhabit their virtues and vices until the entire mix comes into harmony.
They might not be the protagonist of this story, but another vintage. Another blend.
Once the mash is fermented, it’s time to blend. To taste and savour, then fill in-bottle. Another reduction of words might come then, in that final process. A few sSentences orated read aloud and found that they really didn’t need as many words as all this anyway and reduced.
View your short fiction as a fine vintage to be distilled, crafted into the brandy of the mind’s eye. Cork, label and package for sale.