How not to write a short story

Tim Webster

(There'll be plenty of time to come up with a better title later if the story is any good) 

I’ve been glaring at this blank page for so long my eyes hurt. I can’t put it off anymore, time to start typing.

I don’t really know if I can, though.

Do I have to follow the rules of writing, or can I break them?

They say, ‘Just write’. But write what?

‘Write what you know’. That’s another saying. Well I know what happened today and I don’t want to write about that.

Bad intro. Let’s start fresh.

So, I'm writing a short story.

I need to start it with something big! No, not an exclamation mark. That's the sure sign of an amateur. I might as well use two exclamation marks!! OR WRITE IN CAPITALS SO IT LOOKS LIKE I’M YELLING.

Italics, that's much calmer, like a sweet whisper in my mind. Like a gentle breeze carrying the delicate aroma of spring wildflowers, tempting my thoughts from the past to re-emerge and sweep over me. I brush my fingers across the purple-prose flowers.

Well, this is excessive interior monologue. Not good at all.

Break time?

I look down from the computer screen, my belly bulges as I sit. Stop eating snacks, I think to myself. I know that my cholesterol is a problem and I have to watch what I eat, but. . . Navel-gazing about literal navel-gazing. No-No-No.

We need a character name. ‘Always give the main character an interesting name, so it’s distinctive and memorable.’ Well, I’m not good at thinking of character names. My own name, Tim, will have to do.

Should I use 3rd person narration? Tim sits at his computer, trying to type something, but his mind wanders as he looks around the room.

Or 1st person narration? On the desk beside me are empty coffee cups (I’ve gotta keep a lookout for the photo) and messy piles of papers. Hanging on the wall, mounted on a display plaque is an antique rifle which belonged to my grandfather. It’s a muzzle-loading flint-lock Kentuckian long rifle. He was a collector. It’s not a Chekov’s-gun. I don’t have the powder or ammunition to use it, so it’s more of a prop. The delicate woodgrain on the gun stock is oiled in a bright, red-herring finish.

Or, do I try 2nd person narration? What do you think? No, that’s a bit weird. Do you like 2nd person? I didn’t think you did. Wait, this isn’t even 2nd person is it? You realise it’s not. How do you write 2nd person anyway? You read this and think to yourself, I don’t think I can finish this story.

What about tense? Past: I tried to type but couldn’t. Present: I sit and procrastinate. Future: I will type something. I’ve just gotta concentrate. This is confusing.

We really need some action. An inactive protagonist is a big no-no. It’s just Tim sitting at a computer, trying to write a short story, but I have to do something. I have to get it going.

It was right then, while I was pondering that thought, ironically, I heard a sound from outside, “Meow.” No, I can’t get distracted, I thought. I’m just starting to get somewhere with the typing. But it came again, “Meow.”

It was the sound of a cat, trapped outside in the cage I’d set up earlier. Yes, I’ve finally caught her.

Backstory: The dreaded info dump. (I know there’s no time for this in a short story, but it really happened.)

Show-don’t-tell. Tim went outside this morning to water the plants and to his surprise, he found a stray cat huddled down in the garden bed. We don’t have a cat. He went over to check on it. From under the striped cat, a tiny kitten popped its cute, (ignore the dull adjectives) fluffy head up, with eyes barely opened. There were 4 kittens. The mother cat hissed at Tim and showed her teeth. Piss off, is what she tried to say.  Tim’s daughter begged to keep them, but he told her, “We are dog people.” He called the Council and an animal rescuer came. She tried to grab them but the mother cat ran away scared. She set up a cat trap and put the kittens in the back of the trap as bait, and told Tim she couldn’t take the kittens without the mother, as the kittens will rely on her for a few more weeks. She left, but told him to ring her if the mother cat got caught in the trap and she’d take them all to the Animal Rescue Centre.

Tim went back out after breakfast and saw the mother sniffing around, but she wasn’t going into the trap. He tried to call to her and thought he might be able to pick her up. Stupidly, he tried it. Tim grabbed her and she went ballistic, scratched and back-flipped. He grabbed her again and she contorted and bit his thumb. Her tooth went right through Tim’s fingernail. He couldn’t hold on to her and she ran away. He failed. He overestimated his cat catching ability by a mile. Tim went back inside and bandaged his finger. Way too much exposition. (All caught up.)

But, hearing that ‘Meow’ from the mother outside now coming from the trap, means that she is reunited with her kittens.

Nothing is more important to a mother than her babies.

I can now give the whole family of strays to the Animal Rescue Centre and they all will be looked after.

So today I’ve actually saved, not one, but five cats.

Backstory over, now back to the story.

I’d better set up the story conflict soon. I want to write a story, but I can’t. I’m trying, but it’s not working.

In high school, I won a short story writing contest. They even gave me a trophy for it. That small, first glimpse of success is what made me want to write. (I’ve had that trophy displayed on the mantle in the lounge for years.) So, maybe I just have to follow the old 3-act-structure, or is it a 5-act-structure? Hero’s journey/ Resist the call/all is lost/dark night of the soul/return with the elixir/mumbo-jumbo? That’s it. Step 2. I’m resisting the call. I’m not writing to that clichéd, sterile, paint-by-numbers formula. I’m not doing it.

Right now, I am getting very distracted by an annoying spider up in the corner of the ceiling. How can I write with that thing there ominously glaring at me? The spindly, pointed legs and bulbous abdomen, waiting there, for what? Do I try to catch it? Its creepy black body casts a foreshadow, making it seem bigger than it is.

Then I hear the front door opening. My wife’s home with the kids.

Just the distraction I needed. Don’t worry Tim, plenty of time left to write. (I’ve challenged myself to write the short story by the end of the day.)

My wife, Xanthe, walks in with the kids. I go to greet them. “Hi Honey.” She walks straight past me. Must be still upset about our fight earlier. The kids follow her in. My 9 year-old daughter, Lania waves to me then goes to her room. My 4 year-old son, JJ had red eyes from crying. I pick him up. “What’s wrong Buddy?”

He holds up his little wolf soft toy he loves more than anything and says, “The kids at kinder were laughing at me today, they said I was a baby for still playing with this.”

I hug him and point to his wolf toy, “Don’t worry about them.”

But he can’t be reassured, he jumps out of my arms and runs to the open front door. “I’ll never play with this stupid thing again.” Then he throws it out the door and stomps off with tears in his eyes.

I call back to him, but he’s too upset.

Gotta try to write. I won that writing trophy. Come on. Where’s the hook?

Maybe I should face what happened today. Stop avoiding. What’s the theme?

Excuses. Imposter syndrome. I’m not a writer. Maybe it’s writers block? Should I use AI prompts to get me going? Better not as that will confirm the imposter syndrome. Should I check my emails or google an ADHD test?

“Dinner’s ready.” Damn, I was just getting somewhere.

Xanthe looks at me across the table. “So, how’s the writing going? You’ve been in there most of the day.”

I smile and nod. “It’s okay.” Lie.

JJ’s still upset. I rub his hand. “Do you want me to get your wolf, Buddy?”

“I don’t ever want to talk about it.”

The kids finish dinner and get ready for bed.

Xanthe stands up to walk away, but turns to me. “So did you find the photo yet?”

Damn, I should have been looking for it. (sub-plot?)

All the writing today, it’s just been a distraction from the real problem, from the fight we had earlier. Time to face it. Inciting incident.

Flashback time: (No one cares about flashbacks.) By-the-way, what’s the difference between flashback and backstory?

Earlier in the day, Xanthe asked me, “So what are you going to do today?”

“I’m going to write a short story.”

“You know what day it is today right?”

I nodded. “Yes, of course I do, but I’ve been putting off writing and I feel like I need to try.”

“Well I hope you get some done.”

I pointed to my writing trophy on the mantle. “I can write you know. That trophy was won by me.” (Passive voice rarely works.)

She smiled. “You tell everyone about that trophy. So what? It’s just a stupid plastic trophy they give to kids and you’ve never won anything since.”

That hurt. “Yeah, well, tell me what you really think.”

“What I really think is, you’ve lost the photo. You’ve lost it because of all the junk you keep in that office, and if that trophy’s your greatest achievement, you are more deluded than I thought.”

I didn’t say anything. I just walked over to the mantle and picked up the trophy. I grabbed the base firmly with one hand and the top with the other. I clenched my jaw and bent the gold coloured plastic. It started to crack.

Xanthe stepped forward. “Tim, stop.”

I didn’t. I bent it until the trophy snapped in half. Then walked over to the bin and dropped the two pieces in.

Flashback finished.

Xanthe asks after dinner, “So did you find the photo yet?”

I shook my head and walked back to the office.

Shuffling papers and looking in drawers. It’s gotta be around here somewhere. I need to find it. I know I put it in here somewhere. It’s the only photo we have.

Where’s that spider gone? It’s not in the corner of the ceiling anymore.

Music pounds through the wall. It’s from my daughter, Lania’s room. I can’t work with that irritating bass drone rumbling the wall. Follow all the beats.

I go into her room. “Hey honey, would you mind turning it down a bit?”

“Um, okay.”

I look at her stereo. “What are you listening to?”

“Just some stuff that the kids at school are into.”

I smile at her. “I have a case full of CDs that you’re welcome to listen to. It’s all of my favourite stuff, in the front cupboard.”

Her eyes narrow. “CDs? Dad, you’re so old.”

“There’s some great stuff you might like.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

She didn’t even consider it?

Gotta try to write, the days almost over. Kids are in bed, some quiet time. No excuses.

It’s just a short story. Come on. Compared to a huge novel, a short story is like a shot of whisky. That’s good thinking. Maybe I should have a shot of whisky.

Just gotta sneak past Xanthe to the bar cabinet to get some. How? She’s right out there at the kitchen bench.

Think of it like a heist. First a decoy. Open YouTube on the computer, look for a video of key-typing sounds. Perfect. Just play the sounds from my computer so it’s like I’m in the office working. Now just sneak along the hall wall, stay close, quiet, get the bottle, sneak back. I’m going to make it, nearly there. No, the bottle slips out of my hand. My arm darts down like a viper striking its prey. Just managed to catch the bottle before it smashed. Lucky.

I’m sitting at the computer with the whisky. Utilise all the senses: Sweet; spicy; sticky; sun-rise; viscous; aromatic; moreish; evocative. Now I’m getting somewhere.

All of the sudden I hear yelling.

It’s Xanthe. “Tim, there’s someone out the front of the house trying to break into the car.”

I jump up and grab the old rifle off the wall, then run outside with it, (It was a Chekov’s-gun after all.) It’s a dark and stormy night. I can hardly see anything, but I can see the thief. It’s a young guy wearing a ski-mask. I yell at him, “Get away from the car.” Time slows down.

My grandad’s rifle is pointing at him and I’m looking down the barrel. (He doesn’t know it’s not loaded.)

He looks at the gun and freezes. I stepped forward. He bolts. It was over.

Xanthe ran towards me. I lifted her up and kissed her. The neighbours all cheered. It was amazing.

That was all a lie. It didn’t happen. (My car did get robbed out the front, weeks ago, but I didn’t go outside with the rifle.)

That was my attempt at the unreliable narrator taking over. I know it pisses off a reader being lied to, so I won’t do it again. Sorry about that. I have been drinking a bit, so you can’t blame me for trying. I had to add a bit of drama to find an end to the story climax. I don’t think that was it, though.

Seeing as I’ve been drinking, I might be able to let my guard down a bit too and tell you a secret. ‘Telling the reader a secret might help to gain their trust.’

The secret is: I don't think I'll be able to write this story. I don’t think I’ll get to the end, and I don’t think, you, the reader will get to the end either.

In every story, the main character needs to change.

Fine, this is how I change, I stop fooling myself. I stop trying to write this story. I give up on it, and that's ok.

Everyone is in bed asleep. I should go to bed too.

I’ll just tuck the kids in and kiss them goodnight.

As I walk into JJ’s room, I take the wolf toy out of my pocket (I saved it earlier) and tuck it under the blankets with him. His eyes open slightly and he sees the wolf. He hugs it tightly and smiles as he closes his eyes.

As I walk into Lania’s room, I hear music playing softly on her stereo. It sounds good. I notice my CD case is out and there are CDs strewn around. Ha. I kiss her forehead and tell her I love her.

Then I walk through the kitchen. To my surprise, sitting proudly in the middle of the bench is my writing trophy, glued back together. It glimmered in the night.

Next to the trophy is a notebook, like the notebooks we used to write love messages to each other in. The note said, ‘I love you. Don’t give up on your writing. Xanthe.’

The notebook image flashes in my brain. I dash to the office and find a whole pile of old ones on the shelf. I pick them up and shake them. There it is. The photo. It falls out of the notebook onto the floor.

I pick it up. The black and white image. It’s an ultrasound photo. The almost unrecognisable shape of a baby.

It was 12 years ago today, when the baby stopped kicking.

It was before we had a family.

It was going to be the start of our family, but it wasn’t.

I take the ultrasound photo into the bedroom and place it on Xanthe’s bedside table.

Nothing is more important to a mother than her babies. (Note to self: go back and add this line in earlier too.)

She smiles at me. “You found it?”

I nod. “I thought you were asleep.”

She touches my hand. “So did you manage to write the short story?”

“No, I’ll try again another time. I’ll just go and turn off the computer, then I’ll come to bed.”

I look at the computer screen.

‘Keep the walkaway short.’

Well, I guess I can't write a short story after all.

I'll try again next year.

Oh, and this will be a totally un-satisfying call-back, but I never saw that spider again.

---

Tim Webster
Tim Webster is from Melbourne, Australia. He has written and had published several articles in Martial Arts magazines, but this is his first venture into writing fiction. He is currently working on a novel and several other short stories.