I am often asked how do I get so many of my articles and short stories published; nine already this year. The glib answer I typically give is, “With difficulty.” I have written ten books and published more than fifty short stories or articles, but getting a story into a journal or magazine always has an air of mystery about it.
As a young writer, I started producing nonfiction articles because they were easier to write and were relatively easy to get published; book reviews, travel, and general interest stories. I wanted my name out there with my bio, so that readers would be attracted to and buy my novels. I wanted to establish my brand. But at heart, all I wanted to write was fiction and occasionally fantasy.
I had a truly great story which I honed, fine-tuned, had a professional editor review and beta tested it with two people. It was a masterpiece, a work of art! I thought I had done my homework by researching several publishers who appeared to want my genre, sent it off, and waited expectantly. Most rejected it, one did not respond. I was crushed. I was also very naïve! The immediate rejections were a blow to my ego and brought me back to reality
I knew I could write fiction and write well, but obviously not good enough for publication. My sister played piano and spent years practicing, wanting to become a concert pianist, and I realized that if, when she started, she had told us that within one year she would be on some world stage, we would have laughed at her naivety. And yet here was I doing almost exactly that, believing that masterful writing was pure intuition and inspiration. Writing nonfiction was relatively easy, it was mainly a question of arranging factual items in an entertaining fashion. All I had to contend with was shelving my ego when, after submitting what I believed were exciting and brilliant pieces, and into which I had poured my heart and soul, they were shredded, cut or manipulated just because the magazine’s art department needed more space, or a late advertisement had arrived. But I didn’t really care. I wanted to write fiction.
If I were to take writing fictional short stories seriously, then I needed to hone and develop my craft. I remembered Hemingway’s words, “There is very little to say about writing a short story unless you are a professional explainer. If you do it, you don’t have to explain. If you cannot do it, no explanation will ever help.” I had read Chekhov, loved the writing of Edna O’Brien, admired Alice Munro, was inspired by Annie Proulx’s Breakback Mountain and wanted to write like Anne Patchett. It was obvious there was no shortcut to closing the gap between my head and my hands; success would only come, I believed, through hours of practice. It would take dedicated time and lots of it. If I produced the right kind of material, then editors would have no choice but to be thrilled with my submissions!
So, I decided to set up a strict writing schedule and, in addition to the novel I was working on, committed to writing one short story each week until I was either tired of the process or felt I had nothing left to say. And I would do this for twelve weeks. I did not need prompts. There was no shortage of material in my head. I just had to express it on paper. Without deciding on length, I knew from experience they would be about 2,000/3,000 words, since that was my typical writing rhythm, my sweet spot, and I don’t usually write to a formula. But I set no limits. It would be creative writing, pure and simple.
Whether I kept the finished product or not was not the point, it just had to be completed in a week. I pushed myself. My intent was not to build up a portfolio of stories that one day might be published, but to simply write, to develop my talent, to hone my craft. I spent hours editing, scrutinizing each word and phrase, frequently ending up with my original version! But I wanted more. I recognized incredible writing when I read it. How could I emulate it? How was I to write the perfectly understated story but emotionally whole? Where were the words? I stretched myself using enigmatic, lyrical images, the power of ambiguous emotions. I searched for metaphors, similes and agonized over selecting a phrase. It was so difficult at first removing big strong emotions, love, hate, envy and searching for more subtle shades, too difficult to name. But I was learning. Just after week eight, I decided to test my results and sent out two pieces to beta readers. The feedback was positive. I was improving.
I was learning about myself not just as a writer but as a person. I usually write fast. A thousand words a day was easy, two thousand very doable. With so many stories inside me wanting to come out, I sometimes got ahead of myself. I couldn’t write fast enough. And then it all changed, not radically, not dramatically, but I realized my new process was slowing me down considerably. A light bulb had gone off in my head. I usually got the words onto the paper as fast as I could, then started to edit and edit and edit. But now I was almost hesitant, cautious before putting anything down. I realized if I produced my work more carefully, took a more reflective approach with more attention to the subtleties of character development, word choice, turn of phrase, nuances, and taking a less primary approach, my work would be of a much higher quality. Joyce Carol Oates-like? Not exactly, but getting there.
I already knew that writing a novel was radically different from the short story. The latter is an art form in itself, with a key being the use of economy in all aspects. With a limited mode of expression, I needed to help my readers read between the lines. I understood the elements of fine writing. Now I had to execute. An added challenge was that I was working on limited space, and every bit counted.
So,I began to purposefully experiment and challenge myself by trying various formats. And this was new territory for me. Newspapers, magazine articles, letters, emails, text messages all became instruments I could use.
I had to ask myself why the rush? What was driving me? Why couldn’t I spend time smelling the roses and simply stroll through a labyrinth of exquisite, breathtaking words and phrases, savoring each one? And I began to slowly understand. Speed was not only holding me back from becoming the writer I wanted to be, it prevented me from being vulnerable, from fully entering into my stories. I needed to become more like a ‘method actor’ and become a ‘method writer.’ I needed to live my stories. As the process deepened, it helped me add better definition and a broad spectrum of color to my characters, who were now becoming more human, more believable. It changed my writing style. I was now focusing on trying to get things right the first time around instead of just putting words and ideas onto the page. I was becoming more thoughtful, deliberate and aware of myself.
Writing a first draft had always been easy for me, but trying to turn it into a riveting piece of literature was not. To make it a piece of shimmering, potent prose that would stand out from masses of submittal material, needed still yet more work. So I slogged away. When I thought I had worked a story as hard as I could, when there were no more iterations to be made, I would shelve it and start another story.
Three months later, after randomly selecting two stories for publication, (I had written fifteen at the time and decided that would be where I would stop the experiment), I had them scrutinized by beta readers. It was time to test the market again. But why two? I believed that if I could get one story published, I might be able to repeat the experience by immediately submitting a second to the same publisher. I went through the typical writer’s tiresome drudge of sifting through countless journals and magazines trying to match my genre, style, and content with those of a particular editor. I scrutinized back issues and tried to envisage their readership.
Having finally identified two journals, one a quarterly publication, the other a monthly, believing that statistically with twelve issues a year, my chances of being accepted would be higher in the latter. Making sure I understood the rubrics and all the requirements, I submitted the same story, a fictional fantasy (2,600 words), and waited. Both acknowledged receipt and indicated I would hear back in sixty days, but only if they were interested in publishing it. I was shocked when just two weeks later I received an unusual and rare email thanking me for my submittal, complete with a three-sentence paragraph of feedback explaining I had not developed my characters sufficiently and the plot was difficult to follow. Rejection was OK, but the comments! I was pissed and wondered what the editor was smoking when she (it was a lady) read my piece. I knew my work was good, but it seemed that my fantasy story had gone completely over her head. A little confused but undeterred, I continued to write.
Five weeks later, the other journal responded. They loved my story, wanted to publish it and were requesting permission to also use it in an anthology they were preparing! I responded by thanking them and agreeing to their publication of the story. I also submitted another fantasy fiction to them (2,700 words). It was accepted immediately.
So how do I get my short stories published? My answer has not changed; ‘with difficulty.’ But I will probably never fully understand or fathom the mysteries of the publishing process or the apparent randomness of story selection. I have also developed a skin that is almost impermeable and bullet proof to editorial rejection. Yet, I continue to submit in the hope, belief and expectation that there is somebody out there who can recognize a well-written story worthy of publication. But at the end of the day, I have to write for that is who I am.
So was my crazy, obsessive and self-imposed, fifteen-week regimen, worth the effort. Absolutely. It became a daily routine, once I was into it. Sometimes I finished a story in a few days, others took longer which gave me time to work on my other project, namely a novel I am writing. Will I ever repeat the experiment – probably not. Would I recommend it? Yes, in some form – maybe take a couple of weeks off from your normal writing schedule, hibernate with your laptop, focus solely on one piece until you have worked and re-worked every single word, then see how it reads. See if it has changed your writing rhythm. If you are a struggling writer, this disciplined and single-minded approach might help keep you focused and release your creative juices. It helped me learn about myself as a writer and that in turn has caused me to write a little differently, how I approach my craft. I know my skills improved, I now have a different mindset and I write at a different pace. But I also continue to write because I have to. And therein lies my pleasure. Publishing be damned! //
About the Author
Michael Barrington is a frequent contributor to this magazine. He lives near San Francisco and writes mainly historical novels: Let the Peacock Sing, The Ethiopian Affair, Becoming Anya, The Baron of Bengal Street, No Room for Heroes. Passage to Murder is a thriller set in San Francisco. Magic at Stonehenge is a short story collection. Take a Priest Like You is a memoir.
He has published more than 60 short stories and also blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net .
About the Author
