Writing: Straightforward and short works for me. Does it for you?

When someone asked me the other day what I write, I answered with confidence, “I write short-form creative nonfiction.”

It tripped off my tongue as if I knew what I was talking about and, after the past 28 months or so of writing, sharing, submitting and experiencing both rejections and acceptances, I guess that I do. That’s the beauty of experiential learning: Do it (whatever ‘it’ is), put yourself out there, and learn from the results.

It’s more fun to succeed (in my case, be published) than to not succeed (I hesitate to use the word “fail”), but I have probably learned more from the pieces that have been rejected than I have from those that have been accepted.

My style is uncomplicated. I aim to inform, to enlighten or to inspire. I sometimes play with the form in which I present my writing, but usually it’s straightforward (beginning, middle, end). Short is beautiful: There is so much to read in this world of ours; more words are being pumped out into the universe virtually every minute of every day. I don’t have time to read long. I want short, so I give my readers short.

The two 100-word micro memoirs I share below meet these criteria. Neither made it to the winning spot in the contest in which I entered them. But I’m pleased with both pieces. 

And it’s precisely because neither was a winner that I came to realize something about the ones from other writers that did land in the winner’s circle. My style and tone are straightforward, and I don’t write high emotion, pathos or poignancy. However, the pieces that win are often all three: high emotions at the core of the story, told with pathos or poignancy. That is not my style; not my tone. Not in my life, nor in my writing. 

Of course, I’ll keep writing and submitting, and I’ll keep tracking the details of what happens with my writing. My realization will either be borne out, or I will learn something entirely new. I'm open to either. 

In the mean time, let me know what you think of the two pieces below. Each story is true: the first from my childhood, the second from my young adulthood. 

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SURPRISE EXIT

At the supper table, three kids, one mother; father away on work. The mood was fractious, the behaviour bad: complaints about the meal (“corned beef YUCK”), snipes at each other (“don’t chew so LOUD”). I didn’t notice Mum’s own mood until she snapped, “If you three don’t behave better, I shall leave this house and move into an apartment with my parrot.” I knew she couldn’t do that; she didn’t have a parrot. But she did. Leave. Went away, slammed the door. Left us slack jawed at that supper table. Until she returned a while later, point made, authority confirmed.

The judges said "good story and structure.”

POWDERED LUCK

She was my favourite summer-job friend, with an easy laugh, irreverent attitude towards the boss, and an older boyfriend. The evening we went out for drinks ended at their place. When the boyfriend pulled out the powder and the mirror, I didn’t know what was happening. Then, he rolled up a 100-dollar bill and demonstrated, snorting the powder in its neat line. Naive, I followed his lead. When I awoke the next morning in my own bed, I was relieved. I had gotten away with it: my first hard-drug experience. My only one. My life stretched ahead of me, unimpaired.

The judges said, ”love the short, clippy language, used very effectively.”

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Land acknowledgement: I respectfully recognize that I live on the original lands of Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota and Dene peoples, and on the homeland of the Métis Nation.

Parrot Photo by James Cousins on Unsplash