Last week I wrote on the investment of time. This week I want to consider material length. This is usually decided by subject matter.
Being Christmas, I’ll use “A Christmas Carol” as my first example.
Charles Dickens wrote with the hope that society would enact social change. A reformer, he wanted a better world for children and the downtrodden.
At just under 28,000 words and seventy-one pages in length, “A Christmas Carol” is a perfect length for a novella. It tells a complete story, incorporating the main character’s past, present, and future, and has had universal appeal for one hundred seventy years.
Other Novellas that have been loved for years are “The Old Man and The Sea” (Hemmingway), “Animal Farm” (Orwell), and “Of Mice and Men” (Steinbeck).
It is most widely accepted by the pundits that a Novel is greater than forty thousand words in length. A Novella is from approximately fifteen to forty thousand words. A Novelette is approximately seventy-five hundred to fifteen thousand. A Short Story is from thirty-five hundred to seventy-five hundred.
Flash fiction is generally considered to be fifty to one thousand words. Works from one thousand to three thousand words, though not generally classified, are sometimes considered short-short stories.
When a part-time writer decides on a subject, they usually don’t think about word count or page length. They sit at their desk and flow their thoughts onto the page. This is where I will give a suggestion…
Start small and allow the idea to grow.
I’m not saying to aim for flash fiction, although flash fiction is becoming very popular. What I am saying is to write a scene that can stand alone. Write something that can be satisfying if there is little or no time to return to the desk in the foreseeable future.
I love the challenges offered by contests. I love 24-hour short story contests, where the word count and subject are not revealed until twenty-four hours before the deadline. Writing small is not thinking small. Writing small is an excellent way for a part-time to fine tune and improve their craft.
Happy Holidays, and I hope this has given food for thought.
I’m including my short story “Gabriel Simmons” as part of this post. If you’ve seen it before, I hope you enjoyed. I wrote it one Saturday morning after breakfast and before lunch. I’m not sure where the idea originated, but it felt right. It took two and one half hours to write and do a first edit. I hope you enjoy.
“Gabriel Simmons”
The window blinds were open a slit, allowing Gabriel Simmons to peek into the out there. Out there, people were killing. Out there, people were dying.
Shoot you, stab you, hit you with a car, beat you up, make fun of the clothes your mom bought you, laugh behind your back, laugh in your face, push you down in the hallway, trip you, knock the books out of your hand, make you feel bad, scare you on purpose to hear you “scream like a girl”.
People doing bad stuff, making you die a little bit every day from shame and fear and the almost certain fact that nobody would ever understand anything inside your head because you were just a stupid crazy twelve-year-old kid.
In here was better.
In here was a bed and a table and a night light. In here was a closet, which didn’t have monsters, but had shelves for books and a chair he’d had since he was seven, and an overhead bulb with a cotton pull-string, and a door to close so he could hide from all of the out there’s and read. With the door closed, it was the in here of the in here
The in here of the in here was always safe.
But tomorrow was Monday. Monday was the worst day. Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays were all bad, but Mondays were make up for the weekend days.
The Tommys and Bobbys and Rickys and Jimmys and Brads loved Mondays. Especially the Brads.
Brads liked Mondays because Brads were bigger and meaner and said bad things and used the “N” word. Brads liked Mondays because Mondays meant lunch money.
Sometimes Mondays meant you had a whole weeks’ worth of lunch money. Sometimes Mondays meant your mom gave you extra ‘cause she wanted to make sure you had it. If you had it, the guy next door, who came over some days and went with mom into her room, and shut the door, and sometimes made her laugh, and sometimes made her cry, and sometimes saw you and smiled all creepy-like, wouldn’t take the lunch money for himself.
But now it is Sunday. And now is when you finally learned to put the extra money your mom gave you in a book to hide it away. The man wouldn’t get it ‘cause he doesn’t like books. He likes television, which could be okay sometimes, even though books are better.
And Brad wouldn’t get it because he doesn’t like books either. And besides, he doesn’t know where you live, maybe.
Sometimes, on the way home, you feel that somebody is watching and you think it might be Brad or one of the Tommys or Jimmys, and you start walking faster and you trip on your own stupid clumsy feet and the somebody behind you gets closer and you know they’re going to push you down and hit you in your stupid face and take the money you didn’t spend on milk ‘cause today you didn’t feel like drinking milk. But when you turn and look there isn’t anybody behind you.
Or maybe they’re just hiding.
So you close the door to the in here of the in here and you count the money in the third book on the fourth shelf and you count it again, just in case you were wrong about Brad and the guy next door, and you're glad it’s still there.
Then you take the book you’ve been reading for two days and open it to page one hundred seventeen ‘cause you want to finish reading it and start another one. Not that there’s anything wrong with the one you’re reading.
The one you’re reading has pirates and beautiful girls and a heaping chest of gold that could pay for all the lunches you could ever want for the rest of your stupid life, with or without milk.
And you start reading and you feel like a pirate.
If you were a pirate, Jenny Maddeaux would like you. She’d smile back when you smiled at her and she’d eat lunch at your table, maybe even giving you half of her fudge brownie instead of giving it to one of the Bobbys or Rickys.
Stupid Bobbys and Rickys always getting the stupid fudge brownies and the banana pudding ‘cause they're so cute and funny, and you know that one day they’ll get all fat and that Jenny and all the rest of the girls will probably still like them more than you anyway.
Stupid fat Bobbys and Rickys.
And you know if you were a pirate you could beat up Brad and take his lunch money. Even though you wouldn’t do it because you don’t want to be anything like Brad.
But maybe you could scare him.
You have the knife your dad gave you when you were nine years old.
He gave you a knife and a watch with a second hand. And you still have them both, even though the watch doesn’t work anymore ‘cause it needs a stupid battery and batteries cost money and sometimes you do like milk with lunch and your mom says there isn’t enough money for milk and a battery for the watch that your no good deserting father gave you when you were nine.
And you put down the book and you get the knife from inside the box where you keep the picture of your dad and the watch that doesn’t work anymore. And when you pull open the knife blade you know it is way too small to scare Brad, or anybody else for that matter. Except it might scare your mom. And you remember your dad telling you not to let her know you have a knife ‘cause she’d want to take it away, thinking you might hurt yourself.
So then you get the other thing.
The other thing belongs to the man next door and he left it on the living room table when he was in the bedroom with your mom and you took it before he came back out.
And you heard him get mad and he hit your mom one time and you thought he was going to hit her again and you were about to tell it was you who took it and give it back to him, but then he decided he’d probably left it somewhere else and called your mom “Baby” and went back in the bedroom with her.
And you look at the other thing.
The other thing would scare Brad.
It would scare all the Tommys and Bobbys and Rickys and Jimmys and you’d be a pirate and you could keep all your lunch money and you could keep all your fudge brownies and Jenny Maddeaux and all of the other girls would like you ‘cause you’re a pirate.
And it’s decided.
And you read the book and it's one hundred fifty-seven pages long and the pirate buries his treasure and sails off with the pretty girls and you know he is happy.
And you pick another book, this time from the end of the third shelf.
And this book has a bunch of very short stories, and some that are longer. And the stories are about ogres and witches and huntsmen and little people. And the people are happy. But sometimes they aren’t happy. And you know that the bad people are the ones who end up not being happy and it makes you feel better. So you close the book and put it back exactly where it was.
And you straighten all of the books and you put the box in the corner, making sure the lid is on tight.
And you pick up the other thing again and you take it outside the inside of the inside and you put it under your pillow.
Tomorrow is Monday.
Brad won’t take your lunch money and Jenny will eat lunch with you.
You are going to be a pirate.
Gabriel Simmons leans toward the window again, looking through the slit in the blinds.
Out there people are killing. Out there people are dying.
Tomorrow will be better.