Best Microfiction & other small things

Lately with my writing I’ve steered away from novels, book reviews, and novellas. I’ve been writing smaller things. Journal entries, poems, flash fiction, notes and jottings. In a way, writing in these forms feels easier, a way to keep up with the pace of life. But it also helps me feel like I’m slowing down, too, with a sort of conviction to stop and feel and listen. Revising these things also yields a different sort of satisfaction than my longer works.

I’ve been submitting these shorter pieces, too, of course, when they feel like they’re worth the effort. This past fall, I published “Ghost Story” in the wonderful flash fiction journal Milk Candy Review, thanks to editor Cathy Ulrich, who I had submitted to many times before. My luck didn’t end there, though. I was honored when Cathy nominated it for her picks for the Best Microfiction anthology. Then came the huge surprise last month–Grant Faulkner, guest editor of the 2024 edition of the anthology actually picked my story to be included. The anthology, with my little ghost story, will be in stores in June. I’m still in shock.

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In terms of what I’ve been reading lately, when I gathered things up from one room and another, I wasn’t surprised. Pretty much all of it has been poetry and short fiction, even some nonfiction about the linguistic nuances of writing brief things that carry power. Not that I no longer want to read good long books. In fact, I’m itching to re-read some favorites like Nights at the Circus and The Sea The Sea. But below are some books of shorter things that I’m either reading at the moment, or have really enjoyed over the winter. Here’s to brief but mighty things!

Poetics, and a critical slant

Credit: M. Jakubowski


In all the years I’ve been a writer, the past year has been one of the most complicated, confusing, and – in the way writing often is – satisfying, nevertheless.

One thing I’ve learned and had to learn again is that sometimes I absolutely need to be journaling, everyday. So I did and as the months passed I filled an older journal and started a new one. A few months ago the entries were turning into… poems? And one of them seemed “good,” to me, a suspicion confirmed by a friend, who encouraged me to submit it. I did, and was shocked when it was accepted. My first traditional poem, ever. It’s out in the world now in Stone Circle Review. (Many thanks to the wonderful editor and poet Lee Potts for taking it on.)

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How Well the Place

Stairs inside a house leading upwards to a landing and a light above.

It has been some time (two years, I believe) since I’ve been able to publish any fiction. So I’m delighted to have a new short story in the wonderful JMWW journal. It’s flash fiction about love and memory, and it was rather tricky to write.

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Heading out

Your shins bear bruises and a few gory notches. Dents in the flesh from moments you cannot recall. If you played soccer or field hockey you could blame it on that and feel proud. You could also avoid the label “old fool.” But no. Fool through-and-through, you think, running water for a cold shower.

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With love, Sisyphus

A job is your time, your mind, your body, your will, your energy, your days spent away from those you love, away from where you want to be.

Yet it promises escape, a purpose, a thrill, a place to accomplish things together, camaraderie, success, an outlet, a steady income, a way to meet your responsibilities, a way to see yourself through hard times.

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Adding Paper to My Diet

“You’re nearing fifty and haven’t published a book,” one voice had been saying.

“But you’ve published plenty, lots of good stuff all over the world, and had fun doing it,” replied another. And it was forever correct on that point.

Yet something else was true: more and more of my published work was being lost, disappearing more by the day.

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Exploring the joy of rereading

Essays about the joys of rereading seem to be a perennial thing. Just search “joy of rereading” and you’ll see. I’ve read a few essays about this and they’re fine. But I’ve yet to find one that really gets into what I see as the juicy territory of how and why we reread.

So this is a first foray into the possible mechanics of the desire that drives us to return to particular books. Also, is there a small set of common reasons we do this? Or is it entirely personal and hidden, even from us as we keep doing it, a compulsion words can only approach without capturing? This first attempt will be expansive and general. Maybe I’ll write about some specific books later. For now, some more questions and a few awkward leaps toward some kind of answer.

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