Wit, Soul, Brevity

First, allow me to post a link to something that I have, regretfully, only just learned about this week: the Dyatlov Pass Accident.

Fascinating, yes? I'm of two minds about this story--on the one hand, it's a tragedy; it sounds like the people involved in that expedition died cold, frightened, and in some very deep sense, alone, and like the survivors have unanswered questions that will probably go with them to the grave. But at the same time, I can't help but be intrigued by it; I can't help but wonder exactly what sort of mystery it was that those explorers found, which corner of the map they wandered off of into the realm of dragons and sea monsters. Sad at the loss and yet anchored by the fascination; this right here is why I don't have the same bravery Tim Powers does, and have to touch on real history in only a cursory manner. That, and I am irritated enough by ripping fiction to rags on the grounds of historical accuracy when I have to watch it being done to someone else--I can't imagine how I'd react if I was the one who got something wrong.

Now then, that said: I have a question.

Why is flash fiction more difficult than normal fiction?

I admit that I'm wordy; sesquipedalian, even. But this week (admittedly, only four days in) I have written around 1,000 word where there should be 4,000. To be fair, I have probably actually written about 2,000 words, but half of them count only in my darkest moments, because they were, not to put too fine a point on it, terrible.

Why so few words? Because I am trying to work with so few words.

It is, of course, the brevity of the medium that is the problem, but it is an issue on more than the patently obvious levels. Not only does the flash fiction form demand a verbal economy that it's hard for me to muster in my grocery list, but there are stylistic constraints that I can't even begin to describe. It's as though I expect the same mass of meaning, but at a greater density; I want all the meaning and twists and questions you find in 7,000 words to come across in a mere 500, which means I either borrow a page from the dearly departed James Joyce and invent my own words dense with meaning (a sort of depleted uranium vocabulary), or I write an evocative prose poem that still winds up having an extra ten words that are absolutely crucial to the piece. (If you're wincing or shaking your head, you're not alone; I too know the great folly of falling in love with a sentence you've written. Think of it as psychic incest, maybe that will make it easier to deatch.)

Which is why my efforts to enter the Weird Tales spam headline writing contest (yes, you read that right) have been thus far stymied. I am currently tapping my fingertips together, furrowing my brow meaningfully at the screen, and hoping for one of the two things writers desire most: Inspiration, or feedback.

I'll be submitting one of the pieces I've written either way; it's just a matter of what I think my chances are, which I suppose is proof that I should never be encouraged to play poker.

But, I've been masturbatory lately, and there isn't a movie to review that hasn't been beaten to death. (My summation of The Dark Knight is the same as my summation of Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog: "My God, this is mesmerizing; and I will never look at superheroes quite the same way again.") So rather than keep looking inward, I'm going to look outward, and try taking the "self" out of "self-indulgent".

If you have a question, ask it; even if you just have a topic you want me to cover. My only restriction is that it not be a deep intrusion into my personal life--this is a blog, not Truth or Dare. Or, if you're nasty, this is Blogger, not LiveJournal.

Now then, read on, and ask away.