How To Write A Short Story
Author: Eric Moffat
MAIN BODY — FIRST SECTION
The wind whipped around my face, slashing me with droplets of water as the rain fell hard just outside of the office. The cigarette trembled in my hands, unlit—I had no lighter. I had purposefully left it at home, because what was the point of quitting if I kept smoking everywhere I went.
The door opened behind me. Stepping out of the way, another man stood beside me, turning his back to the wind, tapping me on the shoulder.
“You got an extra?”
“Take this one,” I said, handing it to him, feeling the anxiety build up slowly. Only three left, and they were back at the house as well.
“Really?” He reached for it, but didn’t take it.
“Trying to quit.”
“Thanks.” Plucking it out of my fingers, he lit it deftly and inhaled. The embers burned brightly, and I felt the smoke filling my lungs as well, exhaling as he did. Even pretending that I was smoking helped take that edge off.
“You’re that author, right?” he said, making conversation. I nodded, flexing my fingers. “Got any tips for an amateur?”
“You one too?” I asked, standing back a bit more, seeking shelter as another gust blew around my cheeks. The coat was already much too thin, but I hugged it closer to me as if it would protect me anyway.
“Nah, just a grad student,” he laughed. “Working on my first big novel—I’m stuck at the introduction.”
“What’s your story about?”
“No clue.”
I smiled, and he did too, flicking the cigarette away quickly. It was already just a butt on the ground—I wondered if it really only lasted that long. From the outside perspective, it was strange that four minutes had already passed since he had taken it, but then again, I was preoccupied with his questions and trying to stay dry.
I held the door open for him as we went back inside, shaking the rain off our shoulders.
“You’re writing a book and don’t know the topic?” I asked with a bit of a grin. “Seems foolhardy.”
“Well, the idea I wanted to pursue was regarding post-hypnotic triggers in a situational environment, specifically those dealing with family and trust issues.”
“Yeesh.” Unzipping the coat, I handed him a hangar as I grabbed a second for myself. “That sounds more like a doctoral thesis than a novel. Is that why you’re here?”
“There’s no better place to find research first-hand than at a clinic.” He chuckled, thanking me with a nod as he hung his coat beside mine. “I’m Rob.”
“Thomas.”
We shook—his hands were softer than my own, but that meant nothing in this day and age of technology. The smile was quick but his eyes told me it was genuine.
“I’m just worried about where to start.”
“Starting is easy. Stopping is hard.” I grinned back, and we made our way to a small coffee station. Milk, two sugar for myself; black for him; and we sat down at a half-circle table in the middle of a large open foyer.
“Seems the opposite for me.”
“Alright.” Licking my lips gently, I waved a hand at him and sat back in the chair a bit. “So your story is on triggers. What do you know so far?”
“Not much,” he shrugged.
“Well, first step in writing, is writing,” I chuckled, taking a sip of the coffee. “Tell me a story, right now, just… first thing you think of.”
“Uh… okay?” Rob looked down into the cup of black water.
“I’m waiting.”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Sorry, that was unfair of me,” I laughed. “Alright, tell me the story of… Melissa Branhart.”
“Who is she?”
“You tell me.” I sipped the coffee again.
His eyes narrowed into the cup, but he looked up at me instead. “Melissa Branhart was a grad student from Berkley; tired and broken from h—” He stopped quickly when I started shaking my head. “She isn’t?”
“Oh, she can be, that’s not the issue.” I crossed my legs. “Alright, listen and see if you can tell the difference.” He sat forwards, eager to learn. At least that was a good sign.
“Melissa Branhart was a grad student from Berkley, and she had tried to find a job but couldn’t.” I thought quickly—half a heartbeat—and started again. “Melissa Branhart pointed the gun at the man standing in her doorway.”
“Okay, yeah,” Rob smiled. “I get it.”
“Introductions are never easy.” I finished the coffee, placing it down on the table. “Take the story and run with it, first. Then come back to the beginning over time, change it, make it fit the body and not the other way around.”
“Why not?”
“Well…” I looked to the side, glancing at the clock—ten more minutes. “Say for instance that our Melissa was dealing with PTSD—a war vet or something. She’d be seeking help, on account of her trust issues.”
“Makes sense.”
“But the story grows, and she finds a man she loves, they date, get married, and she trusts him—what better way to open a story than by having the action start right in the middle of it. That man she’s pointing the gun at, it’s him.”
“We were taught never to do that.”
“It’s a cliché, I agree,” I smiled. “But they’re clichés for a reason. They work.”
“Can’t it just be a robber?”
“A woman with trust issues would see everybody as a robber.”
“Ah.” Rob nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
“Or maybe she’s a recluse. Maybe she wins the lottery, and now she can’t go around town without being recognized.”
“Like you?” he asked.
“I wish,” I snorted, hoping that one day I would be able to get out of this crap-hole of a city and move elsewhere. “I wrote one book, and it never really took off.”
“Well, I liked it.” Rob stood up, hand out again. “Sorry to learn and run, but I have an appointment upstairs.”
“As do I,” I said, ignoring the hand for now and instead leading the way to the elevator. “Just remember that the introduction comes last, even after the ending. Our girl—Melissa—she’s overcome her trust issues and she and her husband have thwarted evil forever,” I laughed, and he did too as we got on.
“Then what happens?”
“Nothing—you go back to the beginning and write about how it can never happen.”
“How come?”
“It gives the reader a sense of closure.” The door dinged open, and we stepped out. “Think about it—what great novel doesn’t have the main characters come out the other side happier for their experiences.”
“I can think of a few,” he chuckled—frankly, so could I, but the evidence was overwhelming in the other column. Not very many people liked reading where the enemies won. “But I see your point. Star Wars, and Luke overcoming his Dark Side; Harry Potter, having kids and defeating the bad guy.”
“Good, solid endings—and they started with bad things. But the difference is that Harry Potter started like your story, with an explanation for things that hadn’t occurred yet. Star Wars opened with a cruiser being shot at over a planet, for some reason we didn’t quite know or understand yet.”
“Mister Blanche?” The receptionist called my name, where she smiled prettily. “Ready when you are.”
“Well, that’s my cue,” I said, taking Rob’s hand now. “Last tip—just write. Anything you want. Full sentences, fragments, jot notes down, scribbles, equations… anything to get the blood flowing. You can make anything work if you try hard enough.”
“Thanks for the advice,” he said, taking his seat as he pulled out a notepad from his jacket pocket. “Would you mind?”
“Sure.”
I scrawled my name across the pad in the pen he offered, handed them back with a smile, and followed the receptionist into the small office. The door closed behind me with a soft click as I breathed a sigh of relief once more—that talk had done me good. I hadn’t even wanted a cigarette that entire time. Of course, now I was thinking about it, so I wanted one again.
“Good morning, Thomas,” said the woman as she came inside. “Bad day?”
“No, just made it about ten minutes without wanting a cigarette and then ruined it by praising myself for it.”
“It gets easier.” The white skirt fluttered to the floor, followed by the pale blue shirt, leaving a woman dressed in tight black leather standing with one heeled shoe directly between my legs. Drawing my eyes up from her legs to her crotch, over her stomach, to her small breasts and then to her face, I felt that sensation of peace and relaxation.
“Good boy,” she said, looking deep into my eyes. Her hands came down to my shoulders, pushing me back against the seat. We grinned at each other until she lifted one of her feet to my face.
“Now, kiss my shoes.”