In Praise of Slim Volumes

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There’s a quote from Jenny Offil’s excellent Department of Solitude which sums me up pretty neatly. “Three things no one has ever said about me: you make it look so easy. You are very mysterious. You need to take yourself more seriously.” Amen. Amen. Amen. You have me down to a tee Jenny Offil. Might I take the liberty of adding a fourth “thing no one has ever said about me: less is really more with you?”

I am such a more person. I have too many shoes, too many books, too many strings of red, plastic beads. I talk too much. I cram too much into every day. And, when it comes to writing, I’m a chronic over-writer. It is not uncommon for me to find myself hacking ten or even twenty thousand words off a manuscript just to bring it down to a cartable weight. (Let me put that in context folks. That’s an entire poetry collection. Five if you only write haiku). I am very, very grateful to have had a string of incredibly patient editors, all capable of hacking ten percent off a novel in the most gracious manner..

I am in awe of those writers who manage to write sparse, minimalist prose and simple, well-structured plots; who are able to come in well below the word count and still pack a mighty punch. I look at their books in the same way I look at people who have all-white houses with no junk on display, and I wonder, how on earth did they manage that? What is wrong with me? I feel like a localised explosion in comparison. I aspire to write less but better. (I’m not sure that’s even grammatically correct. It doesn’t sound right. Editors? Help).

For years now Carys Davies has been one of my favourite small, but perfectly proportioned writers. I first discovered her short story collection The Redemption of Galen Pike, and read backwards and forwards from there, thoroughly enjoying her latest novel, West, (it’s definitely a novel in scope, albeit packaged in the guise of a novella). I’m on my fourth re-read of Galen Pike and it remains one of my all time favourite collections, partially because the stories are dynamite, partially because it’s so slim you can fit it in your shirt pocket and still have room for a packet of polos. Davies’ stories are neat, tightly packed works of great beauty. Her sentences are scalpel sharp; her characters, perfectly drawn. She can deliver a well-timed plot twist better than Stephen King. AND she regularly brings her books in below the one hundred and fifty page limit I hold as a kind of benchmark for greatness. (NB. I hold 90 minutes in similar standing when it comes to films). I’m reasonably easily pleased. If I can enjoy a complete and satisfying read in the time it takes to get from Central to Connolly then I’m a happy camper.

I spent some time with Carys during this year’s Eastern European Short Story Festival in Croatia. Unsurprisingly she speaks with wonderful precision and insight about her writing. She reads beautifully. She also has some of the most amazing frocks I’ve ever seen and is very good fun. Tomorrow evening I’m delighted to be hosting an in conversation with her in No Alibis Bookstore. It’s part of the programme for this year’s Belfast International Arts Festival. We’ll be talking about West and short stories and how Carys’ writing has developed from book to book. We’ll most certainly be discussing precision too. I don’t care whether this interests the audience or not. I’ll be asking for my own benefit. It’s one of the perks of being an interviewer. I’m going to ask her how to write less and say more. I’m pretty sure she’ll have something wise to say.

In honour of Carys Davies day I’ve compiled a quick guide to my fifteen favourite very short works of fiction. It was really difficult narrowing this list down. A few of my favourite reads fall just outside the 150 mark. I was also tempted to add in some great slender volumes of non-fiction, (Virginia Wolff’s A Room of One’s Own, Ben Lerner’s The Hatred of Poetry and Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life, all of which are well-thumbed regulars on my bedside table). I have avoided poetry for most books of poetry fall below the 150 page limit, (imagine -she says with horror- if poetry collections were routinely 150 pages or even longer). Instead I’ve stuck with fiction: prose, short stories and micro-fiction, because these fifteen books are all amazing and, despite their brevity, guaranteed to satisfy even the hungriest reader. I recommend reading on train journeys of around two hours, by the fire with a nice bottle of wine or in bed, of an evening, with a pot of tea. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

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Carys Davies – The Redemption of Galen Pike. The perfect place to start your love affair with Carys’ writing. Opening story, The Quiet is a masterclass in building up tension. There’s not a single clunker in the collection.
Raymond Carver – What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. All Carver is holy but What We Talk About is particularly holy and testament to how stories can emerge sleeker and stronger from a really harsh edit.
Sarah Moss – Ghost Wall. Sarah Moss writes so well about the dynamics within families and here she’s pared her story right down to the bones of the relationship. There’s not a single ounce of flab in this wee novella.
Richard Brautigan – Trout Fishing In America. What is it? A novel? A short story collection? Prose poetry? I don’t really care. It completely changed the way I look at language. My copy’s held together with yellowing bits of Scotch tape and leaking pages, it’s been read that much.
Frankie McMillan – My Mother and the Hungarians. I usually find micro fiction a little unsatisfactory, but these tiny stories are so rich and filling, I never feel cheated when I dip into this collection.
Francois Sagan – Bonjour Tristesse. Here began my love affair with French literature and lens flare. Nothing much happens but it doesn’t happen in such an elegant fashion.
Edward Gorey – The Unstrung Harp or Mr Earbrass Writes a Novel. After reading this I felt much better about my own shitty attempts to be taken seriously as a writer. It is good to laugh at yourself sometimes, especially when someone else has gone to the effort of writing down all your ridiculous exploits and illustrating them in such a charming fashion.
Ernest Hemingway – The Old Man and the Sea. Though it does make me feel very thirsty every time I read it, this is the only Hemingway I actually like. I do like it a lot though. I no longer feel the need to apologise for this.
Claire Keegan – Foster. Claire Keegan terrifies me. Her writing is so sharp and so good. Reading her is like reading what God would write if God was Irish and inclined to write rather dark short stories. Afterwards I sometimes feel like there is no point in writing. (See also Marilynne Robinson and George Saunders). I also love the fact that this is just one very long short story. We should have more long short stories nowadays.
Muriel Spark – The Driver’s Seat. I hear Muriel Spark wrote all her novels perfectly on the first attempt. This should make me hate her. But I don’t. Muriel Spark is one of the best things Scotland ever produced, (see also, Del Amitri and Highland Toffee), and this is my favourite of all her books, (or at very least, the half dozen I’ve read).
Henry James – The Turn of the Screw. The ultimate in creepy stories. I’ve been trying for ages to write disturbing short stories where you can’t actually put your finger on why it’s so disturbing. It turns out they’re exceptionally difficult to pull off. Here, James makes it look effortless. Bastard.
Joy Williams – 99 Stories of God. They’re not all about God, but there are 99 of them and they’re tiny and brilliant. Perfect for keeping on your bedside table and mulling over before you fall asleep.
Bernie McGill – Sleepwalkers. I love Bernie’s novels but I really love her short stories. She has a masterful way of getting under her character’s skin and I particularly enjoyed the slightly weird ones in this collection.
Shirley Jackson – We Have Always Lived in the Castle. Merricat and Constance Blackwood are two of my all time favourite characters and this is such a deliciously dark little book. Beware it is like a gateway drug. You’ll not be able to keep yourself from diving head first into Shirley Jackson once you’ve read this.
Samantha Schweblin – Fever Dream. It’s odd. It’s disturbing. It’s perfectly written. It literally had me frozen to the seat for the entire duration. It’s a strong contender for the best book I’ve read this year.