by Susan Tepper

 Araton-Harvey-ap1-280x186Harvey Araton is a sports reporter and columnist for The New York Times. He was nominated by The Times for a Pulitzer Prize in 1994; was named 1998 Sportswriter of the Year by the National Sportscasters and Sportswriters Association; won first place in 1994 for Best News Story from the Associated Press Sports Editors; won first place in 2005 for Column Writing from the New York State Associated Press Association; and was honored in 1997 and 2007 for Column Writing by the Associated Press Sports Editors. In 1986, he received the Feature Writing Award from the Associated Press Sports Editors.” [from The New York Times] He discusses his new book, Cold Type, in this conversation with Susan Tepper

Susan Tepper: You are a career journalist as well as a book author. How much do you relate to the inner life of your protagonist, Jamie, who is also a newspaper man?

Harvey Araton: I think I best relate to Jamie through his ambivalence, his general sense of uncertainty over where he belongs with regards to his work, or even whether he belongs in that world at all. While Jamie often feels like an outsider in his own family of newspapermen, I struggled with the fear of being trapped within my own family’s lack of upward mobility and have had to fight the notion that I was somehow fooling people along the way to a four-decade career in journalism. Perhaps to some extent many of us deal with such doubts, especially with work that is publicly judged.

ST: That’s for sure. Anything we put out there in the public domain is subject to intense scrutiny, and we often take that scrutiny into ourselves very personally.

HA: In Jamie we have a character who seems to resent the people around him who walk and talk with a self-assurance he can’t muster or relate to. He correctly assesses and understands that audacity typically wins out in the sensational world of tabloid journalism, but he prefers a more nuanced approach, more order and predictability than the world in which he works.

ST: His struggle with order and predictability extends beyond the newspaper world, too, in this novel, as he is in the midst of a marital breakup when the book begins.

HA: Yes, life is spiraling out of Jamie’s control and without much direction from him. His wife had dictated a move to a distant suburb and greeted him at the door of their new home by announcing an unplanned (at least by Jamie) pregnancy that immediately put him under enormous pressure to advance and earn more money at his job. While he ultimately succeeds, he inadvertently creates schisms not only with his wife but also with his father, leaving him in precarious personal and financial positions.

At the outset of a strike at the newspaper, the heart of the story’s conflict is set in motion as the divergent interests of Jamie and his father create a much-too-public and violent confrontation between them. And one that is exploited by several people for various self-interests.

ST: Do you think it took a great deal of bravery on Jamie’s part to cross the picket line alone?

HA: From my own singular experience of crossing a picket line (for one day) during the Daily News strike of 1990-91, there can be a certain sense of bravery, however misguided the act is in the first place. Sort of facing the music and your fellow strikers, as opposed to sneaking in a side door, as one of my sports colleagues did that same day. Jamie’s decision is more tortured, based on the generational differences with his father and resulting acrimony. Part of his decision to cross his father’s picket line is to confront him, finally demand the attention he felt lacking in his life and incapable of otherwise earning. But while Jamie crosses alone, an act that becomes a pivotal part of the story, he does so with the assurance that Patrick Blaine, the paper’s esteemed columnist and someone he greatly admires, is already in the building. It provides for Jamie a sense of comfort. But that is obliterated once he enters the newsroom and discovers what is really going on.

Jamie and his father become victims of their own industry’s insatiable appetite for news however it can get it. Finding a path to family resolution for Jamie—and especially his desperate need to maintain a relationship with his two-year-old son, the one joy of his life—will not be easy.


ST: Cold Type (your title) is a newspaper term that a lot of people may not be familiar with, can you explain it to us?

HA: Hot Type was the primary part of the printing process back in the dark ages of publishing, lasting—depending on where you were—into the late 1970s. The process actually involved injecting molten type mental into a mold that would ultimately be fitted to become a page. It was painstaking and even potentially dangerous work that created a composing room that was a cacophonous and crazy, certainly by today’s technological advances, the kind of place Morris Kramer—Jamie’s father and longtime printers union leader—would naturally romanticize roman like an old war veteran. He brags to his indifferent son about the days when the paper couldn’t be put out without the proud tradesmen, even if reporters got the bylines, the glory and the starring roles in Hollywood movies. When these old composing rooms were finally replaced by the room-cooled hum of the computer age, the new age of printing became known as Cold Type. The decision to use it as the book’s title reflects not only the evolution of the industry but also the chilled relationship between generations or, in the case of my narrative, father and son.

ST: I have always been enamored of journalism, and journalists. There is a kind of glamorous noir quality to the concept of ‘the newsroom’. Do you think with Jamie there is more than meets the (surface) eye? Is he perhaps out to carve his place in history, consciously or otherwise?

HA: I agree that the newsroom, be it for print, electronic or digital, has, for many, been a very seductive workplace. Hence, the glut of films and television shows across the decades, from His Girl Friday to Mary Tyler Moore to HBO’s latest iteration, The Newsroom. After almost four decades at four very different newspapers, let me just say that the reality, for most, is that the newsroom is far more about stress and toil than it is about glamor. But, yes, there is no denying that the untidiness of it all, the daily racing against the clock, has been an attraction for me, as well as an affliction and a way of life I worry will be difficult to replace when I am done with my daily journalism career in the not-too-distant future. Jamie, conversely, was never consciously drawn to the newsroom; for him it was going there as a matter of survival, a chance to do something, anything, to earn a living. He resented the family help he needed to get there, the sacrifice of having to work in the shadow of his father, a printer but also a respected union strongman, and his cousin, always the cool kid and the star Jamie never imagined he could be. Most of us spend a good deal of our working lives trying to find or sustain that proper balance between personal and professional. But the tangled events that create the arc of the story lead Jamie to the threshold of media celebrity and the existential dilemma of having to choose between that and his young son, who provided the inspiration that drove him to professional triumph in the first place. Should he let go of the rope after he’s finally climbed to what feels like the top?
ST: He should not let go of the rope.



Susan Tepper has authored 5 published books. The latest is a novel in stories called The Merrill Diaries, from Pure Slush Books. She is a named finalist in storySouth Million Writers Award for 2014, was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in fiction (2010), and nine times for the Pushcart Prize. Tepper is a staff editor at Flash Fiction Chronicles where she conducts the interview series UNCOV/rd.


Editor’s note: This is the final installment of Susan’s UNCOV/rd series. Thank you, Susan, for an entertaining and educational series. Hopefully, she’ll be back in 2015 tackling a new project.

by Jim Harrington

Queen’s Ferry Press is in the process of collecting stories for an annual anthology to be titled The Best Small Fictions. Fiction and prose poetry from 6 to 1,000 words published during the current year are eligible for inclusion. For the first edition, nominations will be accepted from October 1, 2014 through January 24, 2015. Journal editors and book publishers may submit up to five nominations (print or online) from their journals, chapbooks, broadsides, or story collections.

I interviewed Tara L. Masih, Series Editor, about this project.

TARAMASIHPICTara L. Masih has won multiple book awards as editor of The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction and The Chalk Circle: Intercultural Prizewinning Essays. Where the Dog Star Never Glows: Stories was a National Best Books Award finalist. Her flash has been anthologized in Word of Mouth, Brevity & Echo, BITE, and Flash Fiction Funny; was featured in Fiction Writer’s Review for National Short Story Month; and was a finalist for the Reynolds Price Prize in Fiction. Awards for her work include first place in The Ledge Magazine’s fiction contest and Pushcart Prize, Best New American Voices, and Best of the Web nominations.

Jim Harrington: Hi, Tara, and thank you for agreeing to be a part of The Best Small Fictions. What is the purpose/goal of this effort?

Tara Masih: The purpose is to provide a forum for writers who are producing extremely well-wrought small fictions, a forum that recognizes their work at the end of the year. Most of the other genres have this formal recognition, but the short-short story does not. There is of course the venerable Wigleaf Top 50 list, and your own list that appears during short story month, but these lists appear online. We wanted to resuscitate the print series Robert Oberfirst published in 1952–1960, his Anthology of Best Short Short Stories. Enough small fictions were produced at that time to command a yearly volume. Our word count limit is a bit smaller than his, and we have a new title, but Queen’s Ferry Press and I believe enough quality work is being published again to merit an annual anthology. Consider this a contemporary nod to an old era when the short-short thrived.

JH: There have been flash fiction anthologies published before this—the Sudden Fiction series comes to mind. How will this anthology be different?

TM: And the Flash Fiction series. Both groundbreaking anthology series that are highly respected. Each series has its own criteria for inclusion and covers a broader spectrum over a number of years. Ours will be different in that it will be briefer, more inclusive of experimentation and different word lengths, and have the barometer of being the best work within a certain year. I think the confines of the calendar year will lead to a different feel. I’ll be curious to see if any specific topics keep coming up that reflect world headlines. We’re also opening it up internationally, so readers in the States will get a taste of what is being published outside its borders, and vice versa.

JH: The guidelines mention “hybrid fiction” and “experimental form.” Editors and publishers may have different definitions for these terms. Can you tell us a little more about what you’re looking for, as regards hybrid and experimental stories?

TM: I welcome the different definitions of hybrid and experimentation. I’d rather leave it up to the editors to decide what they want to send in. Basically, if it’s small and contains elements of a fictional story, I don’t care what form it comes in. Graphic stories can be submitted, too, as long as there is text.

JH: Do you have an idea of how many stories will be in the final version?

TM: Since this is the first year, I hesitate to give a firm number. We have a goal, and we’ll see if we can reach it. But it will depend on submissions and the quality we receive. We won’t be making compromises to “fill” the book. We’ll only publish what the guest editor feels is the best of the year. We anticipate that it will be a slim, affordable book, densely packed with excellent, eclectic stories.

JH: Robert Olen Butler is selecting the winners from the finalists. How exciting is that?

TM: More than exciting. I can’t tell you what this means to both me and the press. It shows his character, that he’s willing to take time off from writing his latest novel to do this for a small press because he believes in the project and the idea of it. He and I work well together, too, so he was our first choice for guest editor, and we’re honored he accepted. He has a great feel for story and it will be fun for me to see what he eventually chooses as “The Best.”

JH: What else would you like our readers to know about this project?

TM: That this project is for the writers who voluntarily spill their thoughts and feelings on paper, in a small space, then send it out and hope it gets accepted, into a world that doesn’t completely value its worth yet. It’s a tough process and takes its toll. This project I hope will give the writers who are commended the recognition they deserve and a small boost to keep writing, and the editors who publish them the satisfaction that they chose well. Editors often go unnoticed. This gives them some accolades, too. We’ll make sure the publishers of the stories are acknowledged in some way.

JM: Thank you, Tara. This sounds like an exciting project, and I look forward to reading the finished product. You can learn more about The Best Small Fictions on the Queen’s Ferry Press website.



Jim Harrington began writing fiction in 2007 and has agonized over the form ever since. His stories have appeared in Every Day Fiction, Liquid Imagination, Ink Sweat and Tears, Near to the Knuckle, Flashes in the Dark, and others. He serves as the Managing Editor for Flash Fiction Chronicles. Jim’s Six Questions For . . . blog provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” You can read more of his stories at

by Andreé Robinson-Neal


Hopefully you all survived the three most momentous days of November: Gray Thursday, Black Friday, and Cyber Monday. And if shopping and eating were not on your list of to-do’s for the month, Flash Fiction Chronicles had more than enough to keep you occupied. The month began with a visit with Rolli and a review of his latest book, I Am Currently Working on a Novel, which is enough to distract you from whatever else you planned to do online today. R.L. Black added to the distraction by giving us fantastic tips about writing spooky flash fiction. She points us to the things that make great flash but takes it further with one primary pointer for writing horror flash: “write what scares you.”

Some might interpret the slope as John’s descent, but he’d have to arrive somewhere first before having a drop off and I don’t think he reaches the pinnacle of anything other than his own misery.

That wonderful line is from Susan Tepper’s chat with Richard Fulco for November’s UNCOV/rd. He’s talking about the main character of his debut novel, There Is No End to This Slope. You will most certainly want to slip your credit cards away after you pick up this morsel.

For many parts of the world, November is a solid mark of fall—brown leaves, cooler temperatures—and drives writers in front of their space heaters or fireplaces to conjure unplagiarized versions of dark and stormy nights. Elizabeth Maria Naranjo gets us in the mood for what comes next: the editing process. Many writers hate self-editing but hate having their work dissected by someone else even more. If you came up with the next best seller during the month for NaNoWriMo, give her article a once-over so you know how to react when you take a first look at the mark-up after editing. But before you click “send” to get your tome into the hands of your editor, consider Cameron Filas‘ suggestion to make notes from previous rejections and comb through that manuscript first. He takes us old-school by suggesting sticky notes, but he advises we can keep it high-tech, too. And before you decide to chuck the idea of using a third-party editor (instead of your best friend), give Sarah Crysl Akhtar’s piece on what a real editor will tell you and how it helps your writing a good once-over.

If you are not a flash fiction writer but want to give it a go, Mark Budman offers practical points and examples of how it’s done. He even reminds us that “flash writers are the enemies of fat.” Perhaps his article should have come along in January when we make our New Year’s resolutions … Fortunately RK Biswas’s review of  My Very End of the Universe – Five Novellas-in-Flash and a Study of the Form is a giant bellyful of flash and skill-builders. Rose Metal Press offers this hefty volume, not just for our reading pleasure, but to help us learn the what’s and how’s of “doing flash.”

Speaking of how to do flash, Aliza Greenblatt introduces us to Jeff Switt, the EDF Top Author for October, whose piece “Halloween Coming Out” gives us a sample of someone who has a handle on this flash business. Gila Green offers us a step-by-step for building character-driven flash in which we cut the fat and get on with the enjoyment of writing.

As we neared the end of November, Jim Harrington brought back an interesting quote for us to sink our teeth into. The point is something that serves as a main ingredient in most of the posts from the month: tell the story. And the period on the sentence? Sarah Crysl Akhtar‘s share from the EDF Archive, in which the author offered a great story that, as she says, is also “a perfect example for writers on why less is so often more.”

Hopefully our November offerings satiated your mental hunger pains for flash and more! Be sure to visit for more this month.


Andreé Robinson-Neal got bit by the writing bug back in the late 1970s while watching Rod Serling and reading Ray Bradbury—both of whom are everyday inspirations; although she has worked in education for more than a quarter-century, she has never been cured of her penchant for speculative fiction. Find some of her flash fiction at She writes under the name AR Neal, who will hopefully one day be identified as a famous NaNoWriMo participant.


By James Claffey


Chispas de Fuego

In the fall of 2008, as Hurricane Gustav approached the gulf coast I wrote my first piece of flash fiction in the conference room of the Old President’s House at LSU in Baton Rouge. It was the same room that had been the Southern Review editor’s office when Walker Percy met with John Kennedy Toole’s mother and she handed him the manuscript of A Confederacy of Dunces. The editor that day, Jeanne Leiby, was teaching her first class, “Forms of Fiction,” in the MFA program, and I was taking my first class in the same program, so it seems a set of events were set in motion that day leading me to the present moment when flash fiction comprises the bulk of my writing work.

Jeanne is no longer with us, having died months before my graduation from the program, and I left Louisiana shortly thereafter. What I took with me from the South was a world of writers and books I’d not known previously. Jeanne introduced me to the works of Mark Richard and Ron Hansen, and to Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio, and to the watchmaker’s precision in crafting what she termed “short short” fiction. So, the primary reason I write flash fiction is because of Jeanne Leiby.

I also write flash fiction because of my wife, Maureen, who brought me back to writing after years in the wilderness of teaching high schoolers in San Diego. She gave me books by Jean Toomer, Bhanu Kapil Rider, and Anne Waldman’s Marriage: A Sentence, and these writers and more, in a way, showed me that there was a path other than the traditional, plot-driven, large-marketplace, and it was this revelation that gave me permission to abandon the A-B-C type of material I’d been creating, and instead give rein to my imagination without the aforementioned fetters.

Part of why flash fiction appeals to me has to do with my hectic work and home life. Teaching high school English to struggling readers and writers is challenging and much of the time, draining. And raising a toddler brings a whole new meaning to what it means to be busy. I carve out short chunks of time to write something down, sometimes only fifteen or twenty minutes, so the short form suits the time I have to devote to writing. But beyond any time constraint—it’s the ability to create vivid works of imagination where syntax and diction can be fractured with abandon—I love the possibilities available to the short-form writer.

There’s a challenge to creating a piece of writing in such a short amount of words, and in the challenge I find a great satisfaction. My writing is fueled by memory and time and distance, and those three constructs lend themselves to a fragmentary sort of storytelling. I often compare my flash fiction to a kaleidoscope, where the disparate colors merge to form magical patterns and with a quick twist there’s a completely new image in front of the eyes.

I am also a magpie, fascinated by bright, shiny objects, my desk a cluttered space of sand dollars, miniature lighthouses, paperweights, Mass cards, found rocks and objects that many times serve as the inspiration for a piece of writing. These objects are fire starters for the creative process; bric-a-brac that provides that chispas de fuego that propels a narrative into motion. It is in these objects and the sparks of creative energy they give off that I discover the short, world-in-a-moment flash fiction stories that I love to create.

Too, the form of flash fiction can be quite cinematic, the images drawn, scenes so brief as to be almost movie-traileresque. I’m hugely influenced by the movies of my youth and find myself re-watching Terence Davies’ movies, focusing on the musical soundtrack, the way the light hits a brick wall, the nod of a woman’s head as a man is about to kiss her. All of this opens the sluice gate of memory for me and in the rush of ideas that comes forth I find these fragments that I grasp and start writing about. Flash fiction, ultimately, is about finding your form, discovering the right angle with which to cut the diamond into facets, showing a world in a moment.


Writer James Claffey hails from County Westmeath, Ireland, and lives on an avocado ranch in Carpinteria, CA. He is fiction editor at Literary Orphans, and the author of the short fiction collection, Blood a Cold Blue. His work is forthcoming in the W.W. Norton Anthology, Flash Fiction International.


by Julie Duffy


Continuing in our series of writing for genres, this month we’re talking about Humor. Or Comedy. Or both.

Comedy Or Humor?

Kurt Luchs, founder of The Big Jewel and a writer whose humor has been featured in The New Yorker, The Onion and McSweeney’s, knows a thing or two about the topic. He makes a distinction between humor writing and comedic writing.

“Humor to me is something written by a humorist, which is to say something funny, yes, obviously, but also something smart and exhibiting some sense of literary style based on a deep knowledge of literary history,” says Luchs.

“Telling jokes and sort of stringing them together until you fill out the page or you feel like stopping, does not constitute humor writing. That’s what Dave Barry does. Is it funny? Quite frequently. Is it comedy? Definitely. Is it humor? I would say no, because it’s got no sense of literary style, no layers, no nuance, no form. For that reason I doubt people will still be reading him in the next century, but I bet they’ll still be reading Benchley, Ian Frazier and Veronica Geng.”

If we agree to draw this distinction between comedic writing and literary humor, does that mean Humor is the only kind of funny writing that has any depth?

Perhaps not. Eric Bosarge of Eric’s Hysterics was quick to remind us that, “comedy is really just drama in disguise,” which helps to explain the peculiar ability of humor to make serious point—something we’ll talk about a little later in this post.

Christopher Fielden has a more broad definition of the genre:

“Humor is a genre that should bring a smile to your face while you’re reading it.”

Milo James Fowler agrees and reminds us about the role of the author’s intent.

“Writers of humor want readers to enjoy themselves.”

There is, of course, an audience for both literary humor and for ‘stories that make you laugh’, but Luchs’ definition is a useful one to bear in mind as you try to find homes for your writing.

Reasons To Be Cheerful

Why write humor?

Sometimes the answer is simple:

“It’s more fun to write than any other genre,” says Fielden, who likes fun so much that he created a uniquely silly prize for his literary contest: the winning stories are bound into an anthology, strapped to the front of his motorbike and driven from his home near Bristol, in the southwest of England, to Hull, on the opposite coast, and back—a round trip of almost 500 miles.

Sometimes the motivation to write humor is a reaction to events in the news, or to problems in society. Consider the Ezra Pound quote supplied by Kurt Luchs:

“Journalism is news. Literature is news that stays news.”

Sometimes it can even be a reaction to the prevailing tone in your favorite genre.

Milo James Fowler’s comic science fiction hero, Captain Bartholomew Quasar is pompous, ridiculous and hugely popular. He recently won Fowler his first book contract. So why write funny science fiction stories?

“A lot of today’s science fiction is pretentious, bleak, and nihilistic. Where’s the fun in that?”

But there is also a more serious side to Captain Quasar’s adventures, says Fowler.

“The fallibility of human nature is something we all can relate to. We should laugh at ourselves on a regular basis.”

Christopher Fielden agrees, “[Humor] can allow you to tackle sensitive subject matters in a way that people can relate to and appreciate.”

Just as long as you don’t forget to bring the funny, says Fowler. “There may be serious societal issues or thinly disguised current events at the heart of the story, but laughter is the ultimate goal.”

Making Funny Stories Funny … And Stories

Inspired to write a humorous story? Stop! Read on for tips from our experts about how you can write humorous stories that are more than a wannabe stand-up routine.

Humor is there to enhance a story, but the story itself is still the most important thing,” warns Christopher Fielden.

Eric Bosarge had a similar comment.

“I look for the piece to be grounded by a clear narrative thread and for the story to progress.”

And beware trying too hard:

“Some writers try and be funny for the sake of being funny, or try and be laugh-out-loud funny with every word. This can lead to melodrama, an overuse of exclamation marks and poor story structure,” says Fielden.

Fowler agrees. “Don’t go for a punchline. Readers can see one of those coming from a mile away.

Kurt Luchs offered this guide through the process of writing and revising a humor piece:

“Every single sentence needs to be either a setup to a joke, the joke itself, or a follow-up joke that may itself become another setup. There can be sentences without laughs, but no paragraphs without laughs.

“There should be running gags that ratchet up the premise in some interesting fashion, or even parallel sets of running gags that intertwine and conclude in some unexpected but satisfying way. The thing should both climb and cohere.”

A good humor piece is as tightly and carefully constructed as a sonnet.

Humor In A Flash

Happily, humor is one of the genres that lends itself to flash fiction the best.

“The longer a piece of humor is, the harder it becomes to sustain and the harder it becomes to keep building into a fitting conclusion by topping itself right up until the end,” says Luchs.

He describes the natural limit of most humor pieces as 500-1000 words, but that doesn’t mean that all short, funny tales are good flash fiction.

“A flash-sized tale is not an oversized joke,” cautions Fowler. “Weave the humor throughout your piece.”

And don’t forget to revise rigorously, says Bosarge. “[Writers] should look over the story and ask themselves, ‘did I miss any opportunities for a laugh’ before hitting send.”

Ending On The Right Note

“Endings are hard, and hardest of all in humor,” says Luchs. “Ideally the ending should be the funniest—or one of the funniest —parts. Again, if the piece has been cleverly constructed, and the writer has several plates spinning in the form of running gags, an ending will often emerge naturally out of that. Circularity, returning to the beginning in some way, can work, especially if there is some extra twist.”

Another option is to amplify the humor—or the satire—by changing the tone at the end. Luchs explains,

“Sometimes it’s better to let the ending twist away from humor a bit, if that fits with the premise. There is a reason that many albums by the audio comedy troupe the Firesign Theatre end on a wistful or tragicomic note instead of a punchline.”

An ending he can’t abide is the ‘shaggy-dog story’, where the entire story is a set up for a single punchline.

“We have an editor whose only job is to hunt down the authors of shaggy dog stories and put them out of their misery. It keeps him busy year round.”

We can only hope, here, that Luchs is being humorous.

On Selling Humor

Selling humor is hard. It was the one thing that everyone I interviewed agreed on. It doesn’t pay well and there aren’t enough markets. (Santa, are you listening?)

“There are perhaps half a dozen outlets worth being seen in,” says Luchs, “and even they don’t pay.”

It’s also hard because humor is such a personal taste.

“Not all funny bones are created equal,” admits Fowler, who had his own run-in with commenters at Every Day Fiction, not all of whom appreciated his sense of humor in Future Tense / Present Perfect.

“…. I just keep sending my work out there until an editor snatches it up.” Fowler adds. I can almost see his wry smile, even over email.

Christopher Fielden felt so strongly about this that he started his own humor contest. Luchs edits his own humor publication. Fowler has gone with a small publisher to bring out his first Captain Quasar novel.

“My advice is,” says Kurt Luchs, “if you don’t love this thing, if you aren’t passionate about it for its own sake, stay away.”

If you simply can’t help yourself, then take some encouragement from the words of the often-published Milo James Fowler:

“Some stories take a couple rejections before finding a good home; others take a couple dozen. I’ve sold 97 short stories so far, and I haven’t lost hope on any of my homeless tales yet.”

How does he recommend we follow his example?

“Weed out as many unnecessary words as possible. Polish until shiny. Rinse and repeat. Dunk and swish. Line dry. When ready, submit to a publisher as weird as you are. Then go write something new—and funnier.”

Now, doesn’t the thought of that make you smile?


Julie Duffy is a writer of short fiction and host of the annual creativity challenge StoryADay May.

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