SamScribble
Yeah, still just a guru
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2009
- Posts
- 38,862
Many years ago, my then boss invited me to join him at dinner with a couple of women from head office. His plan was to bed the younger, prettier woman. My job was to distract the older, plainer woman; to keep her out of the way, as it were.
As I recall (and it was a long time ago) the dinner was very pleasant. But my boss’s plan didn’t quite work out. He went home to his wife. And the younger, prettier woman invited me back to her hotel room.
During the short cab ride back to her hotel, the woman and I somehow got to talking about short stories. She loved Chekhov and Maupassant and Cheever. I was pretty enthusiastic about Graham Greene and James Joyce and Philip Roth. And we had both recently discovered JP Donleavy, and the poetry of Roger McGough and Adrian Henri.
About six months later, we both ended up with new jobs at the same organisation in the same city. It was purely by good fortune. But it was good fortune. And almost every Friday night, for the next three or four years, we gathered on her playing field-sized bed to eat, drink wine, and read each other short stories interspersed with the occasional poem. (We did other stuff too, but most of you are too young to hear about that.)
The point of my story is this: It seems to me that there was a time back in the 1960s and ‘70s when the short story was enjoying a bit of a heyday. And then, with the demise – partial or total – of the ‘serious’ magazines, the short story seemed to lose its place in the panoply of fiction. Publishers seemed to turn their backs on short stories as they focused on ‘blockbuster’ novels.
And now, maybe 30, 40 years later, I get the feeling that the short story is back in favour. Short story writers are back in favour. They’re winning serious prizes. (A Nobel Prize for Alice Munro.) And even my favourite RL bookshop has a section – a surprisingly well-stocked section – devoted to anthologies of short stories.
Discuss.
As I recall (and it was a long time ago) the dinner was very pleasant. But my boss’s plan didn’t quite work out. He went home to his wife. And the younger, prettier woman invited me back to her hotel room.
During the short cab ride back to her hotel, the woman and I somehow got to talking about short stories. She loved Chekhov and Maupassant and Cheever. I was pretty enthusiastic about Graham Greene and James Joyce and Philip Roth. And we had both recently discovered JP Donleavy, and the poetry of Roger McGough and Adrian Henri.
About six months later, we both ended up with new jobs at the same organisation in the same city. It was purely by good fortune. But it was good fortune. And almost every Friday night, for the next three or four years, we gathered on her playing field-sized bed to eat, drink wine, and read each other short stories interspersed with the occasional poem. (We did other stuff too, but most of you are too young to hear about that.)
The point of my story is this: It seems to me that there was a time back in the 1960s and ‘70s when the short story was enjoying a bit of a heyday. And then, with the demise – partial or total – of the ‘serious’ magazines, the short story seemed to lose its place in the panoply of fiction. Publishers seemed to turn their backs on short stories as they focused on ‘blockbuster’ novels.
And now, maybe 30, 40 years later, I get the feeling that the short story is back in favour. Short story writers are back in favour. They’re winning serious prizes. (A Nobel Prize for Alice Munro.) And even my favourite RL bookshop has a section – a surprisingly well-stocked section – devoted to anthologies of short stories.
Discuss.