"Did you know," a friend once told me, "there are less than 1,000 Giant Pandas alive in the world?"
"No, I didn't. Is that true?"
"Yeah." She pouted to make sure I understood how she felt about it, then added, "Isn't that just terrible? They're so beautiful. They're like fluffy cow bears."
Recently I found myself in a conversation with a friend who, by her own admission, is an avid reader. When I asked her for some recommendations, she cited several novels, the majority of which she had discovered on the front displays at the book store. She then asked me if I had any recommendations myself. I mentioned several short stories. She hesitated, then replied, "short stories?", as if I had said something absurd, like "I stand on my head when eating my meals, because food tastes better that way."
"Sure," I replied. "You don't like short stories?""
"Well, it's not that, but... I like real books." As if the merits of a Short Story were, literally, nonexistant.
We discussed the issue, and her perspective became clear. Short stories, as she saw them, were smaller, inferior versions of novels, and why would anyone waste the time reading something so insignificant when they can read a full-length book?
To her, the Short Story belonged in the category of Sunday morning comic strips and the smut written in indelible ink inside public restroom stalls. It offered nothing of value -- how could it? -- and was nothing more than a cheap, miniscule imitation of what the skilled writers were doing.
I wondered if her perspective was unique to her alone, or if it was a more widespread opinion. So I asked around. Virtually everyone I spoke to considered the Novel to be the only form of fiction acceptable. Some, even, weren't even aware of other forms.
"Short Story? You mean like, a children's book?"
The rare few that had heard of Short Stories admitted they considered it something amateurs do, like the shaky waddling of a newborn horse trying to walk for the first time.
"Oh! You're a writer? What do you write?"
"Short Stories."
"Aww, how cute. You keep at it, don't give up. You'll get there one day!"
I went looking to the book store for answers. Surely there were Short Story authors thriving somewhere among the Novelists, sapplings bristling on the forest floor between the trunks of the mighty oaks. Short Story collections, I was told by the girl typing away at the computer, could be found "in the... Anthologies section?" She spoke the word anthologies with exaggerated slowness and an elevated pitch at the end, as if she found the word foreign.
The anthologies section was slim and sad looking; an emaciated group of dusty books huddled against each other to stave off the cold and loneliness. Their unbroken spines stared at me like the hopeful eyes of abandoned kennel dogs. To one side, the Humor books lay strewn about, their page corners bent and thumbed through, sprawled like happy drunks. On the other side, the glossy red and black Mystery books, posed with their hats pulled down over their eyes, their trenchcoat collars upturned, were being carefully examined by customers with their hands on their chins.
I ended up purchasing two anthologies, leaving a noticable gap. The remaining books slumped morosely against each other.
With my receipt came another, smaller piece of paper. It said,
You might also like these titles...
The Pushcart Prize - Best of the Small Presses
The PEN/O. Henry Prize Stories: The Best Stories of the Year
The Best American Short Stories
Well, I thought, at least somebody still acknowledges the value of Short Stories, and the writers who create them, even if the general public seems completely unaware of them at all.
After reading some of the dazzling talents, though, and wondering why I'd never heard of them before, I'm left asking: Is the Shorty Story the literary equivalent of a fluffy cow bear?



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