A Short Story

The Y Chromosome gave me a couple of books the other night and said, "Here, I got these for you because they were giving them away at the bookstore." (What!? Free stuff? What is it!? I'm interested!)

I asked him if "free" meant he paid the $3.98 price tag stuck to the corners but he said no, the bookstore was giving them away because they couldn't sell them. (Honey, I'm touched!) He wanted to know why I thought he was lying.

Well, I didn't think he was lying, I thought he was using "giving them away" as a euphemism for "cheap." But then I wanted to know why he thought I wanted something the bookstore couldn't sell for less than $4.

And so it goes.

I started the first book the night before last. It's a collection of "fresh fiction from the top writing programs" aptly entitled "Best New American Voices 2007." Seriously.

(Note: Not described as "fresh fiction from the top writers" and not entitled "Best New American Fiction 2007.")

Curiously enough, while I like to write and hope to entertain (myself), I'm not a fan of short stories or fictional essays that are randomly grouped together and serious. I either feel a little like a voyeur or a little like I'm with someone I just met and they're committing a serious sharing violation.

She never felt this way before. It was so unexpected. She opened her bedside drawer where she kept her bible and [some random sex toy] and placed the flower carefully between the two.
Okay, thanks, didn't expect that.

Of course, I can never read a collection of short stories without being reminded of the time I picked up a collection by Ernest Hemingway. You might have heard of him once. I didn't realize it was short stories and it took me until I finished the third "chapter" to think "this book doesn't make any sense."

I also struggle with the hanging endings. Only a few pages and you're implicated in someone's big, beautiful, complicated life. And then it's over. It reminds me of when I was a kid and the super cool insult after someone told you something was, "And then what happened?"

The writers of this collection have quite a pedigree. They write for a living and attended things like the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. (I write, but only for my blog. I attended a Meatloaf concert.)

I've read two of the stories so far. I didn't appreciate the story lines. In fact, I wouldn't call them stories. I would call them annoying and far too intimate, but these people sure can write. Here's one phrase that has drifted all day, unbidden into my mind: "hoping to find some clue to justify her unreasonable interest in this unsuitable rose..."

The End.