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Q&A with Liz Prato, author of BABY’S ON FIRE

The island made its mark on everybody and everything.
~ from “covered in red dirt” in baby’s on fire

The simple quote above speaks volumes about Liz Prato’s new book, Baby’s On Fire (published by Press 53). Twelve short stories in less than 150 pages, rich in character and place; stories about women and men–siblings, lovers, parents–on the precipice of love, loss, forgiveness. Stories that strike at gut level and stick with you as characters face choices, look to each other for reprieve, study the sky. Take this from “a space you can fall into,” one of my favorites in the book:

EPSON MFP imageThose stars are still there, looking down at her, saying, Come on. What are you waiting for?

A breeze makes the leaves shiver. the smell of dill from her aunt’s garden whispers by, tingling Shelby’s nose. She wishes Janie was awake. Janie could show Shelby how she does it. How she spreads her arms. If she puts them out in front or to her sides. Whether she jumps or flaps or soars. . . .

This month marks the seventh annual celebration of Short Story Month, and I’m thrilled to round off these last few days of May by introducing you to Liz Prato and her amazing work. Even better, you can win a copy of her book! Just drop your name in the comments–a simple way to win a wonderful collection of short stories.

Now, welcome Liz Prato!

CC: Your book is filled with characters in search of relief, and in some of your stories you leave readers with an ending that’s satisfying yet wanting. I mean that in a good way. Caroline in “cool dry ice” and Shelby in “a space you can fall into,” are both at the edge (one figuratively and the other literally), and I wonder where they will end up. In some ways, I know, but I still keep thinking on it–a perfect ending, I say, as it keeps readers tied to a piece long after the cover has been closed. When do you know you’ve reached the last line of a story you are writing?

LizPrato_AuthorPhotoLP: Well, that’s part of the fun of writing a short story – your ending doesn’t have to wrap it all up. It can leave some questions unanswered, some situations unsettled. But I feel that an ending should be a place where the character—and the reader—can, at least momentarily, rest. It’s not usually something I’m consciously aiming for, but often know when I get there. Like Shelby and Caroline standing on the edge. Like Jude and Spencer eating waffles. Like Sabrina resting against Kort while he sleeps. None of these characters’ problems are all solved/everything’s great/let’s ride off into the sunset. But they have taken a journey that brought them to that point where they can rest.

CC: Where do you find inspiration most often when it comes to writing short stories? Do you start with a word, an image, the seed of an idea?

LP: It’s often a situation. For example, I had a college friend whose house burned down right before he returned from a semester abroad his senior year of high school. His family told him about it in the car ride from the airport. I wondered what that would feel like, to return home only to find out your home had been destroyed, and started the story “Baby’s On Fire” with that question. Ultimately, that took me somewhere else entirely, like my original musings most often do, which is kind of great. I mean, how boring, if the path a story took me on was predictable?

There are also three stories in the collection that were inspired by longer works. The stories were either compressed (like in “When Cody Told Me He Loves Me on a Weird Winter Day”), or featured characters that had to be cut from a novel and were re-imagined in their own story arc (“Cool Dry Ice” and “I See You in the Bright Night”).

CC: In your interview with Steve Almond on The Rumpus, you talk about a few editors who said yes to your stories, even when they recognized you had more work to do on them, because they wanted to help you make a good story great. “That’s the most generous thing any editor can do,” you say. You are an editor as well an an author. How does one job inform the other, in your own work or in working with others?

LP: Several years ago, I read a review in the New York Times of Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson that said, “So it’s not a perfect book; but then, a perfect book would be perfectly safe, and I don’t have time for that.” That was a hinge moment for me: art shouldn’t be perfect. It can’t be perfect. But what it should be is moving and daring – whether it’s the story or the voice or the structure or the characters. If I’m moved by a piece of writing, if it takes chances, if it comes from the heart and soul, I’m way more likely to work with an author to even out the choppy parts. Because smoothing out a sentence or a plot bump is something an editor can do. Creating passion and voice isn’t.

When I was editing The Night, and the Rain, and the River, there was a submission by Scott Sparling with a voice that stopped me in my tracks. But it had a couple of narrative issues. I just knew, knew, knew that if I rejected this story and saw it published elsewhere later, I’d feel like I dropped the ball. So, I asked Scott if he’d like to work on it together, and it was an unbelievably fulfilling process. I’d point out places that weren’t working and ask questions about what he was going for, and Scott would respond thoughtfully and without defensiveness, and through the back and forth, he strengthened and tightened up the story without ever losing his original vision, or his voice. It’s still a magic experience for both of us.

CC: What are you reading these days?

LP: I’m super ADD when it comes to reading, so I’ve got a few things going right now: I’m reading the manuscript for Margaret Malone’s forthcoming short story collection, People Like You, that comes out in November from Atelier 26, and I just started Jenny Offill’s The Department of Speculation, and I’m re-reading Lolita, and from time-to-time I dip into The Touchtone Anthology of Contemporary Creative Nonfiction (how’s that for a mouthful of a title?). And I’m always making my way through the latest issue of Discover Magazine, because science makes my heart and my mind explode.

CC: What writing tip or mantra stays with you as your favorite?

LP: “What story would you tell to a dying person?” I might be paraphrasing, but I remember this as something Tom Spanbauer said. You would want it to be worth their limited time, right? It doesn’t matter if you make them cry, or laugh, or think of life in a new way—whatever—you want your writing to provoke genuine emotion. Surprise, even. That’s the best we can do—surprise each other, surprise ourselves, with the quality of mercy and grace.

~

Liz Prato’s short stories and essays have appeared in over two-dozen literary journals and magazines. She was the Guest Prose Editor for the Summer 2013 issue of VoiceCatcher, and edited the fiction anthology, The Night, and the Rain, and the River (Forest Avenue Press, 2014). Her awards include the 2010 Minnetonka ReviewEditor’s Prize, 1st place in the 2005 Berkeley Fiction Review Sudden Fiction Contest, four Pushcart Prize nominations, and a Scholarship to the 2012 Sewanee Writers’ Conference. She began teaching at the Attic Institute in in 2008, and has taught creative writing for several literary organizations throughout Oregon.

Liz lives with furry feline friends and her best friend/husband, who is a bookseller, musician, and writer. And, yes, she dreams of palm trees. Every day. 

Baby’s On Fire is available for purchase from Press 53. You can also enter the giveaway to win a copy by leaving your name in the comments below. Deadline is midnight on Tuesday, June 2nd.

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Revising Frank’s Story

IMG_0087I have a short story in my repertoire right now, which I call “Frank.” It’s been sent out several times and returned just as many. I like Frank. His story sticks with me. He’s a character who came out of the first novel I attempted, and though I didn’t like him much in the beginning (he was kind of a jerk, hard-headed and rude. Even scary), he softened up once I gave him his own story. I began to appreciate his flaws.

For a long time (and through several submissions), I thought his story was done. I was sure of it, figuring it just hadn’t hit the right editor’s eyes. On occasion I’d think, Okay, maybe tweak a word here or there just so it doesn’t grow stagnant. So I can send it out again right away. But the truth is, I was reluctant to look at it too deeply again.

Revisions are painful. Especially when it comes to a story I’ve worked on time and time (and time) again. Partly because I want the story to be done. Partly because I am  unsure of how to fix it. What’s worse, though, is letting a good story go simply because the work scares me.

It helps to read Jason Brown’s take on revisions:*

The long road from the first draft to the final draft is an epic journey through foreign lands with no Frodo to guide me. No, that’s not right. I can’t believe that line came out of my head. It did, though, and I just have to remember that more than 90 percent of what pops into my thoughts doesn’t belong on paper. So I try again: Revision is a month-long backpacking trip with a group of people I met in line at the DMV. No, no. Revision–it’s like driving cross-country in a Chevy Nova with my aunt and uncle and delinquent cousins from Buffalo. Everyone’s whining and my aunt yells, “What’s wrong with us?”

Brown is constantly revising through his whole essay on revision, and I love it. His humorous slant on the process pulls me out of what I sometimes see as the dire prospect of rewriting (oh, the agony). And, he offers several exercises at the end of his essay that are tailored to revision. Here’s one I intend to use:

When you reread your manuscript, start somewhere in the middle or near the end. Reread the story or chapter twice a day for six straight days, starting at a different point in the narrative each time. We all know the first paragraph and first page have to be great. Bring fresh scrutiny to all the subsequent paragraphs and pages.

Last time I opened Frank’s story, I got stuck on the first paragraph. The next time I open it, I’m going to start at the end.

Where do you begin when you revise?

IMG_0085* You can find Jason Brown’s essay in Naming the World (edited by Bret Anthony Johnston), an excellent resource for writers.

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Liz Prato, The Night, and the Rain, and the River, & Short Story Success


May is National Short Story Month, and I’ve been reading a new book of stories: The Night, and the Rain, and the River (published by Forest Avenue Press).

TNATRATR-Special-Edition-front-cover-smallerEverything about this book is enticing, including the cleverly written introduction in which the editor, Liz Prato, cuts right to the core of this collection, saying the stories, though seemingly unconnected at first, center around one theme:

[W]hen I looked at the stories I had accepted…we have a goose, and an arsonist, and drug addicts and mothers and fathers and adulterers…They were all about longing to belong. To another’s heart, to family, to oneself. Which is perfectly in line with the vision of the press…that we are all a part of this beautiful bigger entity and can help each other along the way.

Liz Prato is here today discussing what makes for a good short story. Even better? There’s a giveaway. Leave your name in the comments for a chance to win a copy of The Night, and the Rain, and the River direct from Forest Avenue Press.

How to Write a Good Short Story: In Short

By Liz Prato

You want to know how to write a really good short story? Read the submissions pile for a journal or anthology. Over the years, a lot of teachers opined that I’d learn more from the stories that were rejected than from toiling away at my computer. I always thought, “I don’t have time to write and read other people’s rejects.” Then, last year, I was asked to guest edit the journal VoiceCatcher, and the short story anthology, The Night, and the Rain, and the River, for Forest Avenue Press. And I swear, I learned more in one morning of reading submissions than I had in years of studying writing.

No, wait – that’s not quite right: in one morning, I came to understand what those years of studying writing really meant, and I felt that deep-sigh frustration when the elements of a good story weren’t on the page.

It’s ridiculously reductive to make a list of rules for How to Write a Good Short Story. This is art, not electrical engineering, and following a series of steps doesn’t ensure success. But we are list-obsessed these days, preferring small bites of advice to lengthy, Franzen-like theses, so I submit to you and the blog gods:

Four Elements For a Successful Short Story

1. STAKES. In our writers guidelines for Forest Avenue Press, we said: “We’re looking for stories that take emotional chances. . . We demand a plot – things must happen, there must be stakes.” Stakes – that was the key word there. But what became clear as I was reading is that many writers have no idea what that word – stakes – means. In short, it means something matters. Something is at risk. That your character wants something he or she cannot have, and there are consequences (emotional or physical) to not getting it.

Several stories I read were mildly amusing anecdotes, at best. Most stories suffering from a lack of stakes were just trying to be too nice – to the world, to their characters, mostly to their readers and their writers. If it’s a tale you’d relay to friends during happy hour (or your grandma at tea time), you probably don’t have sufficient stakes. Think about what you’d tell your new lover late at night, after you’ve made love, and are lying in the dark scared and hopeful about what will happen if you reveal who you really are. Tell that story.

2. COMPRESSION. Short stories are – duh, short – and to realize the form in a satisfying way, the author must create compression.

It’s not just about having fewer words. You must also have fewer plotlines, fewer characters, and less description than in a novel. That’s not to say you can’t have rich characters, or poetic prose, or a emotionally complex plot – it just means you don’t have hundred of pages to establish all that, so every single word must be essential. Every single word must contribute to your central plot and theme and character development.

I read many stories that were trying to tackle too much, and because they only had 5,000 words in which to tackle all that, guess what? Everything got short-shrifted. Nothing felt deeply explored or complete.

3. CLARITY. I can be self-deprecating. I often say things like, “Maybe I’m not the smartest reader . . . .”, but here’s the deal: I am a smart reader. I’m also a pretty generous reader. So, if you’ve confused me, then it’s because your story is unnecessarily confusing.

Don’t conflate obfuscation with art. Don’t confuse misdirection with suspense. Don’t withhold from the reader what they need to know to be fully invested in your story: who your characters are, where they are, why they’re there, and what they want. Your reader is your most intimate confident – not someone you are trying to trick, fool, or confound. Look at the first two sentences of “Bullet to the Brain,” by Tobias Wolff. What, when, where, why, who – it’s all there, and yet the reader is not remotely bored by this astounding clarity.

4. LANDING. Through the months of reading submissions, I developed an autonomic tick, if you will, that involved wildly waving my arms in front of my face, as if I was both spastically demanding “abracadabra!” and trying to swat away a swarm of tsetse flies. Whenever my arms launched into this involuntary spasm, my husband would look up at me and say, “Ending?”

Listen, I get it: endings are really, really hard to nail, and I’ve failed to nail my fair share of them. The biggest problem in the stories I read was endings that just dropped off a cliff. Stories ended mid-scene, mid-conversation, often on some line of dialogue that didn’t reveal anything new about the story. I found myself flipping pages or scrolling around, thinking I’d missed a page. I know short stories aren’t supposed to culminate in “and they all rode off into the sunset.” I know good short story endings are often open ended. But they should bring the reader – and the characters — to a place of rest. Even if for only a moment. An ending should evoke emotion above-and-beyond “What the fuck?” And the very best endings? They are surprising and inevitable at the same time.

Take the ending to “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” by Flannery O’Connor. You pretty much know from page one what fate will befall the day-tripping family, and, yet, it is utterly horrifying when it does. Look at the ending to “Sonny’s Blues,” by James Baldwin: all the language and themes and plot lead us to Sonny playing that piano at the end. We do not know that Sonny will be okay – in fact, there’s plenty of evidence he will struggle. But in that last breath, Sonny and his brother are, if only for this moment, okay. Let your reader have that last breath, whether it is a sharp intake, or a contended sigh. 

Liz Head ShotLiz Prato is the editor of The Night, and the Rain, and the River (Forest Avenue Press) and the Summer 2013 issue of  VoiceCatcher. Her short stories and essays have been widely published in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Hunger Mountain, The Rumpus, Subtropics, Iron Horse Literary Review, and several other journals and magazines. She teaches at The Attic in Portland. Her in-the-process-of-being-updated website is  www.lizprato.com.

Want a copy of The Night, and the Rain, and the River? Drop your name in the comments. Random.org will choose the winner on Tuesday, May 20th.