It was Ray Bradbury who suggested that, to build up your skill and confidence, you should write lots of short stories. As a master of them himself, his advice is well worth listening to.
As well as my 28 novels, I’ve now written over 150 short stories and more than 60 drabbles (exactly 100-word flash fiction pieces). Some of them have appeared spontaneously, others have been the result of suggestions I’ve seen online or been given.
And I think that they have helped me develop my craft when it comes to longer fiction.
For ideas and inspiration, I love a prompt.
It’s quite amazing to see how my mind takes a word or a sentence and constructs a story from it. I also like a time or wordcount challenge.
At our regular meetings, the Exeter Authors Association have several prompts and 45 minutes of writing to make something from them.
It’s a fascinating exercise, particularly when more than one of us picks the same prompt, and we get several variations on the common theme.
I’ve produced some of my best short stories and drabbles from this type of third-party prompt. You never know where they might lead.
And the short stories often lead me to more. In the past, I’ve written sequels to some of my short stories. Others have become novels, while one is now a series.
The prompt that spoke to me at our last meeting was no exception.
Charlie, a young graduate from Exeter University, finds a job cataloguing vintage mystery novels in an eccentric bookshop on Torquay harbour. They are surprised to discover that each book in the 1940s ‘Mrs Marvel Murder’ series has a secret love note scribbled on the first page. Why was this love secret, and did it have a happy ending? Charlie is determined to uncover the truth!
Here’s my attempt at a story. See what you think, bearing in mind the basic story was written in 45 minutes and tidied up later.
It’s written in the Book.
Old Mr Pennywyse was absent from his shop, Mysterious Books, when the box arrived. It was delivered by a woman of my age, with a distracted manner and eyes that seemed full of sadness.
“Can I give you these books?” she asked. “My mother left them to me. I have no room for them in my house, and it feels right that your shop should have them.”
“Mr Pennywyse isn’t here,” I said. “He has the final say on acquisitions.”
“I know,” she replied, “I watched him go.” Her tone suggested that his absence was somehow important. “I’m sure he’ll want them when he sees what they are.”
“Let me have a look,” I said.
Inside the box, in pristine condition, I could see the cover of a Mrs Marvel murder mystery, complete with a 1940s-style cover. Of course, I remembered the series; they formed part of my Modern Literature studies at university. Mrs Marvel mysteries were a copycat, an attempt to cash in on the popularity of Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple. First published in the 1940s as mass market paperbacks, they achieved cult status after being made into a TV series in the 1960s. These weren’t first editions; they were hardback book club editions with bright dust jackets. But they were still very collectable.
“There are several of the series there,” she explained, “and they’re in good condition. I’m sure that Mr Pennywyse would appreciate them.” She paused, her voice shaking. “I’ve almost brought them in several times, but,…”
“Who are you?” I asked. “Mr Pennywyse is bound to ask me. I’m Charlie, I’m helping him catalogue everything.”
As she handed me a business card, I couldn’t help noticing that her eyes were filled with tears, her cheeks flushed. Before I could look at it or ask her what the matter was, she shook her head and turned.
“I can’t, excuse me,” she said and went outside. I had no idea what was happening. Perhaps she’d return, but instead, I watched as she walked away. It looked like she was crying, and I debated whether to go after her. But it would take me too long to lock the shop, and it was probably none of my business.
I looked at the card. She was Millicent Tovy, solicitor and family law specialist. There were phone numbers and an email address.
I turned to the books, lifted them out of the box, and immediately noticed something.
They were numbered on the spines and front covers, but only the even-numbered books were here, 2,4,6 etc. I picked up the top one; it was number two, Westbound Train. As I opened it, I noticed writing on the inside of the cover in faint pencil. It almost looked as if the first sheet had been glued over it at some time.
“Maude,” it said. “I’m thinking of you all day and all night. If only your parents would let us be together. Until such time as we can, the idea of hiding our letters in these books is the best we can do. I imagine your hands on these pages and wish they were held in mine. With all my love, Reggie.”
I was touched; it looked like Maude and Reggie had conducted an illicit relationship through the books. I picked up the next one. Book 4 was titled The Broken Glass.
“Thank you for your expressions of love, Maude,” it said. “I return them. I assume your parents still know nothing of our correspondence. We must meet as soon as possible. Can you get away? Perhaps you could say you’re staying with a girlfriend for a weekend?”
“What have you got there?” Mr Pennywyse had returned and interrupted my thoughts. I showed him the books and explained how they had arrived.
“It’s very strange,” I said. “That there were only the even numbered volumes here, and the woman was insistent that you should have them. She was quite distressed; in fact, she left in tears.”
He went very pale. “Come with me,” he said. We went upstairs to his flat, which was very austere, apart from the huge bookshelf occupying one long wall. Almost without looking, he pulled the book from the shelf. It was volume 19 of the Mrs Marvel series, A Mediterranean Mystery. I knew that was the last one published. He showed me the inside flap, written in pencil, was a message.
“Reggie,” it said. “The worst has happened, my father knows we spent the weekend together in Skegness last month. I have no idea how. I’m being told I’m never to see you again. To make certain, he’s sending me away with a distant relative who is leaving England. He has a job with an Oil Company in Iran. We’ll be living in a place called Isfahan in a guarded compound. I’m afraid that I will never be able to speak or correspond with you again. Uncle Arthur and Aunt Grace have been told to make sure that they keep an eye on my letters and intercept any that may be from a suitor. I don’t know what I’m going to do about the other situation; I shall have to deal with that alone, I suppose. I’m sorry, with love and regret, Maude.”
So that explained why the books had come here. But it wasn’t the whole story. “What other situation?” I asked.
He didn’t answer; instead, he pulled a folded photograph from his wallet and handed it to me. A newborn baby gazed at the camera lens from what looked like a hospital cot. I turned the picture over. “This is Millie,” it said on the back.
Mr Pennywyse was close to tears. “This was all I ever had of her,” he sobbed. “The daughter I never knew. It was smuggled out of the hospital and sent to me by the nurse who took it.”
He was silent for a moment. “Who brought the books in?” he finally asked. It was as if he were afraid to know.
I handed him Millicent’s business card.
I was quite pleased with how that came out.
It needs a bit of work, but for a rough first draft, it has promise.
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