An inter­ac­tive inter­view about flash fic­tion.

My plan was to write a sort of struc­tured mini-essay, care­ful­ly laid out. But I chanced upon a few mat­ter-full para­graphs writ­ten by Flan­nery O’Connor.

If I had to fill in the blank for flash–flash is a machine of [blank]–I’d say that it’s a machine of com­pres­sion. What exact­ly does that mean, then, for the flash writer?

Clear­ly, a much more help­ful and seri­ous approach is need­ed, and I believe I have one—workshops should focus on only a few con­crete sug­ges­tions that will tru­ly affect the piece, and every­one involved should know what will be dis­cussed ahead of time. 

The sto­ries in Clau­dia Smith’s PUT YOUR HEAD IN MY LAP are heart­break­ing in their hon­esty. Noth­ing is sug­ar-coat­ed and while read­ers may feel the need to look away from the raw emo­tion dis­played on the pages, their eyes can’t help but be drawn back. 

You’ve writ­ten some flash, and now, before it’s com­plete, you must revise in order to get the piece to be the best that it can be, whether you’re look­ing to sub­mit it for pub­li­ca­tion, or sim­ply share it with friends and col­leagues.

A review of Rose Met­al Press’s THEY COULD NO LONGER CONTAIN THEMSELVES: “The over­all won­der of this plump lit­tle gem is that there is no jock­ey­ing for space, no jostling of elbows, no step­ping on toes.”

Sil­ver Surfer + Five Ran­dom Words = Flash Fic­tion Glo­ry

An excerpt and response to Robin Black’s blog entry about the sub­jec­tiv­i­ty of read­er respons­es.

A prompt for a flash inspired by Frost’s “The Road Not Tak­en.”