New Zealand

A symposium always tempts foolish generalizations into the light; but at least the fool who generalizes has the consolation that he will not be alone.

I should like to be able to discuss the economic and literary health of the short story at length. But upon its economic health I am no authority. All I can say for myself is that I’ve always found it an economically unhealthy form; and I’ve never expected it to be other. Of the twenty-five odd stories and novellas I have published in three separate volumes over the past eight years, perhaps no more than two or three have found prior publication in magazines. It is years now since I tried a short story upon a magazine, in my own country or outside. Length may be part of the problem: most editors appear to like short stories short, and it is ten years since I wrote a story much under 10,000 words; some have been two or three times that length. So I write with book publication, and book publication only, in mind. And publishing stories in book form has, for me, been relatively effortless. I know the experience of most writers is the reverse. Evidently I have been fortunate with my publishers—who so far haven’t got the profitable novel they have been hoping for either. So I don’t feel I have the occasion for despair, or complaint. I have always found it relatively easy to subsidize the writing of my short stories through a variety of free-lance work—from travel-writing to book-reviewing. This means, of course, that a number of stories have gone unwritten, or gone dead on me; but possibly they deserved no life. To me only one thing matters in connection with the short story: publication. So long as I can publish, I have no cause for grievance. So long as I can publish, the short story exists as an effective form for me. So long as I publish, I can be read. And I have reason to believe I am read.