Learning from Bisson

First, a little context: the characters must fix a flat tire at night on an isolated road. Flashlights are sputtering. Then we read,

There was a flood of dim orange flickery light. But when I turned to find the lug nuts, I was surprised to see that the flashlight the boy was holding was dead. The light was coming from two bears at the edge of the trees, holding torches. They were big, three hundred pounders, standing about five feet tall. Wallace Jr. and his father had seen them and were standing perfectly still. It’s best not to alarm bears.

The character finishes fixing the flat in simple, direct statements, most starting with “I” and a verb: “I fished,” “I reached,” “I was relieved,” and “I put,” for example. And then these sentences,

All this time, the bears never made a move. They just held the torches, whether out of curiosity or helpfulness, there was no way of knowing. It looked like there may have been more bears behind them, in the trees.

Opening three doors at once, we got into the car and drove off. Wallace was the first to speak. “Looks like bears have discovered fire,” he said.

I’m quoting this story, Terry Bisson’s “Bears Discover Fire,” out of plane old admiration. It’s a surprising premise. Characters in an extreme situation cope methodically, calmly, without violence. Such calm is admirable and can be sort of funny in an understated way. The story is a kind of magical realism but without magic, using the (I’m not sure what to call it) “vastly unlikely” instead; “Bears Discover Fire” was originally published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine. (It’s been reprinted in Lightspeed and Peter S Beagle’s The Secret History of Fantasy.)

Also, the premise isn’t hidden, not at all, but stated directly in the title. Discovering fire has all kinds of mythic implications. What else might? Hiding something or someone? Consider generating twelve three-word titles. Which imply interesting questions in simple, direct language? Pick one or two titles to develop into stories.

Learning from Ng

In the introduction to the Best American Short Stories 2025 annual, Celeste Ng writes about skipping reading the introductions when she’s read the anthology in the past. Even more interesting, she describes the criteria for good fiction she discovered in the process of making her selections. These criteria can be aspirational; they might be expectations we set for ourselves. Excerpts are below. I’ve added numbers and altered paragraphing.

[1] First and foremost, the story had to grab me. Sometimes this meant an unforgettable premise, or a propulsive plot, or characters so fully drawn that I felt I would know them if I met them on the street. Sometimes it was charm, or humor, or an unexpected twist. The stories that ended up in the Yes pile were ones I couldn’t get out of my head, that I kept thinking about days or even weeks after reading them.

[2] Second, the story had to feel complete…. I wanted a sense that the writer had considered the story holistically, that every choice had been made deliberately, and that all the pieces fit together, even if the… [whole] picture wasn’t fully revealed. And by the time I reached the last line, I needed to understand something more about the situation than I did at the start…

[3] Third, the language of this story had to be of the very highest caliber. If a piece didn’t have sentences that startled or surprised me, or images that took my breath away with their absolute rightness, they usually didn’t make the cut….

[4] And finally … stories had to have heft … They didn’t have to be serious or sad… But I had to feel that this story and these characters were deeply important to the author, not just a thought experiment or a whim…. I also tend to gravitate towards stories that are in conversation with big topics, whether that means our current moment or broad-reaching and eternal themes…. The very best stories engage with more than just the purely personal, and this is what turns a good story into a great story.

Learning from Moore

Here are two paragraphs from Liz Moore’s God of the Woods:

She saw everything. She sat on the edge of the stage that overlooked the community room, watching her campers in all of their triumphs and failures, the ones having genuine fun, the ones pretending to have it.

If she believed in a God, it was in one who functioned something like Louise in this moment: rooting for her charges from afar, mourning alongside them when they were rejected, celebrating every small victory that came their way. She noticed the lonely ones, the ones at the edge of the crowd; she felt in her heart a sort of wild affection for them, wanted to go to them, to stand next to them and pull them tightly to her side; and yet she also knew that to intervene in this way would disrupt something sacred that—at twelve and thirteen and fourteen years old—they were learning about themselves and the world. And this, too, was how she thought of God.

Consider characterization by thoughts about the divine. Characters might not believe at all or might not believe as aggressively and fervently as the most devout evangelists or believe to various changing degrees. What characters consider divine (their money, spouse, time with their phone or family, God) reveals them to readers as well. Does what characters consider divine put them at odds with some of the other characters around them? Does it make them a member of a community or organization? How do they feel about that membership? How do people important to them feel about it? If you’re writing literary realism, is there a faith tradition you want to mention specifically? If you’re writing fantasy, do you need to invent a pantheon? How might meeting aliens change your characters ideas about all of this? What other life events might strengthen or weaken a character’s resolve, whatever their position?

Moore’s paragraphs above quickly show readers Louise’s view of the world, other characters in it, the setting, and a bit about her view of herself. That kind of quick characterization is valuable for writers.

Learning from Kushner

I enjoyed reading Creation Lake by Rachel Kushner. Like all good books, there is a lot that could be said about it. From sentence to sentence the writing seems strong to me. Here are two of the elements of craft of the many that stood out:

We read, “You simply don’t like her, I didn’t say.” Kushner directly states what her main character didn’t say, which lets readers know what the character knows and is considering but doesn’t do. It’s characterization by decision-making but decisions on paths not taken. Implying options the character has shares their world with readers. The economy of expression increases the tension at the sentence level as well.

I have tended to avoid spoilers, but describing the next technique without revealing interesting plot details is difficult. You might stop reading now, though I’ll keep things abstract. The main character is involved in spying for a mysterious organization. She provides reports and tries to influence the people she watches in minor ways. Tension increases for readers and the character when her assignment changes. The change means she is no longer employed to just deceive but to actually harm. It’s a simple and direct move by Kushner that grabbed me.

Learning from Törzs

I’m still reading ink blood sister scribe, but I recommend it. Emma Törzs is a very good writer. So, naturally, we want to read her for lessons on writing good fiction. Consider this paragraph:

Joanna covered her face with one hand, her back rising and falling, but her other hand reached out and found Esther’s. Despite her grief for her father, despite her exhaustion, despite everything, Esther felt a profound sense of . . . what was it? Something expansive and dizzying, like lying on her back under a night sky sky so filled with ancient stars that she felt the thinness of her own life like a flickering candle beneath them. Awe. That after ten years, Joanna was still her sister.
Emma Törzs, ink blood sister scribe

Even without context (I want to avoid spoiling it for you) there are things to learn. The first sentence is objective and cinematic. Even an objective, cinematic sentence can convey complicated emotions. It does so through specific visual details. Readers know Joanna is feeling something powerful without having access to her inner life. And this is consistent with the point of view of the chapter because that point of view has been a limited third-person close to Esther.

The next sentence reminds readers that we’re seeing Joanna’s reaction from within Esther’s world. The first phrase, from “despite” to “everything,” could describe both women, but “Esther felt” controls the point of view, transitioning back to Esther and reminds readers which character’s inner life we do have access to, at least for this chapter. Esther can’t quiet describe what she’s feeling, which characterizes her. The nature of the metaphor she uses to try and understand her emotions matches what readers already know about her. It seems to be the kind of metaphor Esther would reach for. It is also very different than the kind of metaphor her sister would use. So, the metaphor strengthens readers understanding of the character as the character begins to understand herself. Knowing Joanna wouldn’t use a similar metaphor characterizes her. The sisters are together in a complicated moment but haven’t disappeared. Each remains themselves.

I highly recommend ink blood sister scribe.