Last weekend, I attended World Fantasy Con 2013 in Brighton. This is quite a literary-based event, e.g. the organisers banned costumes (except for Halloween night), which didn’t go down too well with a lot of writers. I mean, I was disappointed because I’d been hoping to wear my costume of the writer in the corner who doesn’t want to be noticed but does really.

I went to quite a few panels, most very interesting, some not so, which is fairly typical of Cons. The first time I actually sat on a panel, as moderator, was at a British Fantasy Con, with Neil Gaiman on the panel. Having done quite a bit of training and coaching, I assumed the rest of the panel would appreciate my having prepared plenty of discussion material. I don’t think they did. At least, if the shocked looks on their faces as I ‘prepped’ them before the start were anything to go by.

No, on the whole Con panels rely on members to talk amusingly and knowledgeably off the tops of their heads. Which most can do, of course. For instance, at World Con I went to a very entertaining panel discussing ‘Writing for series TV’, including Brian Clemens, Richard Christian Matheson, David Pirie, Stephen Gallagher and Rob Shearman.

I was rather star-struck, especially by Brian Clemens who was responsible, amongst other great series, for The Avengers. He said at one point that the best advice on writing he ever got (from the Danziger Brothers) was: “There’s no mystique to writing. It’s arse to chair and pen to paper.”

I also went to a panel discussing how to sell scripts to movies and TV. Richard Christian Matheson said at one point:

“You have to have a really high threshold for rejection. In this business, golden opportunities turn black. You have to keep writing. There are an extraordinary number of set-backs to face. Take an inventory of your nature: where is your threshold? It’s not about the one moment; it’s about momentum. You have to be relentless – in a way that you’re not about anything else in your life. And you do that by loving to write – so all the rejection doesn’t punch a hole in you; it just makes you keep on going.”

The panel had me fired up about thinking bigger; at producing a few stunning spec scripts and taking on TV; no, make that Hollywood. But then, the last panel I went to discussed the question, “Is it possible to make a living from writing short fiction?” The panel said they’d been joking beforehand about how this would be the shortest-ever discussion; probably just the one word, and not with more letters than two in it.

Then Rob Shearman spoke about how he’d been writing short fiction for a few years now and loved it. He talked about how in many ways it’s the purest fiction form. It’s where, as a writer, you can really take control and be free from outside interference. He also loved the completeness of a short story: that you encapsulate an idea or theme, and a character or two, in the appropriate writing style, then move on to another one.

This chimed with me. I used to write children’s books but became disillusioned with the publishing industry. The interference isn’t as bad as with movies, but there are still various committees your book has to pass through and their criteria aren’t really that different to Tesco’s when it comes down to it. I’d started at a time when a writer could write what the hell he liked and his editor could just go ahead and publish it. I tried premier-pharmacy.com writing stuff that conformed with ‘market needs’ (whatever those are) but didn’t have the heart for it. So I decided to switch to my first reading love: Science Fiction (and Fantasy), partly because I’d learned there are a lot of very good short story markets for the genre.

The first time I sat down to write an SF short story it was for my entry application to the Odyssey Writing Workshop. I was actually thrilled again at being faced with a blank page. I had an idea and a feeling for the shape of the main characters, and whereas with a novel, I could be looking at weeks or months before hitting the ‘point’ of the story, now I could get to it in a day or so.

Every short story I’ve written since has been for its own reasons; and they’ve all been different. Apart from the creative pleasure this kind of freedom brings, it’s also made me a better writer. I’ve used just about every form, tense and structure, and tried dozens of different points of view for the main characters.

Also, while competition for places in the top magazines is incredibly strong, it’s for the most part open. You write a story because you want to; an editor reads it and buys it if he/she likes it. Done. Okay, there are going to be some market considerations for magazines too, and the need to get ‘names’ on board, but there is still plenty of space for stories that are excellent just by being themselves. And if you produce enough quality stories, you’ll sooner or later sell one, which is a great confidence boost. Selling novels, of course, is incredibly difficult and usually you’ve only got one or two to hawk around.

I often advise the writers I work with to try short fiction, but few rarely do. They start with novels and stick with them. Which is frustrating because I can see how much their writing would improve if they wrote shorts too. But I think sometimes they’re frightened to. Perhaps it’s because in some ways you put yourself more on the line with a short story. There aren’t enough words to hide behind. Here’s the main character; here’s the problem he’s got; here’s how he solves it (or doesn’t); and here’s how I’ve taken you through his well-structured journey with exactly the right kind of prose, tone and voice. More than anything, here’s how I’ve produced something magical and memorable, and now I have to do it all over again, already.

Perhaps it’s also fear of change. While you stick with that novel, spending years re-writing it and sending it out, you don’t have to change or develop as a writer. You tell yourself it’s just a case of the right agent or publisher discovering you. But if you write a short, then another, then another, and you send them all out, and they’re all different, then in a way you’re putting yourself out there as a writer, not just as one book. And if you get rejected as a writer, well, that would be the end, wouldn’t it?

I believe there’s a limit to the amount of creative, interesting and magical stories a writer can produce before they become predictable and repetitive. However, those who only write novels face the danger of staying below their creative limits. I believe you can access the bottom quarter of your creativity by sticking to one or two projects (novels in this case) but you only access the top three-quarters by producing more, trying more, and reaching for more. Which writing short fiction demands.