Short and sweet?

I was going to say that I'd never describe myself as a writer, except that I have done so many times on CVs; and, on reflection, I think I've had enough published, even if I wasn't paid for many of them, to justify that. It's also what drives me. I love the written word, as a producer and a consumer, even if my tastes are esoteric. I have never read any Dickens, for example, nor Austen nor a single Bronte, and, if I'm honest, I suspect I never will. Perhaps, like Alec Home, I will be bedridden for many months at a time and will catch up on the great lacunae in my reading.

I can write articles with some facility, I think. A thousand words on a random topic? Yes, I can do that. Indeed, I can do it pretty quickly; give me a couple of hours and an internet connection. Select committee Reports? Certainly, those I can churn out - who can forget my 60-paragraph epic on the future of HM Coastguard in Scotland? (Almost everyone, I suspect: but the job was done and duty was fulfilled.) I can also do long-form. I have several novels on the stocks. That they are unpublished (and, no doubt, unpublishable) is neither hither nor yon. The point is I can write 80,000 words of continuous prose and it will make sense. It may even have a plot.

What really flummoxes me is the short story. In fiction, my strengths lie in dialogue and characterisation, I think. Plot comes to me from time to time, but its influence is wavering, and can be thin and reedy. And if you're dealing with a work of a few pages - say, 2,000 or 2,500 words - plot really matters. You can't just let things drift because you haven't the space.

This frustrates me. I am very conscious that my mother and stepfather collaborated on many a short story, and did so extremely well, and it feels like something I should be able to do. It's also a genre with a rich and proud history, and to get an example published would make me proud, if not rich. There is also another factor, I suppose: it bothers me that I can't do it. So, having a bit of free time over the last day or two, I decided to sit down and damned well try. Now, any of my parents will tell you that this is not my strength. When I was young, I could either do something, or I abandoned it as a lost cause. The violin was a prime example. I didn't take to it instantly, like little Wolfgang Amadeus no doubt did, so it was cast aside, the only memory a screeching rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. The violin was Not For Me.

It has been something of a revelation. I have enjoyed the craft, certainly, but then I have enjoyed the artistry of putting one word after another since I was a boy. But it flowed. Ideas came to me. Sometimes they disappeared, but mostly they came back. The conclusion popped into my head as I lay in bed last night. And, what do you know, 2,600 words later I have something which I think is serviceable. I have no real hopes that anyone will publish it, but it is done. I can do it. A friend has read it and - hopefully not just sparing my feelings - said she enjoyed it, adding just enough commentary to suggest she was in earnest. Perhaps I am learning a new skill after all.

I do hope so. I enjoy writing. When it goes well, it is the greatest feeling in the world, and you feel like you can do anything. You are the artist, the Muses are at your shoulder, you are creating something genuinely valuable. People are absorbing your prose and actually enjoying it (in stark contrast to blogs like these, which at worst feel like shouting into an empty room). You probably feel like you are in the footsteps of a cherished hero. Oddly, for me, because although I love his work he is not my favourite author, it's always Hemingway. I want to be Don Ernesto clattering away at a typewriter. (I once had a boss who told me I should write Reports less like Henry James and more like Ernest Hemingway. I'm not sure he had ever read either, though that's slightly unkind as he was never more than kindness personified towards me. But I think he liked the line.)

So onwards. Tomorrow, I will force myself to begin another short story. My goal is 2,500 words. All I need is ideas. So, you know, if any of you have some, feel free to let me know. I will give you a healthy percentage of the nothing I will ever be paid for them. I'll buy you a drink. Of course, to return to Hemingway, his contribution to the genre can never be topped. Six words. "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."