Why Short Stories Might Be My Biggest Writing Challenge Yet
Seriously, a heartfelt soup ad can tell a better story in 30 seconds than some movies do in two hours!
As most of you know, this year I ventured into writing and submitting short stories to magazines. Not all of them were a hit. Not all of them were accepted or published and there were moments when I questioned whether it was worth the effort. But despite the setbacks, I kept trying. Each story taught me something new—about the craft, about persistence, and about believing in my own voice even when it felt shaky.
And then came the fear. I could write a 90,000-word book without breaking a sweat, but somehow, a 1,000-word short story felt impossible. Crazy, right? But self-doubt is sneaky like that—it’ll set up camp in your mind and start whispering things like, “Are you sure you can do this?” At first, I wasn’t sure at all. Then, I remembered something a professor told me back when I was working on my graduate thesis.
Brace yourselves: “I had no idea what I was doing when I sat down to write my thesis. I was terrified I was going to fail.”
Inspiring, right? I mean, if a professor could admit to floundering, surely there was hope for me. He explained that with an example to follow, he knew he could figure it out. And that’s exactly what he gave us—example theses. Suddenly, writing my thesis felt less like scaling Mount Everest in flip-flops and more like assembling furniture with clear instructions (minus the leftover screws).
Fast forward to today, and that lesson still sticks with me. Whenever I’m faced with a daunting task—like writing short stories—I go back to what works: finding an example and pulling it apart like a scientist examining a mystery specimen under a microscope. By breaking it down piece by piece, I figure out how to make it work for me, turning what once seemed impossible into something manageable. It’s not about copying—it’s about learning the structure, the flow, and the feel of a good story.
Now, let’s talk about the so-called “formula” for writing romance. Spoiler alert: If there’s a secret recipe, I haven’t cracked the code. What I have found, though, are story beats or acts—the foundational steps that keep a story moving forward. Writing short stories is basically a miniature version of that process. It’s like preparing a three-course meal but using an air fryer: faster, smaller, and just as satisfying if you get the balance right.
For those of you who are new here, let me warn you—there’s going to be a lot of food talk in my posts. Cooking and eating are two of my favorite things, so naturally, most of my analogies are food-related. I mean, who doesn’t love a good metaphor about crispy fries or decadent desserts? It’s just the way I roll. (Pun intended. Yes, I’m that person.)
Here’s my process:
Start with an Idea: Inspiration is everywhere if you know where to look. It could be a line from a book that lingers in your mind, a moment in a movie that makes you pause, or even the lyrics of a song that spark something unexpected. And yes, I’ll admit it—commercials have their moments too. (Seriously, a heartfelt soup ad can tell a better story in 30 seconds than some movies do in two hours!)
But the hunt for ideas doesn’t stop there. I’ve shamelessly eavesdropped on conversations in restaurants, coffee shops, and waiting rooms. People have no idea how fascinating their lives sound when you catch snippets of their stories out of context. A sentence here, a laugh there—it’s all fodder for storytelling. My ears are always on high alert, like a radar scanning for the next juicy tidbit. I’ve come to realize that the best ideas often sneak up on you when you’re not actively searching for them—so keep your eyes, ears, and mind wide open. Inspiration is waiting, even in the most unlikely places.
Decide on the Trope and Setting: Once I have a general idea, the next step is figuring out the story’s “vibe.” Is it a holiday story with twinkling lights, hot cocoa, and that cozy, feel-good magic? Maybe it’s a seasonal romance that captures the blooming promise of spring or the golden, bittersweet nostalgia of autumn. Or perhaps it’s a meet-cute at a bustling farmer’s market, complete with fresh produce, spilled coffee, and an awkward yet charming conversation.
The trope and setting are like the backbone of the story—they guide everything else. Is it a second-chance romance, a fish-out-of-water, or a love story with a touch of enemies-to-lovers banter (I love those!)? Once I nail down those elements, the rest starts to fall into place. The characters begin to take shape, the plot starts weaving itself together, and the atmosphere—whether it’s a snowy mountain lodge or a small-town diner—becomes a character in its own right. For me, it’s all about finding the right mix of elements that make the story feel alive, and once I’ve got that, the writing flows so much easier.
So, sorry, last names. You’re not invited to this party: In short stories, every word counts, so why waste valuable real estate on something as trivial as a last name? Unless it’s crucial to the plot (like revealing the hero is secretly royalty or has an unexpected connection to the heroine’s quirky neighbor—cue dramatic music), last names are just not worth the word count, I leave it out. Those words can be much better spent painting a vivid picture of the setting, adding a spark of humor to dialogue, or giving your hero that rugged jawline (or, let’s be honest, maybe he’s more of a kind-eyed teddy bear type—equally valid and equally swoon-worthy).
The point is, short stories thrive on efficiency. Readers don’t need to know that the heroine’s last name is Appleby-Featherstone to fall in love with her journey. They need to feel the tension in a glance, the electricity in a single touch, and the coziness of a well-described setting. Saving space by skipping last names frees up words for the details that matter—the ones that pull readers in and keep them hooked until the very last line.
Pare It Down: Descriptions? Basic. Word count? Trimmed. In short stories, there’s no room for fluff, so I keep descriptions pared down to the essentials. If it doesn’t directly contribute to the plot, the mood, or the characters, it’s got to go. That breathtaking sunset? If it’s not setting the tone for a pivotal moment or hinting at a character’s emotions, it gets left on the cutting room floor.
I usually aim for about 1,000 words, which means I’m ruthless when it comes to editing. Every sentence has to earn its keep, and anything that doesn’t serve the story is cut without mercy. Unnecessary dialogue tags, redundant adjectives, and filler phrases? Gone. It’s all about streamlining the narrative while keeping the heart of the story intact.
Oh, and contractions? They’re my secret weapon for trimming words while keeping the flow natural. Instead of “he will not,” I’ll write “he won’t.” Instead of “she did not,” it’s “she didn’t.” Not only does this save space, but it also makes the dialogue and narration sound more conversational and realistic. In short stories, where every word has to pack a punch, contractions are like little efficiency boosters—helping me say more with less.
After the first five or six stories, something shifted. Writing them started to feel less like pulling teeth and more like building momentum. Each story flowed a little faster, the words coming with a bit more ease, and my confidence grew along the way. Sure, not every story turned out to be a masterpiece. Some were a little rough around the edges, and some didn’t quite hit the mark, but that’s okay. I’ve learned to enjoy the process, to take pride in the small victories—like finishing a story in record time, discovering a sentence that just clicks, or receiving an encouraging note from a reader that makes all the hard work feel worthwhile.
So, to anyone out there thinking about dipping their toes into short story writing, my advice is simple: Go for it. You don’t need to have all the answers before you start. Find an example to guide you, embrace the not-knowing part of it (because no one really knows what they’re doing at the beginning), and just start writing. The magic is in the trying.
And if all else fails? Head to your nearest café, sit back with a coffee, and listen. People’s conversations are a treasure trove of inspiration—you just have to be curious enough to tune in. Who knows? That awkward first date at the table next to you or the barista’s rant about oat milk could spark your next great idea. Inspiration is everywhere—you just have to be willing to catch it.