I’ll tell you why I hate short stories.
I hate short stories because:
- You’re just getting involved with the people and it’s over.
- You can’t go on and on reading a book of short stories – when one story finishes, you can’t just cut off from that world and leap to another world, so you have to stop reading, and that interferes with the whole getting-engrossed-and-reading-and-reading-into-the-night-and-not-getting-enough-sleep-and-regretting-it-in-the-morning thing.
- Short stories require frequent, repeated surges of brain energy to connect you with new people and situations. This releases dangerous chemicals into your bloodstream and shortens your life.
- Also because they are short and usually sharp, they have a quicker emotional impact, thus raising your blood pressure and causing strokes and eventually heart attacks and again shortening your life.
- Everyone time a short story ends, you have to go through the whole 5 Stages of Grief and Loss thing:
ANGER – “I hate you Raymond Carver, how could you do this to me?” (throws book across room)
BARGAINING – “if I wrote to the author, maybe they would turn it into a novel?” (PLEASE!)
ACCEPTANCE – yeh right, sure, that’s not happening. (kills everybody)
- 6. Ultimately short stories make you aware of your own mortality. You too will pass away into the void and be no more. Your life will end up as a brief thought in someone else’s head until they too pass away into the void. Can this possibly be a good thing to be reminded of? Specially last thing at night?
So in summary:
Curse you Raymond Carver, curse you Alice Munro, curse you Tessa Hadley, curse you Katherine Mansfield, curse you Lorrie Moore, and curse all of you amazing and brilliant short story writers out there. You have ruined my life.