Q1: These stories have their roots in the flash or microfiction movement. Can you explain what that is?
Flash and microfiction are the smallest of forms of storytelling, far shorter than the typical short story. Their roots run deep, going back as far as ancient fables and connecting more recently to prose poetry. The term ‘flash’ was coined in the 1970s, with the first Flash Fiction anthology (edited by Robert Shapard and James Thomas and published by W. W. Norton & Company) and its groundbreaking effect on American short fiction. ‘Flash’ connotes ‘fast’ in American English, but other names also indicate the notion of brevity: smokelong fiction, hint fiction and, of course, small fiction. New Zealand readers can find flash fictions in books and online — from Bonsai: Best small stories of Aotearoa New Zealand (Canterbury University Press, 2018) to the online journal Flash Frontier: An Adventure in Short Fiction, founded in 2012.
Some flash fictions are up to 1000 words, but the micro story can be a mere 300 or even 200 words. Annual competitions that may be familiar to readers are Bath Flash Fiction Award or National Flash Fiction Day here in Aotearoa, each looking for 300-word stories, while the Bridport Prize and Flash Frontier ask for no more than 250 words. And the international Micro Madness competition challenges writers with the 100-word limit. But flash is not only about word count. That is where you begin — the limits of the frame — but the excitement is in the telling, for the form encourages experimentation and exploration. A small story can be mighty — and this is the intense attraction for both writer and reader. A micro can create a whole world on a page.
Q2: How hard is to write at this length?
It’s much more difficult than it might appear to tell an entire story in under 300 words. Every word has to serve a purpose. The challenge is in the how of the craft. The typical expectations around character and plot, or a sense of beginning, middle and end, can be turned on their heads. You can’t go deep into character or setting, but what you do include must hit its mark; there is no time for hesitation or excess. And much of writing a small story occurs in discovering what you leave out: the spaces are as important as the details there on the page. And so, the crafting may involve many revisions: whittling, shaping, pushing and pulling until it is all in place, just right. At the end of a small story, there may be questions yet unanswered, but the story will still feel complete.
Q3: You had the idea to bring 100 of these short texts together in a book. How did you source them?
We decided to divide the contents between new and previously published works, to bring a balanced representation of the small form in Aotearoa. We held an open submissions period, and we read work from a mix of relatively unknown, emerging and established writers. The standard of submissions was very high. From those, we made selections of new works, and we also invited writers whose work we admired to craft a new story for the book. Because we are a country of amazing storytellers, we also read as many recent micro-fictions as we could find. We read journals, anthologies and single-author collections to find these pieces. All this took well over a year; we read widely and deeply to gain a view of many kinds of stories. In the end, selecting only 100 was one of our most challenging tasks. Readers will notice the inclusions are from novelists, short story writers, memoirists and poets — the combined
talents of these writers show off the many possibilities of the small form.
Q4: What were you looking for as you made your selections?
We looked for stories that had an emotional impact and that stayed in our minds long after we had read them. We enjoyed reading stories that took us out of ordinary life into a different world or experience. This is what the best small fictions can do, in the space of only one page. We also knew that we wanted this book to be a possible way to share and learn language in schools, so we kept an eye on stories that would introduce unexpected turns, demonstrate the agility of the form and ignite curiosity in readers of all ages.
Q5: And then you went a giant step further and decided they should all be translated into te reo Māori and that stories written in te reo Māori should be translated into English. Wow! And why?
From the start, this was a project with an eye on language learning. People come to languages in different ways; both reading (on the page) or listening (in person) are elements to language practice and understanding. The small story offers an entry into a whole world, and with its bite-sized stories, this collection could, we thought, be enjoyed by readers interested in te reo Māori. We quickly envisioned a book where the two languages could be seen side-byside, and where reading aloud — speaking and hearing the language — might also play a role.
We hope this book might be a way to share and learn language, whether in schools or other communities, so we kept an eye on stories that would introduce unexpected turns, demonstrate the agility of the small form and ignite curiosity in readers of all ages.
Q6: That would have been a major logistical exercise. Can you give us some insights into that?
Well, we quickly realised that 100 stories means 100 voices — perhaps an onerous task for only one translator (no matter what the language). And so, we thought a collection of translators would be a match for a collection of stories. We began by talking to language experts we knew — people we’d worked with already who were fluent and working as translators. We contacted Hēmi Kelly and Basil Keane, for example. But we also scoured our resources for others who might be interested, and we were so grateful when Hone Morris agreed to join the project as our esteemed advisor. And Hinemoana Baker and Robert Sullivan were there to offer counsel as well. In the end, a team of 10 translators worked on these 100 stories to bring them to the page in te reo Māori, working with the individual authors to make sure meanings were conveyed as they intended, whether written in English then put into Māori or, in some cases, written in te reo Māori and checking for fine-tuning or finessing.
Q7: What did you learn from that process and working with the translators?
We learned that some stories aligned with certain translators, and it was good to see how conscientious all our translators and editors were. Translation is not a paint-by-numbers process; it goes beyond the mechanics of knowing one word or phrase in two languages. From working across languages in other projects or in our own individual lives, we knew to expect a complicated process, but the anthology presented new ideas of how to edit and collate stories into what feels like a coherent whole. We were impressed with the care the translators took and how important it was to them to get everything right. We fielded a lot of queries from the translators to send to the authors that were about the intended meaning of a single word or phrase in the story. With small stories, there are often subtle nuances in word choice, phrasings that hold specific meanings; these needed great care, and we hope the attention given by the translators shines through.
Q8: Invidious question to answer I know, but do you each have a story that lingers in your mind?
An impossible question, but it’s worth noting that there are certain kinds of stories that bring extraordinary energy to the collection. There is an intentional blurring of lines between flash fiction, prose poetry and creative nonfiction. As we note in the introduction, some works are emblematic of short-form fictions while others represent the questions, concerns and celebrations of today. There are prose poems that sit beautifully on the page, such as Bill Manhire’s ‘Lyrical ballad’ or Temaari Ngawati’s sixty-word ‘Womb’. Some, like Vaughan Rapatahana’s ‘boil up’ or Ben Brown’s ‘Bro story’ offer humour, the attitudes captured in the vernacular of both English and te reo Māori. The many perspectives, all distinctly from here, include a view of a harbour (Cilla McQueen), a view of the moon (Isla Huia), a view of kindness (Helen Rickerby). There are explorations of history (Kay McKenzie Cooke and Mereana Latimer), breakages (Khadro Mohamed) and healings (Nod Ghosh). There are stories of waiting (Michelle Rahurahu) and questioning (Miriama Gemmell). There are surprising moments of family, of darkness, of land and light. There are small and formidable voices (Robert Sullivan’s ‘Pupurangi Shelley’) and songs expanding in ‘Dark, dark, dark green’ (Ruby Solly’s ‘Pounamu kei roto i te awa’). There are otherworldly stories such as Cassie Hart’s ‘Huka Falls’, holding a kind of transformative power, and there are deep hauntings: ‘To burn like a meteor and leave no dust’ (Alison Glenny). It is a magnificent set of pages, because of the magnificent storytelling abilities of its contributors.
Q9: Who do you hope will read this book and how do you hope they will read it?
We hope that the book will provide readers who want to improve their te reo Māori with a unique and interesting way to practise their language skills. The book is also meant for anyone who likes reading finely crafted fiction. Both of these goals go hand in hand with the idea of this being an ideal book for school-aged young people. We would be thrilled to see it adopted in school programmes, where a small story presents a manageable way to take in the flow of language. But it’s not aimed at youth in a particular manner. It has, we hope, wide appeal. We also picture people carrying the book around with them and dipping into it whenever they have a spare moment. It is beautifully crafted by the design team, and neatly transportable — small, compact, able to become part of your everyday life.
Q10: Pleased with it and proud of it?
Oh yes! We love how the book brings together 100 stories by many of our finest writers and in both of our official languages. It’s a precious taonga. We are proud to offer this first volume of small stories in English and te reo Māori to readers, to Aotearoa New Zealand and to the world.
