Sudden flash of sun
the parked cars now city strobes
–on Village side streets.

~me, city

Photo: Sharon Rousseau
No photoshop. Just small-venue-raw.

Photo: Sharon Rousseau
No photoshop.

On my morning walk
two friends dancing in the field
–happy butterflies.

~me

Garden butterfly
shades of buckeye and daisy
–on my coffee cup.

~me

Patty Murray. Meatpacking, NYC. Sharon Rousseau Photography specializes in photography for the web.

Years ago while wandering around the Unoppressive Book Store on Carmine Street in Manhattan, perusing stacks of Patti Smith and the Beats, I found a collection called “99 Word Stories.” Stories written in exactly 99 words intrigued me for several reasons. I’d been trained as a journalist, so the idea of using pyramid writing as a template for fiction made sense. Very short stories also could be excellent ways to get ideas onto the page for longer pieces. I bought the book for inspiration and wrote stories with word limits as warm-up exercises for longer pieces.

A couple of years after that, I told my friend, journalist Ron Feemster, about an incident that I thought would make good copy for a New York City publication. After hearing the story, he said, “Write it short, and submit it to The New York Times. It’s perfect for Metropolitan Diary.” I did, and The New York Times published it. Next, The Gotham Writers Workshop offered a contest to write 100 Word Stories to win a weekend workshop. I submitted, placed second, was published in all of their class list mags and won a workshop. Suddenly, short form writing seemed like a great way to get published in print, and I realized that our web-based culture was going to increasingly encourage short form as a way to communicate quickly to large audiences. Last year I started 100 Word Story Anthology to introduce readers to writers who also practice other artistic disciplines. The response has been great, and the site’s now accepting submissions.

Here are my suggestions for writing 100 Word Stories:

–Start by freewriting for one page. Pick a start sentence like “I remember” or “When she said’ or “I wish I could say.” Go. Just write. Don’t edit or cross out or worry about spelling or punctuation. (I went out to New Mexico and studied with Natalie Goldberg, and I recommend “Writing Down the Bones” for more in-depth info.)

–After finishing one page, read what you wrote with no judgment about spelling, sentence structure, grammar, etc. Find a “paragraph” that pulls you toward more exploration. Word count that block of words.

–Now, turn it into a story. Add a beginning and an end. Pull other sentences or phrases from the page you just wrote if you need to. Word count, and start paring it down or adding.

–After you have your story, find one word from the body of the story that jumps off the page. That’s your title. This suggestion came from Clark Strand who’s been writing micro-fiction for years, although he doesn’t usually adhere to strict word length requirements. Clark’s been kind to contribute a wonderful story, “Shrine,” to 100 Word Story Anthology.

These are my suggestions for getting started, and I hope they help if you’re interested in the form. I teach workshops using multi-media tools to get the pen moving. Contact me if you’re interested.

Introducing writers to readers in exactly 100 Words. Follow the site for new, fabulous short-short stories.

This mural is an art project by the 2011 TED Prize winner JR. JR remains anonymous and makes public art around the world.

Here’s the piece I wrote this week for the Woodstock Writers Festival “Rock and Roll Story Slam.” The phrase “By The Time I Got to Woodstock” had to be part of the story, and the performance couldn’t go over 3 min. 30 sec. The reading was great—so many talented performance poets.

By the time I got to Woodstock, I’d driven miles of tobacco roads through dust fields and hidden stills, our Blue Ridge Valley held tight by mountains and broken ballads of Appalachia. Freebird was the modern anthem, but not mine.

My mother in the kitchen high on show tunes, Dad turning up the dial on the car radio—again, the dreaded Lightfoot. “Listen kids,” words tossed over the seat like Mom tossed carrots into the salad bowl while soprano-ing out a chorus of “My Fair Lady.” My brother’s Zeppelin and full-costume backyard Kiss concerts drew crowds, earned him some at-the-door cash before supper.

From my room, disco and “Rumors’ whenever the radio wasn’t reaching for miles-away WLS–Chicago. Over our black top two-lanes, Rick Ross was spinning on 3WC from a toy-sized studio on Main Street. Time stalled and Patti Smith lingered on our local stations, as if by some magic, as if there was a voice determined to help me get on with it all. Sixteen and restless, the windows down, driving no where—everything was, “Because The Night.”

The thing about college, about getting away to Chapel Hill, was the promise to never make that lazy exit back to the twang and foothills. I’d seen a lot of people do it, but not me. No way. So the 80’s were no sleep “In The Name Of Love,” U2 taking over the world, and REM blasting from ivy-covered buildings as we sat on brick walls late at night, the sweat of the bars glistening on our skin, like glitter in winter.

By the time I got to New York, I knew I was gone. Applauding my brother through every heavy-metal-dive on the Jersey shore, the Stone Pony and Rock Horse, bars up and down the hopelessness called Route 9 and finally into Manhattan showcases, I waited for the lights to come on. In the city, I saw who I wanted to see. CB’s, Brownies, The Beacon, etc, etc, etc,. There was the Roger Daltrey kiss. Showcases and A&R-speak. Velvet ropes and stage doors. Earplugs in my handbag—until the need set in.

By the time I got to Woodstock, there were photographs I wanted to shoot in daylight. Poems to write in the morning. The mountains echoed back things I’d forgotten—like space between the words, the sound of my breath at sunrise. Trails of the familiar Blue Ridge met me, and I sat down for a minute, linked again to home.

Today I heard Patti Smith’s new single. After all these years, all these miles, all the times I’ve seen her, read her, watched her, I sit outside on Ohayo, amazed at how close everything stays.

–Sharon Rousseau

And Levon, we miss you. Thank you.

Woodstock is sad right now. Levon was, and is, so loved here. The Hudson Valley’s natural beauty is astonishing today as if in tribute.