I've always been fascinated by short stories. It's not just admiration for the technical artistry or the intensity of vision involved--it's sheer bafflement. How on Earth do people write Neet Stuff in such a small space?

I'm now and again invited to contribute short stories or novellas to anthologies. So far, I've been obliged to tell the anthologists that I've never written any fiction under 300,000 words, and I'm afraid I really don't have time to learn how to write something shorter just now.

There's a basic difference of opinion operating there, of course; some folks see short stories as simply miniature versions of novels (or see novels simply as expanded short stories), while others see them as Completely Different Things. (No bonus for guessing which side of this controversy I come down on.)

Now and then, beginning writers come through the Writers Forum on CompuServe (where I run a section on Research and the Craft of Writing), asking whether it's a good strategy to start with short stories, then "move up" to novels. Some people always reply that it is, in their opinion: the writer can have the satisfaction of finishing a piece in a much shorter time, can get quick feedback on their work, and even--possibly--sell it. Then as their skills are honed, they can go on to longer forms.

Personally, I figure any writing is worthwhile. My own background credits involve Walt Disney comic books, political speeches, and a 400-page doctoral thesis on Nest Site Selection in Pinyon Jays (or, as my husband says, "Why Birds Build Nests Where They Do, and Who Cares Anyway?"). The act of putting words on paper is virtue; if they make sense, so much the better.

When I first started looking carefully at the work of other writers (I'd always known I wanted to write myself; I just didn't know how (I still don't, but that's another story)), I was heartened to observe that with writers who had several books to their credit, the books normally got better as they went along. Even if I'd liked an author's first or second book a lot, I could usually see that the fifth or sixth one was done even better.

Aha, I thought. Obviously, if you keep writing you get better at it! This seemed not only a revelation, but A Good Thing to Remember. Even if I didn't think what I was doing at any given time was worthwhile, I'd have the hope of getting better--so long as I kept writing. And--in spite of the dismal examples of some bestselling novelists--I still think this principle holds. If you keep writing, you get better (always assuming you care about getting better).

But does it make a difference what you write?

Well, yes and no. I mean, there are certain mechanics that underlie all good writing of any kind--not only grammar, punctuation, and spelling (sorry, kiddies, Spel-Chek is not a substitute for the Real Thing), but the basics of elegant prose and composition: sentence construction, phraseology, imagery, and pacing.

Learning any or all of these elements will stand you in good stead, whether you're writing nonfiction (I once had the editor of InfoWorld call to tell me that the piece I had just sent him was the most elegantly-written software review he'd ever seen), short stories, novels, or even poetry (you wouldn't believe how many people say they think they'll write poetry because they "aren't good" at "all that other stuff, like grammar." You wanna bet they won't be any good at poetry, either?).

Beyond the elements, though, there is Form. And if you come right down to it, well, no, I don't think short stories are tiny little novels, and I don't think novels are big, fat short stories. Each kind of fiction is a distinct form, and it takes different skills to write them.

I can tell you what it takes to write novels. Patience, mostly. Also, abiding curiosity, and the inability to leave things alone. Look at that dog in chapter three--where did they get him? How come he's only got three-and-a-half legs? And Aunt Petunia, who showed up with the prune-whip at the house-warming; I bet there's something funny about her, just look at the way she was off in the corner muttering with Joe's younger brother, oh, but then we need to explain about Uncle Tom and the silver El Dorado and the burglar who broke in and took the cake-plate, and....

To write novels, you have to see patterns, and explore threads, and fit things together. But I don't know what it takes to write short stories.

Look at 'em. Little jewels. Miniature kaleidoscopes, with all the tiny chips perfectly balanced to give you one pure crystal vision. How do you guys do that?

So, my profound congratulations to all those who have stories in this issue, and to all those who submitted stories. You have my undying admiration. See, I understand the art of story-telling. You keep asking, "And THEN what happened?" and the answer is your story. But what I want to know, whenever I see a beautiful short story like one of these, is: "How the HECK do you know where to stop?"