In all likelihood, you like to hear a good story well told or recounted. And, you probably spent a lot of time doing that by listening to other people's stories, watching movies/sit-coms/social media and reading newspaper/books/e-books.
But, there is a tribe of people who also like to write stories besides being a consumer of stories. More concisely, they have a calling or inner yearning or leaning to create by writing. Perhaps, you feel this way but have not gotten your feet wet yet. What's stopping you?
To start with there are several genre of writings and Short Story (instead of Novel) might well be a good starting point for you.
Dive in as ChatGPT regales you with an understanding of what makes a Short Story ticks and what techniques are at your disposal to harvest your stories waiting to be shared worldwide.
"Once upon a mind, in a quiet writer’s room lit only by the golden spill of morning sun, lived a story—not yet written, but eager to exist. It had no name, no face, no heartbeat yet. But it whispered.
“Begin with me,” it said. “I am the hook.”
A good short story, the story knew, must start not with a yawn but a jolt—a surprising image, a curious moment, a line that taps a reader’s shoulder and says, “You’re not going anywhere.” Whether it's a scream in the dark or the first lie told at breakfast, the hook was the spark that lit the fuse.
And so the writer obeyed. A girl stood in the middle of a street, holding a broken violin, the bow missing, the silence louder than sirens.
The story was alive.
Next came the characters. Not too many, no crowd scenes, just enough to make the world feel real. One or two. Maybe three. But each with desire—that invisible fuel. The girl? She wanted to hear music again, even if it meant stealing sound from silence.
Characters in a short story don’t have pages to grow like trees. They grow like fire—quick, hot, visible in every gesture, every decision. So their backstory must be felt, not told. A chipped nail, a limp, a glance at an empty chair—they carry lifetimes.
Then, the story whispered of setting, not as scenery, but as soul. The street wasn’t just any street. It was the same street where her brother vanished. The cracked pavement still bore the chalk lines of his last game of hopscotch.
Setting in a short story must breathe. It must hold hands with theme and character. Let the dust on a windowsill reflect lost time. Let the flickering neon light echo an unstable mind. Let every detail carry weight, because in short stories, there’s no room for fluff.
Now came conflict, the shadow that gives light its shape. The girl heard a melody through an open window—a melody only her brother used to play. She climbed the fire escape. Did she hope? Did she fear?
Tension must hum like a taut violin string. And in short stories, it should rise fast, like a storm on the horizon. Every sentence must tighten it, escalate it. Want collides with obstacle. Heart meets hurt.
Then came structure, the invisible skeleton. The story shaped itself around five bones:
1. The Hook – violin, silence, curiosity.
2. The Characters and Set-Up – she wants music; the brother is gone.
3. The Rising Conflict – the mysterious melody.
4. The Climax – she opens the window.
5. The Resolution – what she finds… changes everything.
Not every short story uses this exact frame, but most play with its rhythm. It’s the natural beat of drama: from quiet to crescendo to quiet again—but not the same quiet you began with.
And now, theme. Ah, theme—the heartbeat behind the plot. A short story is small, yes, but mighty. It often shines a flashlight on one idea. This story? Loss and the echoes of love.
Theme must haunt the story, not hammer it. It’s found in the violin that can’t be played, in the note on the windowsill, in what’s said—and what’s left unsaid.
Finally came the ending—the soul’s exhale. It didn’t explain. It resonated. Maybe the girl didn’t find her brother. Maybe she found a recording he made, tucked under a dusty speaker. She cried, not because she found an answer, but because she found a voice.
The best endings don’t close doors; they leave a window open. A short story ends not with a period, but a pulse. A shiver. A question. A light still flickering after you walk away.
*** Techniques that Keep Readers Spellbound ***
The story, now fully formed, leaned over to whisper its secrets:
* Start late, leave early. Enter the scene at the moment of change. Exit before all is explained.
* Show, don’t tell. Let readers deduce emotions through action, not narration.
* Use strong imagery. A single powerful detail can outshine a paragraph of description.
* Write lean. Every word should serve purpose—tone, plot, or theme.
* Use subtext. What characters don’t say is just as powerful as what they do.
* Surprise. Twist the expectation, but make it feel inevitable in hindsight.
* End with impact. A line that lingers, a final image that glows.
And as the last word was written, the story closed its eyes, content. It had found breath, form, and heart.
And the reader?
They paused at the end… then read it again.
Because that’s what a gripping short story does—it lives in you, long after the last word."
Click here for How to Write a Short Story That Captivates Your Reader by Jerry B. Jenkins.
Thank you for reading Daily Refreshing.
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