Chekhov round my neck
Recently I was delighted to be offered a chance to write a short story for a magazine.
Although I’ve written four novels, two non-fiction books, and more articles of different shapes and sizes than I could possibly count, I’ve never written a short story.
But I want to. I love reading them. This, I thought, was when it would happen.
And, I also thought, as I blithely accepted the generous commission to write “on anything, ideally with a sympathetic female lead character,” how hard can it be to learn? Hell, it’s only 2000 words – the size of an article I’d polish off in a day. And it always looks so easy when Chekhov does it.
Two weeks later, it’s turned into a full-time job. Equal measures fascination and sheer foot-thumping frustration. I’m dug down into a kind of bunker on my desk – walls of used coffee cups on every surface, crumpled scraps of chucked-out printed versions of the story that won’t yet work everywhere else. Miniaturised novels that didn’t quite squash into place, bonsai oaks with wonky bits, sprigs that sprouted wrong.
But I’m nearly there. I think. I hope.
And I have more respect for Chekhov than ever before.
on 19 Feb 2011 by Irina
I cannot even begin to describe how much I love Chekhov. It's a real gift that Russian is my first language. I grew up reading Chekhov's first at school, then in my dad's home office where he kept an extensive library filled with classics. Chekhovs were among few books I brought with me to the US. I have to say that now, several years later, I am able to look at his work and see it a bit differently than before. His stories seem to be quite depressing and that's a Russian born and raised speaking, someone who's used to the way the people are out there. Still, Chekhov will always remain my absolute favorite.