Issue link: https://maltatoday.uberflip.com/i/1318996
maltatoday | SUNDAY • 13 DECEMBER 2020 5 BOOKS Quick lit for quick lives: Rita Saliba's micro-fiction THE creative impulse is shaped, constrained and inspired by technology. If we think of tech- nology as derived from the Greek root techné, a philosoph- ical term that refers to "making or doing" or even "crafting', we begin to consider that writ- ing takes place within material limits. The limits are the struc- tures, the technologies and the realities of their time – and our time is surely characterised by the portable digital technology that accompanies us everywhere in our busy lives. With this in mind, the idea of 'flash fiction', or the even briefer 'micro-fic- tion', a very short story that can be read from beginning to end in a minute or two, seems very much a product and a reflection of these times. Rita Saliba is queen of the form of micro-fiction in Mal- tese. Her recent publication, MittKelma (Klabb Kotba Mal- tin, 2020), is a collection of, you guessed, one hundred sto- ries. But more than that, they are a hundred stories each composed of a hundred words, and just to clinch the matter, the introduction and the blurb are also written in precisely one hundred words each. This is a challenge of extreme discipline. A piece of work in which every word counts. And just to be really clear, in this genre we are talking about stories – not descriptions, not impressions, not poetic imag- inings – but full stories with clear beginnings, middles and ends, with character and even plot turns which move the sto- ry forward to a point which often includes a clever and satisfying twist, or a poignant, haunting finale – all in one hundred words. The word limit, it turns out, is one of the main features and definitions of micro- or flash-fiction. The author is challenged to make every single word count, every word carries the story for- wards, every word is essential. Each one is the fruit of a single idea, an impulse or 'flashpoint', to be read in seconds on your phone, or with a swipe of your kindle, or for the more tradi- tional, a quick turn of the page, and you begin to get the idea. Wordplay makes a single word move further or work harder – as in the title, MittKelma - which apart from meaning 'one hundred words' in Maltese also means 'spoken for' as in mit- klema. Stories spoken for us by Rita Saliba. I managed a quick Zoom chat with Rita Saliba and got some background to her discovery of this form and her experience with it: Clare Vassallo: An unusual and intriguing form, what drew you to micro-fiction? Rita Saliba: It started with the project of writing short sto- ries together with Ġorġ Mallia for his Facebook page. I made a selection of the best which I published as Fuq Widnejn Torox U Stejjer Żbukkati Oħra (2018) but those stories were longer, two hundred words and a little more. This was a tough- er brief altogether. CV: And this time? RS: Well, from an exer- cise in writing, I discov- ered a genre – and this at a time in my life when I had little time to write. The skill of making, craft- ing, shaping a story out of almost nothing – a picture on a billboard as I drive past, a picture on a pack- et, an incident observed, a question asked, a flash of an idea, or something I notice on my travels – the ideas come fast and quick and I'd file the away and bring them out. I'd write one a day and this kept my writing going. In the end I chose the best 100. CV: This strikes me as a most disciplined kind of writing since it has fixed constraints, its almost like choosing to write a sonnet in fourteen lines – no more, no less. RS: Every one is a snap-shot, a picture – but not a descrip- tive piece. Each one is a story, a proper story which might lead to a twist at the end, even a character might have a twist to her - even in 100 words. Like poetry there can be play on words as in Mitluf where the character loses his direc- tion when he lost the person most dear to him. Also like poetry the words sometimes hint at that which cannot be said directly, as in Fuq is-Siġġu Tagħha and Ħames Minuti. Also, like poetry, each word has a meaning and a place in the story, down to the last syl- lable. Actually, this kind of writing gave me the freedom to make use of idiomatic expres- sions. I didn't want them to sound 'factual' like articles in a newspaper telling us that this and that happened, I wanted to tell a story. CV: Can you tell us more about the genre and your ap- proach to writing in it? RS: Strangely enough, this tough exercise helped me write better longer stories. I devel- oped an understanding and a feeling for spotting anything and everything that is extra. I'm cruel to myself, I feel, when it comes to tearing off whole chunks - but this is what focus- es the prose. Each word has its place, its proper place in the story. You see, the 'flow' is im- portant. A story might have to begin later and half the story might have to be removed. Or a character might be removed, or a situation nothing can af- fect the flow. CV: Don't you ever wish you had more space to develop an idea further? RS: It's as though I stepped into the shoes of a person of few words, someone who wants to tell you some- thing but will only go so far, and that's it. Take it or leave it, keep thinking about it, let it haunt you. Some of the stories are open ended and connect to the universality and humanity of us all. These are not local stories, not traditional or folklore-ish, they are a traveller's sto- ries - people are the same everywhere. Ultimately, this is not a new form and one hun- dred words is not the shortest example. Any re- search into the genre cite the most famous of shortest stories written by Ernest Hem- mingway, "For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn." Six words and it is a story, it moves, it surprises, it has emotional impact, it lin- gers in the mind of the reader. Prof Clare Vassallo Author Rita Saliba