How to turn a vignette into a short story

One of the main reasons short story writers come to me is because a publisher told them their story is more of a vignette than a story, and they don’t know how to fix it.

A vignette is a short descriptive piece of writing that details a moment in time. It might be a snapshot of a character or a setting and usually works to establish tone, mood, or theme.

The opening paragraph of William Trevor’s “Bravado” is an excellent example of a vignette that describes a setting:

          The leaves had begun to fall. All along Sunderland Avenue on the pavement beneath the beech trees there was a sprinkling, not yet the mushy inconvenience they would become when more fell and rain came, which inevitably would be soon. Not many people were about; it was after midnight, almost one o’clock, the widely spaced lampposts casting pools of misty, yellow illumination. A man walked his dog in Blenning Road in the same blotchy lamplight, the first of autumn’s leaves gathering there also. An upstairs window opened in Verdun Crescent, hands clapped to dismiss a cat rooting in a flower bed. A car turned into Sunderland Avenue, its headlights dimmed and then extinguished, its alarm set for the night with a flurry of flashing orange and red. The traffic of the city was a hum that only faintly reached these leisurely streets, the occasional distant shriek of a police siren or an ambulance more urgently disturbing their peace.
          Less than Half a mile away, the night was different . . .

This paragraph gives us a panoramic description of a place at a particular moment: the season, the time of day, the surrounding flora, fauna, and architecture, the mood of the people, and its proximity to the city’s nightlife.

In the context of the whole story, the vignette draws the reader into the fictional world of the piece. The description contrasts the setting where the action later begins. The setting of the car alarm, the distant sirens, and the mention of peace gently build tension before the inciting incident. And, if you are good at remembering names, the road described is where the act of “bravado” takes place later in the story.

A short story is also a short piece of prose, but its goal is different. Rather than describing the setting and establishing the tone of the piece, the short story places a character in a setting where something happens that changes their life (a beginning, middle, and end). Our friends at Flash Fiction Magazine articulate this goal perfectly: conflict changes life. From itty bitty drabbles all the way up to 10,000-word short stories, conflict changes life.

As an example, Let’s take a look at a micro-fiction piece called “Flash Fiction #39 — Jim the Cockatoo” from Jeremy Ray’s Little Book of Tiny Tales:

Taj wanted me to fly to his town home in Perth.
I refused.
I wouldn’t leave Jim,
my beloved cockatoo.
He’d panic whenever I wasn’t by his side.
He was my buddy,
never even caged him.
Taj paid for Jim to fly first class with us.

I should’ve freed Jim from the cage when we landed.
My love-making with Taj was interrupted by a clatter.
The cage was on the floor.
My bestfriend had pushed his head through the bars
trying to get out.
When it fell,
he broke his neck.
I flew back alone,
no boy,
no bird.

This story is so spare, it is about as far from a vignette as you can get. It has almost no description of a setting, but what’s important is that something happens to the main character that changes their life.

Let’s think back to the vignette from “Bravado.” As a piece of fiction, nothing really happens. There is a man, a pair of hands, and presumably a person driving the car, but there is no character. And even if these were characters, what is described seems to be a reiteration of the status quo rather than anything that interrupts or brings conflict to their lives.

What the aforementioned writers are submitting is somewhere in between these two pieces. As a simple example, I’ll take the first paragraph of “Jim” and Trevor it up a little.

          The leaves had begun to fall. All along the avenue on the pavement beneath the beech trees there was a sprinkling, not yet the mushy inconvenience they would become when more fell and rain came, which from the rain on the roof of the car, felt very soon. 
          Taj was staring silently out the windshield. He wanted to fly me to his town home in Perth. I had refused.
          It was after midnight, almost one o’clock, the widely spaced lampposts casting pools of misty, yellow illumination. A man walked his dog into the same blotchy lamplight, the first of autumn’s leaves gathering there also.
          “I can’t leave Jim. He panics when I’m not around.” It felt foolish to say out loud, so I added, “He’s never even been in a cage.”
          An upstairs window across the street opened, and hands clapped, scaring a cat out of the flowerbox below. Jim started the car. The interior lights flashed brightly and then dimmed to a comfortable level. The music from earlier was all wrong now. 
          “Okay,” he said. “I get it.”
          I took that as a sign that the date was over and reached for the door handle. He reached across the console and covered my free hand. I looked up into his sad eyes, kissed his cheek, and opened the door.
          When I got inside, Jim flew to land on the perch by the kitchen door and barked his hellos. I stroked the feathers on his crown. “Hello, pretty bird.”
          “Time for bed!” he squawked.
         Just then, my phone vibrated. It was an email from Taj—first-class tickets for Jim to fly with us.
          “Time for bed,” I cooed and lifted Jim onto my shoulder.

Is this a story? No. There is a conflict, but it doesn’t resolve in a life change. It’s more of a vignette.

I think what happens is that the refusal feels like the conflict, so when the writer resolves the refusal with the plane tickets, they think the story is over. But the refusal is a result of Jim. Jim is the conflict, so Jim must be involved in the life change. We must resolve Jim!

Can you make this vignette into a story? Yes! In the first paragraph of “Jim the Cockatoo,” Ray sets up a bunch of ideas: an invitation to Perth, Jim the cockatoo, Jim’s alternate lifestyle, the refusal, and first-class tickets.

In the second paragraph, Ray moves forward on each idea. The couple arrives in Perth without incident, but the character lets us know that, in hindsight, they should have let Jim out of the cage. This launches us into the climax, where Jim is resolved, resulting in a change of life for the character: “I flew back alone, no boy, no bird.”

To complete the story, Ray had to make good on their promise of Perth, the problem of Jim, and the question of the main character. It could have been a happy ending where Jim flies away when they land in Perth, and the couple spends their vacation looking for him, only to find that he has made himself comfortable on the balcony of the town home with a mate. The characters look into each other’s eyes and decide to make a nest of their own. But conflict must change life.

When we get into postmodern lit, we see stories that are a lot like extended vignettes where nothing much happens or changes. That’s not what we’re talking about here. If the feedback you’re getting is “this is more of a vignette,” then the publication is looking for a story with a beginning, middle, and end—a conflict that changes life.

Maybe your piece would make a good introduction, into which you can draw a character, a conflict, and a resolution.

Did this post help you with a question or create new ones? Let me know in the comments!