Copyright 2011 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company
Introduction copyright 2011 by Geraldine Brooks
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Foreword
A FEW YEARS AGO , as documented in a book titled The Average American: The Extraordinary Search for the Nation's Most Ordinary Citizen, Kevin O'Keefe, the author, set out to find the most "perfectly average" person in the nation. This person turned out to be Bob Burns. He was fifty-four years old. He was married, wore glasses. He worked forty hours a week as a maintenance supervisor at Windham Technical High School in Connecticut. This five-foot-eight, 190-pound man drank coffee each morning, read the newspaper each day, walked his dog each evening, and attended church most Sundays.
If I were to attempt to describe a perfectly average American short story, it might sound like this: disaffected child protagonist (I'll call him Wally), in the face of parents' recent divorce, finds solace as well as self-awareness in nonconformist flute teacher (I'll call her Ms. Note). The voice in the story would be quirky but not overly oddball, and the story might be told in the present tense, using a first-person point of view. The setting would be Wally's house and Ms. Note's living roomand maybe this living room would double as a dining room and bedroom, and maybe Ms. Note would have recently lost her job as a chef, and maybe Wally's father had several food allergies, which had always secretly irked Wally's mother. The ending would suggest resolution but hint at its opposite. I don't mean this description to sound belittling or quite as reductive as it might. I just mean to demonstrate some of the most common elements that I come across in the many short stories I read each year.
In my five years on this job, I have been lucky to work alongside guest editors with extraordinarily diverse backgrounds and tastes. Still, nearly all of them have been surprised at the enormous number of stories that share at least some facets of Wally's. Most taken aback, I would guess, have been the guest editors whose first home was not the United States. When I began working with the wonderful Geraldine Brooks, she promptly took note of the large number of naturalist stories set in the present time. I felt a bit like I had led her into a sprawling subdivision full of identical houses. "Welcome to American short fiction," I might have said with a slight grimace. "Please don't judge us." Although her task was of course solely to judge us.
I admit that I feel protective of all this domestic, realist fiction. The majority of my own life is spent tending to small children and folding laundry and emptying the dishwasher, that blessed dishwasher that seems to fill thrice daily as if only to spite me. I have grown accustomed to wandering down the streets of the abovementioned subdivision and knocking on the door of a putty-colored house and finding young Wally sprawled across his microfiber sectional texting a friend rather than practicing flute. And nothing is more welcome to me than a whopper sentencemaybe funny or deadpan, maybe horrifically darkembedded in the first paragraph of such a story.
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