Inappropriate Wedding Toasts for 3 Great Short Stories

Raise your glass to the chaotic characters of American short fiction.

Last weekend, I took a virtual writing class led by one of my favorite authors, Laura van den Berg. The course was about creating a “sense of ending” in short stories, and we were encouraged to read four published pieces to prepare.

As I did my reading homework (gosh, I love reading homework!), I was reminded of what a powerful vessel a short story can be. A good one can replace twenty minutes of scrolling with twenty minutes of language. A great one can pack the full punch of a novel in a fraction of the pages. A transcendent one makes you forget (for a time) that any other type of writing exists. I love this form—even though I struggle to reproduce it myself.

One of my biggest takeaways from the class is that every short story should contain “arrows pointing in different directions.” The idea comes from Charles Baxter, who says that many everyday writing forms, like wedding toasts, have a tendency to point in one direction. “This couple is great! They’ll be together forever! Their kids will be gorgeous!”

Short stories don’t have the luxury of being so simple. We want the tea. We want the messy, drunk toast from the inappropriate cousin. We want to be told, “This couple is great, but did you know that Bobby cheated on Margaret during the bachelor party, and Margaret has a secret glue-sniffing addiction?” We crave tension, even in the quietest of narratives. We’ll be the ones to decide whether their kids are gorgeous. Okay?

This brings me to my goal this week! I’d like to recommend a few short stories to you in saucy “toast” style. Certainly, many of these stories cover serious, important themes. But just for a while, let’s set that aside. Pretend you’re sitting at a white-clothed table wearing an uncomfortable silk gown as you slice through rubbery, tasteless chicken. Prepare your champagne.

1. “The Swimmer,” John Cheever

Raise a glass to Neddy Merrill, who nursed a suburban hangover with a Peter Pan fantasy. I have to imagine that The New Yorker subscribers who originally read this piece in 1964 never looked at their swimming pools with the same pride again.

In all seriousness, I love this story about a man who attends a neighborhood party and decides to swim his way home through the surrounding suburban pools. I love most stories of devolution. I re-read it every time I’m sitting at the dentist waiting for my name to be called. (The question is: Am I just attending an endless string of dentist appointments, slowly unraveling, until the day I die? Maybe.)