You’ve published short fiction across five decades. What keeps pulling you back to the short story form?
A sense of the familiar combined with discovering new possibilities regarding flash fiction. I always imagined myself writing poetry, but I don’t have that ability. Flash fiction forces you to focus on sensory details. In his essay “On Wrting” Raymond Carver wrote, “It is possible …to write about commonplace things and objects using commonplace but precise language and to endow those things…with immense even startling power.”
Why did you organize Messes We Made into the three sections “Maturing,” “Adulting,” and “Aging”?
Originally, I didn’t set out to organize the stories into those categories. It wasn’t until I kept rearranging their order that I noticed, numbers-wise, the stories evened out as far as the age and circumstances of the characters. They seemed to fall into place, and I don’t argue with good fortune.
The title suggests damage, regret, and maybe a little accountability. What does Messes We Made mean to you?
The conflicts we face in life can be self-made or underserved. Regardless of their origin, as humans we can accept those conflicts and deal with them, blame them on others, or sweep them under a rug. I prefer characters who neither blame nor ignore. Fair or not, the messes become their messes.
Many of these stories center ordinary people facing sudden, unusual, or emotionally loaded conflicts. What draws you to characters under pressure?
Pressure puts people into positions where they must act. It quickens the pulse, if only for a moment. There’s mystery and possibility when emotions reach a breaking point.
How do you know when a conflict is strong enough to carry a short story?
I’m not sure many writers know the answer to that question. I may begin with what I think is a good conflict, and weeks later realize the story isn’t working. Other times, for example in “Needlefish,” I wasn’t aware of the conflict until I reached the very end of the story. It’s possible to surprise yourself sometimes.
Your stories move through young love, fear, illness, retirement, family strain, alcoholism, regret, and loneliness. Did you always know the collection would cover such a wide emotional range?
I didn’t set out to cover all of those topics. I think the fact that the stories touch a wide range of age-related conflicts allowed a wider range of situations. Impulsive youth and ailing senior citizens aren’t likely to encounter the same problems. The retirement stories were written after I retired from teaching, but the others don’t follow any chronological pattern as far as when they were written.
The collection includes both quiet victories and silent defeats. How do you think about endings in short fiction?
The author and critic V.S. Prittchett described a short story as “something glimpsed from the corner of the eye, in passing.” I think endings need to follow that suggestion--in passing. Subtle yet important. When I worked as a lifeguard and took out the lifeboat--they were heavy, wooden dinosaurs in those days--I made sure to feather the oars when I rowed. Feathering oars means you turn the blade in the recovery phase so it lies flat and parallel to the water. In racing it cuts down on wind resistance. In the ocean it can prevent an unexpected wave from smacking the oar out of the oarlock--a subtle yet important detail.
Do you tend to begin a story with a character, a situation, a line, or a problem that won’t leave you alone?
I don’t often go into a story with any urgency. I tend to start with a character and let him/her decide all the possible ways of getting into trouble.
How has growing up in Belmar, New Jersey shaped your imagination as a writer?
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was exposed to hundreds of characters during summers on the Jersey Shore. Belmar’s population was 5,000 during the winter and 20,000 during summer weekends. I was a watcher growing up, and there was no shortage of people to watch.
You taught high school and community college English for 33 years. How did teaching shape your writing life?
When I taught, I could not find the time or concentration necessary to write long narrative fiction. Short stories were different. I could begin one and work steadily through despite unavoidable distractions. And of course teaching controlled my reading to a great extent. Not only the course readings but the student writing.
You are the author of five novels, but Messes We Made is a story collection. What can a short story do that a novel cannot?
A short story provides immediacy. It zooms the point of view in close without revealing panorama--Prittchett’s corner of the eye again. And because it may lack a clear resolution, it can pique a reader’s interest by opening his door of perception only a crack.
How does your process differ when writing a short story versus a novel?
If E.L. Doctorow’s quote about writing a novel is like driving at night and only being able to see in your headlights is accurate, perhaps writing a short story is having somebody or something flash suddenly through those headlights forcing you to slam on the brakes. I slam on the brakes with short fiction--forget it, pick it up, let it rest. Novels get written every day. Even if all I do is re-read what I’ve written for hours without writing a word.
Some of these stories deal with painful subjects, including violence, illness, addiction, and family conflict. How do you decide how much to show and how much to leave unsaid?
It’s a delicate balancing act. I think a good example appears in “Did You Hear Me?” Gail’s story of her attack is vague. Her reluctance to include details and Carl’s immediate reaction allows readers to fill in the blanks.
Humor appears alongside grief and trouble in the collection. How do you balance comedy with emotional consequence?
I’m not sure why humor appears in my writing, but I’m thankful it does. I do know I smile at times in a story when probably not many readers smile. I suppose my sense of humor comes from my childhood. I had open-heart surgery at nine years of age. I suppose that can warp one’s sense of tragedy and comedy. In a story, if I learn someone threw a can of soup and hit another man in the head with it, I’ll laugh and wonder what kind of soup before I want to know what happened to the assailant or victim afterward.
The story descriptions suggest characters who are flawed, impulsive, frightened, lonely, or trying to recover from bad decisions. How do you write flawed people without judging them too harshly?
We’re all flawed, of course, and sometimes when we see a possible reason or cause behind the flaw, we’re more likely to try to understand the reason for the weakness. I try to walk in their shoes.
In “Daredevils,” young love is compared to dangerous mid-air stunts. What interests you about the reckless energy of youth?
I’ve encountered many young people who are friends with my adult children and listened to their tales of frustration regarding modern America. The couple in “Daredevils” face economic, spiritual, and practical hardships. It takes courage to fall in love at a young age and try to see a commitment through. Adults may see recklessness, but youth marches on.
In “Can You Hear Me?” regret and anger become central forces. What challenges come with writing characters who are trapped inside what they cannot undo?
This relates to what I said earlier about this story. Sometimes it’s what you don’t write that counts. Moralizing and looking backwards at this point would be obscene. The characters face a horrible reality. They’re both coming to grips with that reality and have no idea how to deal with it at that moment. It’s not the time for questions, which Carl doesn’t understand, and so the conflict shifts from the violent act to the immediacy of the characters’ reactions to it.
“Do They Dance Close in Paris?” follows a bartender dreaming beyond the limits of her daily life. Are dreams of escape a recurring concern in your work?
Well, I think we all dream in our own ways. Some characters may drink to dream. Others imagine back to the past. But most of my stories involve the present moment. In most there is too much occurring in the now to be concerned with the future.
Several stories in the “Aging” section deal with loneliness, retirement, and finality. What has writing about aging allowed you to explore?
Aging brings forth circumstances, be they health, family situations, or sudden changes, which can be anticipated yet not predictable. I find it interesting to explore the notion of acceptance of these matters. You can’t look ahead and say to yourself, this too shall pass, or my luck will change. You’re at the end of your yardstick.
The title story looks back after the death of a friend due to alcohol abuse. How do you approach writing grief without turning it sentimental?
Sentimentality is a no-no. I’ve been accused of it even when I intended--at least I thought it was clear--to make it a huge flaw in a character. I believe a good approach when dealing with grief is to allow evocative details. Everyone has experienced it. They may not recall the exact details, but it’s like telling someone, “I remember when my knee was cut up so badly.” Hell, whose knee hasn’t been skinned?
How do you revise your short stories? Are you a heavy reviser, or do you try to protect the first draft’s original heat?
I’m an endless reviser. I have a terrible habit of revising a story every time it gets rejected. Sometimes I read a piece after it’s been published and think, oh, hell, I could have improved that word choice.
How do you know when a short story is finished?
I’ll let Raymond Carver reply to this one. When I was working on my master’s thesis, nine short stories (one of which appears in Messes We Made), and an essay detailing how Carver’s fiction influenced my own, I sent Carver some questions. One was if he had some tiny clock inside him that told him when to wind up a story. He replied, “That’s an interesting way of describing the process by which a writer knows when his time in the story is up. It’s an interesting notion. I just don’t know.”
What has changed most in your writing from your earliest published short fiction to this collection?
How I write has changed. Everything was in longhanded when I started. Now it’s on a computer. When has changed. Now I have an approximate work time (late morning to early afternoon). While I taught, I’d write while monitoring study halls. The submission process is completely different. Formally presented, typed (on 50% cotton fiber paper), and mailed off with a SASE inside. Waiting for the brown clasped return envelope to show up in your mailbox, usually folded and weeks late. Multiple submissions? Not many publications accepted Xerox copies. And I’d buy a new Writer’s Digest practically every year.
What has stayed the same?
The type of characters I meet. My output--I rarely, when working on a novel, produce more than 500-1,000 words. I write in silence. At a bookcon once, I watched the writer in the next booth crank out page after page while rowdy Octoberfest celebrants passed by. I have no idea how people are able to do that.
What writers helped teach you how to build a short story?
I admired Hemingway’s voice and dialogue, Steiback’s common language, and Raymond Carver’s form. But most of all my grad school mentor, the poet John Taggart.
Is there a story collection you return to when you need to remember what the form can do?
Cathedral and Will You Please be Quiet, Please? by Carver.
What do you hope readers recognize about themselves in these characters?
I hope they see their own doubts, regrets, and victories.
Who do you imagine as the ideal reader for Messes We Made?
People in all three phases of life. Older readers seeing themselves in the past. Ordinary folks who have dealt with life’s gambit and come out a bit scared but hearty.
What is the most rewarding part of bringing together stories written across different periods of your life?
It’s interesting to me how similar my outlook is in these stories. So many things have changed in my life, but many are technical and society-related. There is no great difference in who my characters have been and who they are now.
What are you working on next?
I’m looking at beginning something this fall. I don’t know what it will be. Whatever it is, I better get my ass in gear. That yardstick’s getting shorter and shorter.
Mick Bennett grew up in Belmar, New Jersey. He holds a BA from Gettysburg College and an MA in English from Shippensburg University. He taught high school and community college English for 33 years. Married 42 years with two grown children and a granddaughter, he is.the author of five novels, and his short fiction has been published for five straight decades.
Messes We Made is a collection of eighteen short stories grouped into three categories according to the narrator’s stage of life: Maturing, Adulting, and Aging.
It releases in September on 2026.
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