Competition

The first full story I ever wrote was called Millie and Nick. I wrote it in my early twenties and it was basically about a man who left his girlfriend because he thought that he wasn’t good enough for her. She then went on to meet another man, a man on paper that was much better suited to her and then it was a classic romance novel ending as to who she would pick. Of course, spoiler alert, she picked Nick. The original guy, the love of her life, who was good enough for her.

It’s long gone, that story, and it makes me sad. I think I have some of it in paper form, as it was written on a very old computer, weren’t we more productive then with dial up and data limits, and I used to diligently print it out and edit with a pen. How retro. I’d love to read it again, I’d love to see if there was any of my writing style now in it, if it reads well, if it’s any good. But I can’t. And that’s sad, but that’s that.

I tried to recreate it last year, in that lull after publishing the first book, once I’d got some second trimester energy back, and I wrote about three chapters. Times have changed and it couldn’t be as innocent as it was back then, I had to include bits of social media, the insidious rise of paparazzi and, of course, it was difficult to keep the characters in their early twenties because, let’s be frank, I can’t really remember much of being in my early twenties. Also, twenty something’s are different somehow now, all really young people are, you see them in their teens with perfectly applied make-up and hair extensions, toned gym honed bodies on show for all to see. There doesn’t seem to be a transition into adulthood anymore, just hitting fifteen or sixteen and boom, you’re there. It makes me very sad for my own three girls, but that’s a sadness that I shove deep down whilst they are little and I am their world.

Anyway, I plodded on for three chapters and it’s there on my computer. I might have another go, the story I’m writing is not exactly exciting me but it’s probably the best bet at this point. The ideas are starting to come back, slowly, and blogging helps. But what I want to write is quite dark and whilst I understand that you should write for yourself and not for commercial purposes, I suspect it’s probably a bit too dark. A little too honest and I worry about the damage that I’d do.

If I can get it together, there is a competition that ends on the 14th of June that could mean a £30000 prize and, of course, your book getting published. I won’t win but I think that I might feel better if I at least throw my hat in the ring. It means staying up later, it means sleeping even less than I have been and tonight, Jody tried to make me come to bed, tried to make me out Poppy in her cot and get at least two hours sleep before her 1am feed, but I need to get this done.

Ten days. Ten thousand words. There’s a pleasing symmetry to that.

I can do it. I can.

 

Short Stories

Jody bought a leaflet home yesterday from work. He works for the library service so he often brings home all sorts, books mostly obviously but sometimes magazines and leaflets, things that we can do as a family, writing magazines that I flick through and then leave as they make me feel utterly despondent and this leaflet.

A leaflet for a short story competition. One I’d really like to enter and I’d really like to do well in it.  There are prizes but more importantly, there is a prize giving dinner for the top six (I think) and I’d really like to go to that. I’d like to sit in a room and talk about writing, perhaps even tentatively suggest that I might be one too. It would be lovely to feel as if I belonged somewhere.

The problem is, and this is a fairly insurmountable one, I have never written a short story before. I can’t remember the last time I even read one. I like novels, long books that have sequels so I never have to leave the characters I like. The book I’m writing at the moment is a sequel as I can’t let my main character go. So this is going to be some challenge. But maybe a good one.

I’m thinking of submitting two, one in my usual sort of style, quite contemporary and honest, probably something about love and then one that is unlike anything ever i’ve written before. Perhaps something in the third person which I don’t usually do, maybe something autobiographical as no one I know will ever read it.

This feels like homework, which is ridiculous as no one is making me do this, no one is making me step outside of my comfort zone, but I do feel like I need to do this. After the relative failure of my book, I think I need to just try this.

However, any story ideas are welcome 🙂