Entering a writing contest is like any competitive endeavour that involves a crowd, with the exception being that you don’t get to see your competitors. Oddly, you don’t get to meet the judges either. Aside from these details, writing contests are similar to other competitions. A handful of fellow writers know that my creative writing began in earnest after a competition held in Newcastle in 2019. For those of you who don’t, hang with me for a moment because competitive writing is not necessarily what you’d expect. Before I explain why, let’s take a step back.
Composing a novel was on my list of lifetime achievements for some time, along with less creative aims like seeing orangutans in the wild and visiting Machu Picchu. Mine isn’t an especially imaginative list, nor is it tediously long, and I’d say it shares much in common with others’ lists of twenty things I must do before popping my clogs. However, unlike most of my contemporaries my list contains creative milestones, not only postcards. Since leaving school in the late 80s, it’s included ambitious peaks like sell a landscape drawing to a stranger and exhibit pottery in a gallery. The former was scratched from the record in my twenties when I realised I’d no talent for drawing. Hope remains for the latter, as I reckon I’ve enough time left. While in no special position on my list, there sat for years, like a drying shag on a wharf, the goal of writing a novel.
One day, most likely on a weekend when I wasn’t consumed by making other people rich and not myself, it struck me that the mortal tickertape was almost visible, and I’d better get my skates on if my list was to be finished. The easy ones were mostly done yet in their place others had sprouted. Like taking two scoops of steak ‘n kidney from the Magic Pudding, three scoops of apple pie had grown back. What’s more these new items were prohibitively expensive (walk the 1,700km Great Himalaya Trail) or immensely arduous (gain a doctorate in, well… bloody anything). With a rising sense of panic, I ignored the difficult and downright ludicrous and chose the one with the longest name but demanding of the least energy, namely, write a philosophically motivated political novel set in the Australian outback. It ticked the boxes of minor expense and minimal effort. Later I would find that I’d I got that second bit very wrong. The draft was weak, too short, and poorly constructed, but in my mind, it was done. Tick. Lifted by a surge of pride at having scratched another milestone off the list of life, I bought myself a second-hand Alfa Romeo. Own a sports car. Tick.
Just as I seemed to make progress, life threw me some unexpected and challenging obstacles, including a symbolic car crash. It’s likely you already know the first things to be shed when you undergo trauma are paradoxically those same pastimes that might help you most in your time of need. Nonetheless, a recently started doctorate and a half-baked novel both went on the shelf. Six years of hardship and change passed. The good news is that I held on to my library of about two thousand books.
Then I met a remarkable woman whose passion for books outshone my own. Unexpectedly, she presented me with a short story competition she saw online. In her mind she was being encouraging. I only saw exposure; competitions were for professionals, not hacks. Excuses were given and she dropped it. Of her many attractive qualities, obstinacy is the most irritating, and she returned the following year with the same damn competition. Sensing this thorn wasn’t going away I gave in and on the weekend before the closing date I wrote a story that was later described by a judge as a banal tale with a vicious twist in its end. Who cares, I’d written a story that people had thought worthy of an award!
Although the category regional award sounded suspiciously like let’s give something to the locals for trying. This thought might well have been on my face when the convenor approached me after the ceremony and said conspiratorially, that there’d been 928 entries and my story was not only one of the best in the region but would also join 29 others in the anthology. My world shifted slightly. Top 3% was considerably better than my HSC grade. Perhaps I’d have another go.
Since then, I’ve had stories make longlists, shortlists, regional awards, places and wins. Prizes have included free books, cash, tickets to writer’s conferences, membership to writer’s groups, a Kindle I’ve never used, fridge magnets with artwork inspired by my story, and not least of all, two cases of wine in quick succession. The physical rewards haven’t equated to what could be called healthy billable hours, but knowing strangers were enjoying my stories counts for more than material prizes. Like having a painting in someone’s house, your story brings pleasure to a person you’ll never meet and yet across the ether you’ve connected. What’s eerie is the writer’s images will never be the same as what the reader creates themself. No other art manifests entirely within the mind of another. Reading is eerie in the way it unconsciously guides you to visualise. Maybe I’m lazy, but I like the idea the reader is doing half the work for me. No two people will describe your own story the same way. That’s an odd thought. When my first book was edited and published, I was surprised when people commented about the snippets of humour. I’d no idea I’d written any.
Returning to competitions, the most memorable was a second place in the 2022 Alice Sinclair Memorial Short Story competition run by the LMFAW. I remember approaching the Toronto Multi-Purpose Centre, seeing people shuffling in with plates of homemade cakes and biscuits and thinking to myself – shit, I should have brought an offering – only to have my fears overcome by welcome faces and warm handshakes. As an outsider, I felt like a fraud when my name was called out. My only comfort was the overall winner also wasn’t a member, nor was he present, so snaps to me for being there. Overwhelmed by the air of congeniality, I signed up for membership. I may be one of the most distant members, so rarely attend meetings. You don’t always need to be present to feel part of a group.
This raises the question: what makes up a successful short story? The answer is nothing obvious. If anyone says they know, they’re lying. A magic formula doesn’t exist. I’ve had stories ignored in one competition only to be given a prize in another. Like any artistic endeavour, you’re at the whim of the judge’s taste and the field on the day. Neither of which you can predict. I mention Bronwyn’s story beating mine. Well, I tightened my tale and submitted it to another competition and got selected for publishing the second time around. No-one else can lift you back onto the horse.
My only suggestion is to treat a short story competition like a sprint. It’s not a marathon. In short stories, there is no room for the extensive character development or plot building found in novels. You’ve very little time available. A word limit of only 1,000 will be read in just four minutes. That’s a Chariots of Fire mile. Every phrase, sentence, and word choice will face judgement. There’s no time to float around on the swell and get your breath back. It’s a heart-pumping, mind-focusing dash. Which means every step matters. That's the message you're looking for. Make every word count.
I encourage you to throw your hat in the ring if you see a writing competition that appeals to you. They’re challenging and fun. Perhaps the result may be surprising. Your story has the chance to be featured in an anthology, delighting readers you may never meet. Sometimes, if you’re especially lucky, you might even make new friends.
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