Imposter Status?

I'm not doing well in the writing competition scene. I don't mean to be dramatic but how many failures is a judgement?

I don't mean to be dramatic but, let's be honest, how many times do you do the same thing and get the same result before you accept that you're not very goo...

Or maybe not.

I enter writing competitions that provide feedback (even if it costs a little extra).  The reasoning being, that I would like to get something back even if it is just some feedback. Generally, I find I don't disagree with any feedback I get. Most competitions use professional or semi-professional writers to assess and analyze the work and decide, not only who wins, but what is right/wrong with the stories.

One competition host, NYC Midnight, provides a huge amount of feedback, with small breakdowns of each story (normally only a few sentences) by putting the positive before the negative. Strangely, I find that when I'm writing very specific genres (sci-fi, horror) I pretty much get the same/similar feedback from everyone, whereas when I'm writing romance or drama, I get varied feedback on individual components of each story than I would when I'm writing genre fiction.

Not to say that the feedback from my genre fiction is wrong, I just find it hard to believe that everyone is on exactly the same page.

Or do I?

Horror in particular is a highly explored genre, with its emperor at the top. Not to judge Steven King! I love his fiction. I love the way he can build characters and tie them together into believable communities and then throw them into the most destructive turmoil and it all feels so incredibly plausible.

So, what did I expect?

Nothing?

Fine! Not nothing but I'm worried about what it says about horror fiction that the judges for this are all focussing on the same positives and negatives. Has one voice twisted the meaning of horror and defined its absolute boundaries into a carefully manicured nightmare, dark, cold and predictable? I would certainly hope not, as that would confine horror to something predictable, thus removing what makes it horrific.

Based on the feedback, there is room for this story to grow into something "more", and I intend to build on that and, perhaps, turn it into something "appreciable" if not marketable.

Idea Down

I have sadly fallen out of another competition. I know the competition was fierce because the feedback I received was hugely positive.

I'll share the story at the bottom but I've hit on another idea that I think is affecting how I write. I have a head full of ideas some days. As much as possible, I try to write down at least the core of the idea before I lose it. It's happened too many times to risk.

A few months back I had a story pop into my head fully formed. I didn’t have my backpack with me and so had no notebook. Once the panic settled I grabbed my phone and tried to take notes but the idea was completely gone. I felt angry and foolish and spent two days beating myself up for being badly prepared and letting my panic get the best of me.

Fast forward a few months and I found my job (including the commute*), family and trying to make time for my health was eating up all my time. I barely had time to read, let alone write. When I went to the Facebook writing group to ask how people find the time the very first comment I got was:

People make time for stuff they care about. It's really as simple as that.

I came for advice and instead I got judgement. I'm not ashamed to say I cried.

This is the main reason I enter competitions. With a topic or genre to focus on and a deadline to meet, I find I have to focus. More importantly, if the competition connects with the ideas in my head, I have an excellent trigger to get them on the page.

I'm hoping this will be practice that gets me into better writing habits. As for reading, I have had to force myself to make some time. It isn't easy! But I need it.

Anyway, to the story. Hope you enjoy it.

One Small Step

“Amelia, is it working?”

“I said ‘wait’, Mark. You know? Let time pass?”

A tingling sensation crawled up her neck. The world was tinged violet, then it faded.

“Damn!” Amelia grabbed some tools, adjusting the connections between the controls panel and the cage just behind. She daisy-chained more alternators to the existing set. Then she whispered a private prayer and flicked the switch.

That tingle, the violet light and the cage was empty. Not just empty but filled with a void, intense cold emanated from it forming a circle of frost.

“Bloody hell!”

Trust Mark to ruin the moment, she thought as she put on protective clothes.

“As soon as I step in, push the blue button.”

“You’re going in there? Amelia, anything could happen.”

“That broken message came from me. I know it did. I’m going to find out what it means. I’m only going three days into the future. After five minutes, push the blue button again.”

She stepped into the frigid air, waiting for Mark to build up the courage.

Amelia crouched as a wave of nausea hit her.

She was still in the cage, the familiar laboratory tiles just outside.

“Shit. Mark, could you…”

The circle of tiles lay in an open space. All around her an empty world stretched as far as the eye could see. A violently severed hand lay on the edge of the tile circle. Mark.

This shouldn’t have happened. Can’t happen. She needed power. She had to send word...

* In case you're wondering why I don't read and write while commuting, I get terrible motion sickness when I try. I need to be able to watch the world go by.

TFW...

...you can't figure out how to finish your story for a competition and the deadline is looming!

Thursdays are for Short Shorts

A group of writers of which I am a member on Facebook does a 30 word story every Thursday. It's an interesting way to try flexing your writing muscles and make every word matter.

I decided to port the idea over to Bluesky under a hashtag, #30WordThursday. I use SkyFeed to publish the list and hope to add more writers to it as I go. It is an annoyance of BlueSky that there are no hashtags.

I'm coming up with my own prompts, of course, and decided to create a list with any little ideas I come up with to make sure I always have something on standby.

Ironically, I don't always manage to come up with a story of my own. I don't know if that's something I should be embarrassed about, but I'll try to be humble instead.

If you're interested, search #30WordThursday on BlueSky and try the latest prompt.

Murder Mystery Madness

Here's where things start to go wrong: At the start! 

I haven't written crime fiction before.  I want to expand my skillset though,  so I want to enter competitions that challenge me to build on what I'm good at. A two thousand word story may not seem like a challenge to some but to me, in that genre, I might as well be starting from scratch.

OK, not exactly from scratch but I don't know much about structuring crime thrillers except that there has to be a twist. The twist is both very specific and wide open. Anthony Horowitz says it should be possible to see it coming or you are cheating the reader. But if it's too easy to get you have also cheated the reader. Mysteries, especially murder mysteries, are best when they're seen in the rear view mirror as you speed away, hoping that you have done enough to cover your tracks.

But I have an idea and I think it's a pretty good one. I have written 2/3 of the first draft and stopped.

Why did you stop?!

Good question reader. I stopped because I realised I didn't have enough space to write the ending I want. Then the doubt crept in and devalued what I had already written. Now I have to re-evaluate the entire thing for my peace of mind.

It seems foolish.

If I'd had my wits about me I probably would have pushed through the draft and worries about the final story later, but doubt is a heavy thing to carry through a story, so I find I need to put it down before I go on.

Bury it, as it were, where nobody will ever find it...

... until next time.

Time to go A-Sleuthing

I discovered via an acquaintance that there is a crime writing competition being run for crime stories set in Scotland and it is far too tempting.

A Soul for Hilda Mainwaring

This is another story that didn't get me through the first round. It's not a bad story but I'll admit I needed more room to investigate the theme properly. Hope you enjoy.

A Soul for Hilda Mainwaring

When reaching her limits, Donna has to face what it is that makes her hate her charge so much.

 

Hilda Mainwaring wasn’t ill or old. She smoked 20 fags a day, but her lungs toughed it out. She ate truckloads of cakes and chocolates that her neighbours snuck in but wasn’t diabetic. Hilda was over 30 stone and could do nothing for herself. Woe betide anyone that didn't do things exactly how she wanted. She would rip into them. By the time I got sent over, Hilda had gone through 18 nurses in six months.

"Do you know nothing about arranging a sleeve?" Hilda snapped, as I put laundry away.

"No, I don't, Hilda," I answered her back. "Are you going to come over and show me?"

She glared from 10 feet away, her pronate ankles incapable of supporting her.

"I didn't think so. I'm on a time limit, if you don't mind."

She didn't say another word. I had to get out. I was gasping for a smoke.

As I dressed her next day, she was silent as the grave. I winched her into the reinforced wheelchair and got her settled in the living room. Once I’d done breakfast, I headed for the door.

"Someone has to clean that kitchen floor."

"Then you better call domestic services, Hilda. I'm a nurse, not the help." The line was blurrier than that. By rights I could have done it, but I felt like being argumentative. Let Home Care take care of it.

I was seething as I walked towards the car, scrabbling in my bag for a lighter. I needed a smoke to calm my nerves. I inhaled deep, letting the anger go. This was my life: house to house, blankets, bathe, breakfast. Men putting hands on me. Women accusing me of theft. Do the small stuff. Hand them a cup of tea. Make sure their medication was in order and that they weren’t storing it up for a quick exit. I could sympathise with that.

But Hilda got to me. I dreaded walking up her path in the morning or going back for lunch. I hated doing her evening meal and putting her to bed. One entire week she didn't speak to me except to tut if I hadn’t done something. No matter dismissive I was of her, she never complained.

“Your dinner’s in the dumb waiter,” I called up the stairs, an unlit cigarette already in my hand. We had that in common I suppose.

I heard a grunt and the click of the electric motor carrying the food upstairs. Good enough.

Hilda died that night.

"I'm glad she's dead."

"Donna!" Mam glared at me.

"Mam, I don’t give a shit?"

"You should."

"Why?"

"She died alone. That’s awful for anyone."

Mam had a point. Hilda was stubborn. She knew what she wanted and didn’t hold back in getting it. A trait I would admire in others.

Despite myself, I realised I would miss her. There but for God’s Grace…

As I left the church, fishing out a cigarette, I prayed for the soul of Hilda Mainwaring.

P.S. All constructive criticism welcome