I entered a writing competition two weeks ago. They've chosen the winner and runners up already (thanks to my new found Twitter account I'm aware of this) and they said on Tuesday they will notify the winners by the end of the week.
When I entered, I felt something in me say: this has to be the story. The story that will lead to something.
After waiting for a call that didn't come today, I have the sinking suspicion that it wasn't the correct story.
I don't know why it saddens me so. I think somewhere, in my dry little life of limited social activity, money, and happiness, I expected some level of success from my writing. I've only been shortlisted once when I was fourteen for some children's short story competition, and since then it's been nada. I have always been told that I can write. And I have always known, that on some level, I can write well. I hope that doesn't sound conceited, it's just something I feel.
I am 25 now. After I study the Masters course, I don't plan on undertaking any more heavy writing courses. Of course I'm open to day schools, weekend retreats etc, but I can't be a student anymore. I don't have it in me anymore. If I'm not ready by then I will never be ready. I have known since I was seven that writing was what I was meant to do.
Anyway. I have to come to terms with the likelihood that the last story I wrote wasn't the story. I have another story idea, and the Bridport Prize is coming up in 9 days. However in 9 days time I also have to submit my portfolio of writing for my writing class.
Challenge accepted? Maybe.
Write on.
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