My dear departed husband (henceforth, my
DDH), tired of hearing me say that I would write one day, signed me up for
short story writing classes. Once I had completed two or three stories, he
encouraged me to enter writing competitions. Some people are natural
competitors. I am not. I declined. However, after reading a short story in a
local paper, he said, “You can do better than that.”
He handed me the newspaper with the pages already folded back so I could read the winning entry of a western-themed short story competition. The year was 1999, and I don’t remember now what that winning story was about, but it sent my little grey cells into overdrive. My DDH told our friends that I was going to enter the next weekend-long Write ‘Em Cowboy competition, and soon my cheerleading section of one had blossomed into a dozen or more. I finally agreed to submit an entry, simply to shut them all up.
The entry rules required submitting a one-page outline of a western-themed short story, a page of unpublished prose, and a $20 entry fee. The first prize was $1,000, but I didn’t get excited because I didn’t expect to be selected. Well, how wrong I was. My story was titled The Red Bull, and I expected nothing more than a receipt for my entry fee when I opened a letter from the competition organizers. The first word I read was “Congratulations!” I could hardly believe I had been chosen as a finalist.
The whole weekend was a writer’s delight. No phones to answer, chores to do, people or pets to care for. The event kicked off with a Friday evening reception. There was a short presentation by the chairperson of the organizing committee, and then the guests and the finalists were free to mix and mingle. To prevent the chance of any sneaky notes, all the computers, along with a couple of technicians to ensure there were no problems, were donated by a local company. Each finalist chose a workstation, and writing commenced at 9:00 am on Saturday morning, continuing until 9:00 am on Sunday.
Image courtesy of Pixabay
The story was to be no more than 7000
words. By the time my DDH came to see how I was doing on Saturday evening, I
had already hit the 10,000-word mark. I was not prepared to burn the midnight
oil to edit out 3,000 words, so I went home to sleep on it. Which, of course, I
couldn’t. We were on the road back to the venue by 5:30 am and arrived just
after 6:00 am on Sunday. Yes, I beat the deadline with 6,865 words at 8.55 am.
We waited for the rest of the day as the judges deliberated. Once the Sunday evening banquet was finished and the tables were cleared, the winners were announced. I was placed fourth, earning me a prize of $100 and an excellent critique. Each of the six judges made the same comment: My story was not a short story; it was a book. Because of that, plus the encouragement from my DDH and support from BWL Publishing Inc., it saw the light of day as a contemporary western romance, Loving That Cowboy. I have entered a couple of competitions since, but the heady heights of that first competition remain with me.
Victoria Chatham
%20(1).jpg)
