It's April 16th, more than halfway through the month, and I suddenly realise I've failed myself as a writer. I say this not because I've lost faith in my ability to turn a clever phrase or paint a picture with prose; in fact I still count myself as one of my favorite writers (if only I could publish!); but because somewhere I began to overlook one serious aspect: Brevity.
Allow me to explain. May 1st is the deadline for submissions to the 2007 Commonwealth Short Story Competition. All Commonwealth citizens are eligible to win the sum of £2,000 or a little under US$4000. All you have to do is submit up to three short stories which, based on the trend of past winners, concerns some issue of cultural significance where you live. They also have to be 600 words or less.
And for me, therein lies the snag. When I first read about the competition, I was elated. "Cakewalk" I thought, as I'd had no shortage of stories filed away in a little corner of my computer. I'd simply choose three of my favourites; clean them up a bit, and send them on in. But when I started looking through them, hardly any seemed good enough, and the ones that I did like were all at least two pages long. 600 words, double spaced, is hardly even a one page. It meant, quite simply, that I'd have to write something new.
I decided I'd write a quick one about going through Phillip S.W. Goldson international, specifically the check-in procedures. I should have been able to save space by limiting it to just that space between the counter and the departure lounge. Heck, I wouldn't even have to spend that much time on developing characters. But then strangely enough, my image of that annoying space with the x-ray machine and metal detector became quite sharp. I found myself describing the wood panelling on the walls became so clear, so important, that I found myself travelling down the road where the mahogany tree once stood, and where foresters spent weeks cutting it down, quartering it, transporting it, selling it, shaping, sanding, and varnishing the panels so they'd shine bright for the tourists. Simply based on this one paragraph, you can see how that turned out.
Then I had a vision of feet under a table. Your average Belize restaurant where waiters are rude to the locals and sickeningly condescending to tourists or officials, and it would all have been based on the shoes and clothes they wore and how they positioned their feet, adding to the absurdity of the entire practice. But then my 600- word story became, in my minds eye, a play on a stage with the curtains half drawn, then a screenplay with the camera frame following the waiter's feet from table to table, sometimes with no dialog at all except for what those naughty little feet were doing. This too was getting out of hand.
So now, I'm slowing down. I've got two weeks and if I rush this I'll end up with a ton of half finished short stories, a play that I have no idea how to pull off, and a screenplay that I'd have no idea what to do with. Perhaps with the help of a thesaurus and an editor who aspires to be a butcher, I might have something before the deadline.
Allow me to explain. May 1st is the deadline for submissions to the 2007 Commonwealth Short Story Competition. All Commonwealth citizens are eligible to win the sum of £2,000 or a little under US$4000. All you have to do is submit up to three short stories which, based on the trend of past winners, concerns some issue of cultural significance where you live. They also have to be 600 words or less.
And for me, therein lies the snag. When I first read about the competition, I was elated. "Cakewalk" I thought, as I'd had no shortage of stories filed away in a little corner of my computer. I'd simply choose three of my favourites; clean them up a bit, and send them on in. But when I started looking through them, hardly any seemed good enough, and the ones that I did like were all at least two pages long. 600 words, double spaced, is hardly even a one page. It meant, quite simply, that I'd have to write something new.
I decided I'd write a quick one about going through Phillip S.W. Goldson international, specifically the check-in procedures. I should have been able to save space by limiting it to just that space between the counter and the departure lounge. Heck, I wouldn't even have to spend that much time on developing characters. But then strangely enough, my image of that annoying space with the x-ray machine and metal detector became quite sharp. I found myself describing the wood panelling on the walls became so clear, so important, that I found myself travelling down the road where the mahogany tree once stood, and where foresters spent weeks cutting it down, quartering it, transporting it, selling it, shaping, sanding, and varnishing the panels so they'd shine bright for the tourists. Simply based on this one paragraph, you can see how that turned out.
Then I had a vision of feet under a table. Your average Belize restaurant where waiters are rude to the locals and sickeningly condescending to tourists or officials, and it would all have been based on the shoes and clothes they wore and how they positioned their feet, adding to the absurdity of the entire practice. But then my 600- word story became, in my minds eye, a play on a stage with the curtains half drawn, then a screenplay with the camera frame following the waiter's feet from table to table, sometimes with no dialog at all except for what those naughty little feet were doing. This too was getting out of hand.
So now, I'm slowing down. I've got two weeks and if I rush this I'll end up with a ton of half finished short stories, a play that I have no idea how to pull off, and a screenplay that I'd have no idea what to do with. Perhaps with the help of a thesaurus and an editor who aspires to be a butcher, I might have something before the deadline.
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