Writing Contests and the Conflicted Mind

It is the story of creative turmoil that crafting a story for a contest can unleash. We hope for a rush of inspiration when we think about the thrill of possibilities of the prospect of recognition, and it can tantalise the creative embers to flame. But amidst those smouldering embers, one may fall under the smothering ash of doubt. 

There is the odd time that I will figuratively take pen to paper and weave a tale to satisfy the parameters of a writing contest. Unlike a moth to a flame, I am not as drawn to contest writing. My outlook is less about the promise of perceived validation, and instead, I see these opportunities to hone my talents by working within assigned parameters for a story. While I have had the excitement of seeing my words in print, the element of sharing them is more about how they may resonate with a reader or the collegial atmosphere of working with other writers. Once a month, I get the prompt for the Furious Fiction Challenge, which got me thinking about the role of contest writing in my craft. Last summer, I participated in one of the NYC Midnight contests, and while I did not make it to the final round, it forced me to work outside my comfort zone with tight deadlines in genres I had never written. I liked what I came up with in so little time, and it opened my perspectives on story writing, which is the lens through which I view these opportunities rather than the prospect of “winning.” Ultimately, I think one should look at the writing contest as a journey of inspiration rather than the prospect of accolades or prizes. It’s an opportunity for self-discovery, growth, and perhaps even a transformation of one’s writing. And, on that note, I will submit this month’s Furious Fiction Challenge!

Only Fools...

With one day to myself before I jump back onto the treadmill of life, what better way to spend it than doing something I love? The Easter weekend began with the promise of adventure and inspiration as I played commuter from my little island in the Pacific to be a tourist on the mainland and to explore the familiar through the lens of a visitor.

As I waited for my ferry, I perused the waiting shelf library and picked up a few books to immerse myself during the familiar ride to the mainland. It was a few pages in when a line struck me. Camus' The Plague is undoubtedly not in the same vein as my first novel or the second I am currently working on. However, his comment on how "Men and women consume one another rapidly in what is called "the act of love," or else settle down to a mild habit of conjugality. [And how,] we seldom find a mean between these two extremes" (p.5) made me think deeply about the construction of my current narrative and, perhaps, the absurdity of love. 

Amidst the weekend of confessions, introspective revelations, photographic exposition, and poetry; I was reminded of moments relived through the gaze of salty libations within the Ballyhoo. Straddling time and space within the thread of a story unfolding, I thought of my first novel and how the mirage of epistolary love and navigating relationships, no matter the time, is often a balancing act held together by hope.

As a teenager, the here and now was a more tangible concept. My first novel spoke to the allure of a epistolary relationship as today's space is one where borders are blurred, and distances shrink, almost beckoning an adventurous soul to seek love across oceans and continents. Yet, we forget that beneath the surface of seemingly romantic unions, a delicate web of hope and delusion remains much like the romance of my second novel, which spans three generations and weaves together the tapestry of two families. This web of hope and delusions is a mirage that promises connection but often leaves hearts adrift in a sea of uncertainty despite a generational milieu. It made me think of my characters and how love and longing intertwine the complexities of existence, how they have been bound by fate yet teeter on the precipice of being torn asunder by the march of time. I have played with the chance encounters that led to the serendipity of their love affair, the seeds of doubt, the collision of their worlds, and how those fleeting moments of happiness can quickly be overshadowed by the looming spectre of inevitability, just like the concept of sliding doors and the knowledge that these moments together are but a transient blip in the vast expanse of eternity.

And so I find myself enthralled by that quote from Camus, as it concisely elucidates the consumptive activity of love that my first novel speaks to about lovers becoming adrift in their once-boundless passion and inextricably reduced to nought but memories and impulsive threads. 

It is sometimes hard to live in reverse when writing since this second novel is intragenerational and ends far before the entanglements of the fragile threads of technology and longing. Those late-night conversations blossoming in the digital realm like the cherry trees in spring rife with virtual embraces that bridge the chasm of distance are not something of the past. And, to re-immerse oneself in the whispers of sweet nothings and promises of forever is a space in which the shadow of delusions in the very fabric of love is not easy as it relies on effacing the current reality. Yet, it brings one back to the common thread, hope. 

Hope becomes both the anchor and downfall in both worlds. With the instant gratification of screens replacing embraces and where emojis stand in for kisses, it's easy to lose sight of the tangible realities of love. And so, I am finding myself lost in translating that abstract concept of distance as it was measured, in kilometres and not missed calls or messages left hanging. There is a natural blurring of the lines between reality and fantasy that is less obvious than it is in the clutter of a virtual connection.

So, in that haze, I am rummaging through those delusions to reveal a kernel of truth, a taste of the past unfettered by constructed realities and unearthing the harsh realities of distance and time that can eventually extinguish that passion. I am attuned to reveal the echoes of what could have been, the aftermath of a broken heart, and the balancing act of relationships. It is a delicate dance between hope and delusion, reality and fantasy, and finding solace in the arms of a lover or finding oneself lost in the wilderness of their desires. 

With that, before April is upon us, I will plunge back into submission prep and novel number two.

Numb

Mino 2007-2023

When I had first driven onto the ferry, I’d tried to busy my mind with the pragmatism of deleting calendar events I knew would no longer come to pass. Anything to distract myself from the reality I was driving toward at 4:30 am this dark, wet, and chilly morning in January.  

The ship crashed into the berth and the high-pitched grating squeal of steel colliding and sliding into place cut through the silence. I pulled off the ferry way before dusk that morning; my hands gripped the wheel tight as I drove along the highway. It was still pitch black out and the driving rain made it impossible to spot the slick pools of gathered water on the glassy pavement that pulled my car intermittently off-course along my way in a flash before my tires found their traction and jolted me back into the present moment. I couldn’t linger in the present along my drive, but let my mind drift back to memories of you. The only recollections of the journey are but those flashes when those puddles pulled me off course and the sting of my tears that left a scorching trail of grief on my cheeks are still present. The muffled drone of the pouring rain pounding the roof of my car had me encased in a cold cocoon of numbed sound; my mind is still like a glass lake that mirrored nothing but the image of you.  

I pulled into the parking lot like I had last night, but this time stepped out of the car without you in my arms; I rang the bell. Someone came to the door shortly after and let me in. They then led me into an empty waiting room; a new cocoon before I am then directed to the next soundless chamber; a small empty room where I am numb again but for the sting of my tears. They left me there, waiting for the doctor to come and speak with me. A gentle knock on the door alerts me to her walking in, but I stare through her as she lists off more bad news of your struggle throughout the night and the imminence of our separation. I can feel my heart sink, and the pull now is just to get through all the paperwork so that they will finally take me to you. She leaves again and sends administrators in order to deal with the transactional elements and it’s all a blur.  After I signed the last form, the doctor returned.

“Are you comfortable being there for the procedure?” she asked.

“Yes,” someone in me responds without hesitation.

We walk through the corridors and the bleeps of the ICU cut through my soundless entombment until I see you. You’re lying there hooked up to so many wires and oxygen, but as I draw near to you in the busy hospital unit, it feels like just me you again. I kneel by your side and feel the frailty of you as your heartbeat quickens when my hand meets your chest. The gentle, rhythmic pulse of your heart throbs in the palm of my hand. You waited, I’m told, and as much as the pain constricts my heart to let go, I cannot bear to make you wait any longer. I take a last moment to whisper my love to you and call for the doctor. 

They brought us to a private room, and in your collapsed state in my arms, you feel so small. I’d carried your nearly fifty-pound body up and down the stairs in the last few days when your back legs no longer had the strength to carry the weight of you. But now you feel small, and like a well-loved stuffed bear, you’ve been my security, my confidant, my best friend, for the last 16 years. I hold your languid body and try to comfort you through this passing as much as feeling you close in my arms comforts me. 

They leave me with you in this room. Its silhouetted winter forest scene seems fitting, bringing me back to our beginning at this very last moment with you. The image of the cold, snow-cased house where our journey together began in the Laurentian Mountains fills my mind, and my heart aches. I hold you tighter and remember how you bounced in the snow that was so high it completely buried one side of our house. We sit together, still in that moment, as the warmth of your spirit seeps into me and the warmth of your body seeps from you. I lie you back down on the gurney and hold your leathered paws in my shaking hand as I stroke the velvety fur in the little fold of your ear. I am numb with loss and you are no longer here, but I lean down and kiss you goodbye one last time before I step out of the room.

Walking through the hollow cocoons of waiting rooms, I feel a deep heaviness drape over me until I’m back out in the stinging icy rain that washes away the burn of my tears. I get back into the nest of my car to begin the journey in reverse. My tires cut through more pools of water on the highway and the sudden jolts that pulled the vehicle sideways momentarily break my numbed trance. But as the distance from you in body expands, the space you will forever hold in my heart swells.

I miss you already…

Bring on the New Year

I feel it looming just around the corner... I thought I would have a little time to recuperate from the busy school year, but it appears I just can’t help but keep a steady pace, even on my break. The heavy deadline-ridden workload that is peeking back at me the closer we approach January has me wondering if I have taken on too much. I do, however, have a few little things to look forward to in the coming weeks and months. I hope these markers of inspired hope will ease the turbulence of this impending tornado that is about to touch down in my world. Perhaps these little moments I look toward will at least serve as moments of reprieve, like being in the eye of the storm. 

While I will balance work and academia, I also am super excited that one of my favourite creative writing classes will be offered in the New Year. This class, although being held at the busiest time for me, is one I cannot resist taking part in. I have loved every opportunity I have had to take part and if you fancy taking on writing challenges with a collaborative and inspiring group of writers, I can wholeheartedly recommend Sarah Selecky’s Six Senses. Until then, I’ll enjoy the blasts of wintery weather with my bestie and wish you all the very best to come...

Launch countdown

After a 14hr marathon of writing a twenty-page paper on Bowenian Theory on only 3hrs of sleep, I am once again wearing an academic hat. It feels good to be back crafting the intricate puzzle of a familiar genre. That said, I was equally excited to learn that one of my first pieces of creative nonfiction was selected for publication in a literary zine that has published such international talents as Atwood and one of my favourite poets, Bukowski. Looking forward to the launch party! 

Titles and chapter endings

Eight months, and I am back. The pandemic wreaked on my writing group and usurped my free time with added work. However, once January rolled around, it was the catalyst to get me writing anything new again. Work was ever consuming, and I didn’t have the headspace to get anything out onto paper. I also just took the time yesterday to figure out why my site wouldn’t load. I did a little snooping around and re-stimulating of my brain from my coding days and, voila. Fixed! So here we are again…

I’m over twenty thousand words in and have a thousand words here, ten thousand there, lying about ready to be connected to the story. So it’s about halfway written. I started with a titled prologue and now feel like I have pigeonholed myself. I think the title is something I struggle with the most. Sometimes it’ll just come to me naturally and a few have been fun to name but although my last chapter has a title that suits it I’m not that fond of it… I don’t even know where my chapter will take me this week but I think I am about two chapters away from the main climax of the story so I am looking forward to the big meet between my characters. I also read an article that had me flipping back to each previous chapter to discover a pattern as I had never given much thought to the ending of a chapter rather more than just sensed where a good place to take a breath might be for my reader. That said, the only ending I thought of was the end of my novel, which was one of the first things I wrote… 

Moving Forward

It was a slow month, and I fell off the wagon a few times with some sluggish days. My thoughts have been like ants scurrying from a flooded anthill. But I still had one of my strongest days, thanks to my competitive perseverance and my buddy’s taunts. Although I may not have progressed as far as I would have wanted; amidst all the turmoil, I still clocked 384.12kms, which is like running from my seaside home to the crystal aquamarine waters of the Rockies. I have gained a little more clarity in the last two days, and so I will continue forward rebuilding to maintain my head above water. 

Until then, stay safe, stay kind ♥️.

Heart of Stone

The Big Bad Wolf has nothing on Rolf Lovett, the antihero in my story. It’s been a challenge to write amidst the uncertainty of my world. I forced myself to put my hands to the keyboard to complete my short story for a contest closing tonight. And so, I thought I’d take this fleeting inspiration to add a few words here since I have somewhat fallen off the blog earth since February. Disillusionment and rose-coloured glasses were to blame for my abscondment. I am proud to maintain a perhaps naïve vision of the kindness I see in others. The problem is, that with that, the reality of malevolence in someone often knocks the wind out of my sails.

But, as the old saying goes, bad luck happens in threes. So, what started with hopeful poor judgement and subsequent twofold hardships are perhaps a signal that my misfortune has come full circle. If my story is any kind of hopeful beacon, threes have a way of overcoming the wolf.

Zebrafish

We take an unknown leap when we fall in love; trusting the care of our heart to another person.

This month I had the prompt to write a love story from my online writing group. The assignment was to choose one of the 6 senses: touch, sight, smell, sound, taste, or magic. We had to write about a character whose sense we chose is heightened or diminished. We needed to explore how their distorted sense affects them or those around them? And we could make it a love story... This was well within my wheelhouse since love and relationship stories are my passion. I also decided that I wanted to play on the current themes of how people meet that differs from when I was growing up.

I concentrated on sound since it is a sense that I don’t appreciate in the context of love or give a tremendous amount of thought to, but it is something that I imagine could confuse someone's feelings. I remember as a child I went to camp and had a tremendous crush on a counsellor whose speech was dysarthric or apraxic. It made me wonder how a love story incorporating that auditory dissonance in contemporary times might play out. 

“His voice was distinctively him, my Zebrafish. The absence of the alveolar trill of the dropped Rs in my name, and his soft sweet drawl pulled the corners of my mouth into a smile.”

There were so many threads that came together to weave this story of mine, and it took a lot to imagine the reality of my character. Not to mention, speech can be difficult to describe. But, I wanted to give myself a challenge. So I donned my academic hat and dove deep into the research of learning a new glossary of terms. In our day and age of texting and digital culture, I thought to explore the auditory experience of a relationship in the context of our current modalities of communication would make for an interesting love story.

I'd been doing some edits on my novel and took a break to work on my monthly writing group assignment. I was feeling like I wanted to give my novel’s protagonist some sort of hope. My novel ends dismally and so this little piece also felt like it could be an epilogue of sorts for my own peace of mind... I doubt I have more to say about the short story to actually make it a sequel to my novel.

“… delighting my tympanic membrane like a gentle caress that would linger along its journey deep within me… his words would bounce around inside me until they’d find their final resting place in the warming of my heart.”

One of my writing group members mentioned the dissociation we sometimes have when meeting a radio personality in person. All these little threads came together to craft Zebrafish; a story about a broken-hearted girl who finds love and learns to trust again despite all these auditory obstacles. 

My short was very well-received and I am always humbled by the compliments on my prose. However, so far the male love interest in my novel, let's call him Joe, is not well-liked. I have woven my female protagonist into a few stories outside the novel and her other male counterparts are always better received than Joe. I am going to have to start sharing some of the wooing passages to get my readers to fall in love with Joe just as they have fallen in love with my Zebrafish. 

Perhaps, I took a leap with Joe and was blinded by love myself... 

Kindness of Strangers

My mom posted an image this past week of one of those rare people that cross your path through life if you are lucky. Sadly, we’d only just found out that he’d passed away. I first wrote to him on this day four years ago. In 2016, I was lucky enough to reconnect with a fellow from years ago that worked in the same real estate office as my mother. I remember him from the office when I would stop in to see my mom, from pictures of them together and from the time my mother hosted a work party at our house. But in actuality, I did not know him beyond those brief interactions.

I was in a tough time in my life in 2016, a lot of indecision, insecurity and uncertainty surrounded me. A few friends had mentioned that they loved Greece, and it looked beautiful. It was also a warm and a welcome sunny destination from the remaining grey that lingered above me. 

I remember writing to my mom to ask about her friend George. He had returned to live in Greece years ago, and I thought he may be the perfect person to contact for info about his home country. My mom gave me his address and told me to send him an email, and so I did. Little did I know that that first email would lead me on a journey that would renew my spirit in so many ways...

My letter to George was a simple introduction to who I was as a reminder and some requests for places to visit, affordable places to stay, if he knew any, and his recommendations for what I should see of his country. I only had about ten days so there was a lot I couldn’t do, but before I knew it he responded with such enthusiasm and had planned my entire stay. He coordinated with one of his good friends and his cousin on one of the Greek Islands. I remember receiving his response and thinking, “Well, I guess I’m going to Greece!”

The gesture overwhelmed me and it was a relief of sorts to have someone take over. The only thing I had to do was to buy my plane ticket. In the weeks approaching my trip, George sent me all kinds of fascinating history lessons about the country. We wrote back and forth for about two months before I arrived. He had a genuine love for Greece, and his passion enticed me to learn more about the place. His enthusiasm was contagious. 

He’d connected me with a friend of his in Athens that would show me around and his cousin in Santorini who would be my island guide. I was so excited about the adventure but a little apprehensive as I was sure it would be all too good to be true. But it was true... Even with my early morning flights, when I mentioned I would find an airport hotel, George insisted I stay at his apartment and had made sure that his friend in Athens would take me to meet my flights. So here I was, ticket in hand, his pad in Athens and a taste of the Greek Islands on the horizon.

My trip to Greece is the best trip I have ever taken. And I owe it all to a lovely human who’s pure kindness and generous soul made it possible. His friend and cousin went above and beyond anything I could imagine. They’d pick me up in the morning and drive me to countless sights throughout the day.

I remember how I mentioned how I loved urban art and whilst in Athens, his friend spent the evening hunting for art until we found some beautiful murals. I was ready to throw in the towel, but he was insistent about satisfying my original request. We ended up in fabulously colourful back alleys; places I wouldn’t have been wise to explore alone. I remember how we serendipitously finished the evening in a little gallery out of the way that had one of the most splendid exhibitions of mural art.

There are so many glorious memories I have of my time in Greece and, would have loved to visit George’s town but it was too far to reach in the little time I had so he had suggested Santorini. I had planned to return to Greece again, but by that time George had fallen ill. I never heard back from him, but I hope he knew what a cherished set of memories he’d given me. There aren’t many altruistic people that you come across in life, and when you do, they’re a treasure…   

Welcome Hindsight

In the early hours of the evening, we sauntered through the familiar yet foreign streets of my home. Ours was the biggest house on the block. I hadn’t remembered that as I stood there and smiled when my eyes met the window of my old room. The faded fireman safety sticker alerting firefighters that a child occupies the room if ever the house was ablaze still there in the corner of my bedroom window. I welcomed visual flashes of cherished misplaced memories.

I stood for a moment observing the driveway. It seemed so long as a child, and the front yard so big. Now, it looked like nothing but a miniature patch of greenery with a modest-sized tree. I remembered how the tree used to loom over me like a gnarled wooden monster. The monolith was the hide and seek counting spot. It was the tree whose leaves I’d enviously gaze through to catch glimpses of the older kids enjoying the hot summer nights when I had to come in early.  

It was sobering to walk those familiar streets, glancing in each of the illuminated windows; knowing I’d been in almost all of their rooms as a babysitter or as a friend. I recalled my adolescent mindset. My core ethic hasn’t changed; an unconscious foreshadowing. Perhaps, even a predestined path which brought me to where I find myself today. 

But, with each step forward, I carry each happy moment I have collected along my path. They are little undisclosed treasured snippets of happiness I mostly keep to myself. Yet, I’ll share them with the people I pass through my escaping smile. 

May the New Year bring the discovery of many new wonders, the warmth of loved ones and the illumination of hope… 

Here’s to hindsight 2020!

Thirteen Knives

One of my readers commented on how my story took them to another place; somewhere unfamiliar, which intrigued them. I love the research of writing; immersing myself in a new life, or revisiting one that I have lived. The last piece I wrote was difficult, as I was a tourist in all the experiences myself. I had no former memory to draw on, and nothing of the story or the involvements which my characters went through were familiar to me. This is where the research part gets tricky. Several readers have mentioned how my descriptions are so well-written; so it was a genuine challenge this past month as I travelled into a world I have never been in. My academic background has helped me in this respect. The discipline to be thorough adds to the reality created when constructing a story; from creating the foundation of the immersing plots to resolving all the loose ends, all take patience and careful attention to detail. 

With all of my other stories, there is an element from my life that comes to life through the story. It gives the opportunity for me to appreciate those excursions in more detail, to examine perspective from a new point of view. And even better to re-examine the reality through the lens of perspective that the distance of time offers. I wrote a story a few months back where one reader remarked on how “the conflict in their relationship seemed so natural (and sad). I loved your characters, they were so real.” This is because there is a piece of myself in everything I write, from a shy little girl in an old-fashioned elevator to the painter in the story I am writing.

I watched as the colour ran down the ferrule to collect in the bristles of the head. As I unbuttoned my shirt and let it fall to the ground...

It is perhaps why I unwittingly test the boundaries of my explorations; my subconscious takes notes for a future purpose which will be revealed when I least expect. And why, when a reader says “this is a really good portrait --- it feels realistic and heartbreaking” that although they may not be familiar with the dynamic I write about, they can commiserate.

Epistolary Relationship

There is something comforting in the distance, maintained and intimacy cultivated through words. As a teenager, I loved the Griffin and Sabine series. At a dinner party a few years ago, I learned the author lived on my little island, and I fault him for nurturing this romantic nature in me. The thoughtfully curated sentences that caress a reader’s psyche to conjure a fantasy beyond the reach of reality. 

I only just learned of the term the other day. Although I am well versed in the epistolary relationship; I did not have a term to define the romantic excursions that have led me into worlds I may have never experienced were it not for my love of writing letters. 

When I think of the people I have met in person because of such relationships, I can’t help but fall back into the romantic images created in my mind from their words. The interchange of our communication, and the shared yearnful tension that such a relationship nurtures. There is both a safety and vulnerability that is only attainable in the “epistolyrical” world. And, while one can remember the feeling it creates in our hearts and minds, it is forever lost when we meet face to face...