Life Crueller Than Fiction?

Tuesday 4.9.18

It took me ages to get to sleep because my mind was flooded with ideas for a new writing project. When I did, I dreamed about being a runner-up in the Brighton Short Story Prize; I woke to an email from another competition, saying my story hasn’t been chosen for their shortlist. How strange!

I suppose the only thing I can take from this is that I think about writing far too much, causing even my subconscious to reshape reality to suit me! It’s funny how I didn’t win in the dream but was completely ecstatic about being a runner-up…Clearly my confidence hasn’t run away with itself.

Each rejection is easier than the last though. I remind myself that I’m a twenty-four-year-old student who has devoted more of her life to music than writing, and it will take some work to catch up with a woman who is fifty-three, with nearly as many years of writing experience, three grown children, two degrees…etc. etc.

I don’t say this with any bitterness; I’m happy to be aiming for a profession in which it gets better as you get older! (Yes, I have spent time looking at the age and experience of competition winners – don’t judge me.) There are so many amazing writers and it’s a pleasure to read their work and feel inspired all over again. If that stops being the case, that will be the time to give up. I can’t see it happening though.

I’ve just taken a sip of coffee. A new thought: it doesn’t matter how confident I feel in my writing at any given point.

It doesn’t matter how confident I feel in my writing at any given point.

Mull over that one, Hannah.

The only thing that matters is that I don’t let my confidence levels effect what I do. What was my first feeling when I saw the email this morning? Mild disappointment. What was my first thought? Put a ‘no’ next to that competition, search through my list of upcoming competition deadlines, and find another suitable one to submit that story to. A few competitions down the line, maybe I’ll need to consider a re-edit – as I said, I’m a twenty-four-year-old student, so my ideas about what works and what doesn’t are changing quickly.

And write, write, write. New stories. Move on.

This post started as a free write, but it quickly found a form. Maybe that’s the power of writing: finding a form for what you think, feel, see, and imagine. I can leave it here now while I go about my day. The end.

The beginning.