Last year was the first year I finished the 3 Day Novel contest. In January when I got a notice saying I'd received an honourable mention there was a lot of Muppet dancing going on. Scared the cat. Scared myself.
At the end of the contest I drank out of my NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) mug that read "Novelist Fuel" and had a rather intense moment. This 26K word, 110 page, flawed bit of Cthullu chic lit that ended with a chain saw meet elder god scene - that was the first book I wrote. Whole thing. Beginning, middle, end. My arms burned under the ice water wraps I'd kept on to keep writing. The rest of me buzzed with a new and volatile joy. So the "Honorable Mention" certificate, copy of Geist and free pizza coupon? Send me beyond time and space. And under the sofa, haven't really written since - but before the results came in I'd finished NaNo, so that's two manuscripts of dubious origin that I'm sitting on.
Yesterday I got an email from the gods of the 3 Day Novel contest. I think she's also known as Melissa. Anyway, it contained the epic sagas, distilled to 25 words each of three writers who'd polished off their 07 submissions and been since published. I think of how simply awful my entry was and is; finished and monumental in that respect but a readable story? Hrmph. Then I look at the still unused pizza coupon and think, "well, someone liked reading it". What part I don't know, but the only way to find out is to have another look. I'll revisit it.
The summer stretches ahead but being older now and this being Canada I know it will land squarely on the labour day weekend soon enough, a weekend in which I've foolishly booked two weddings. And I still want to enter. The transformation of time, stress and sweat into stories is an iridescent alchemy that I can't remember why I've resisted for so long. It's fun. I think it might be like surfing or lion taming or something. With coffee.
