the contest

i only wish that the contest to which i am referring bore any resemblance at all to the famous seinfeld contest. alas, this one has nothing to do with masturbation, fantasies about nude neighbors, or money. it DOES raise the issue of whether or not i am queen of my domain -- in this case, my creative mind.

a local newspaper is holding a contest for canadian writers to complete a chapter in a 'serial thriller.' each sunday, the winner is published in the newspaper, and more importantly, qualifies for the grand prize, which is a trip to mexico and a meeting with a literary agent who will read the winner's manuscript. the second and third place winners also receive the latter half of the prize, which is the most important reward to someone like me anyway. my goal is to just win a week so that i have a 3 in 11 chance of submitting my manuscript to an editor who HAS to read THE WHOLE THING (not just the first page, like so many editors do before sending a scathing rejection letter).

last week, i submitted a chapter (which is limited to 1000 words -- YOU try putting in authentic character development and advancing the plot in such a short space and see how fucking hard it is) and made it to the final four. this week, i submitted a chapter and got a big fat nothing. i've read this week's winner, and my brain is already desperately casting around for some kind of something that will allow me to win next week. and therein lies the problem.

i have very little interest in the story -- it's a cop drama, which bores the hell out of me under the best circumstances. cops have too many rules, and i don't like rules in fiction. i don't really identify much with the characters, so i find it difficult to imagine them in three dimensions. also, i write long fiction -- novels. i'm not sure i have the chops to write something so short. so why i am i wasting my time? i want the prize so bad i can taste it. i don't care if my name (and my story) gets published in the paper. but the thought of getting past the hurdle of having an agent read more than just my first page fills me with more excitement than the prospect of brad pitt appearing naked and willing on my doorstep (oh, lord, what's happened to me?!?!?!).

last week, i spent TWO DAYS working on the chapter that didn't even make the final four. i gave up time that i should have been spending on MY book. on thursday, when the paper annonced the final four by email, i refreshed my email once every two minutes until i knew the winners had been notified, and i was not one. every time the phone rang, i hoped it might be the sunday edition editor calling to tell me congratulations. this morning when i opened the paper, guess which section i went to first? in short, i am obsessed with this contest and with becoming eligible for the grand prize.

it is not a healthy obsession. i don't want to think about it all the time. i want to go home tonight and write the stupid thing -- which realistically should only take a couple of hours given its length -- and think about my book for the rest of the week. i know that's what i should do. but what i should do and what i actually do in many aspects of my life don't usually overlap at all.

when i was a kid, i never won any contests in school. my best friend stefanie, who i have no trouble admitting is much smarter and more creative than i am, always won, and i got second. as usual, childhood trauma rears its ugly head and stomps on my rational, logical and healthy thought processes to produce this obsession with the contest. i gotta win this one. second just isn't good enough.