Why WHY do I enter contests? I never win. And if it is a writing contest? Ack. I get all excited, right? My hands shake. I write my little entry with imaginings dancing through my self-esteem of maybe possibly winning this time. It could happen right? I'm a good writer, right? Yes. Yes I am. It could happen. It WILL happen. In fact, when I win, this is what I shall do with the prize money:
I shall go on a vacation. Where I'll finish my book. And then I'll query and find an agent. And they'll love me and find me a publisher. Instantly. And then I'll become a best seller (well I won't. My book will) and JK Rowling and I will become pals and do lunch at that little coffe shop where she wrote The Philospher's Stone on that one napkin. And we'll laugh about it and about how naive we were when we were first starting out and can you believe how our lives have changed? And my goodness it's just too too that Oprah is no longer on TV because what a josh it would be to do an interview together, the two of us. I mean wouldn't it be just--
Then I catch a glimpse of my little contest entry sitting up there like the forgotten hippy-dippy half-cousin at a reunion trying to elbow her way through the more refined and legitimate family members to the front of the buffet line. Family members who did not completely lose perspective on their offering because they had read it too many times. And I notice that my writing is wearing Birkenstocks while everyone else's sports Louboutins. Oy. Please let no one who counts in the publishing industry happen by, because then my career will be swirling in the toi-toi for good and Oprah will never interview me with JK.
I wish my brain wouldn't get all histrionic like that. It's exhausting. Especially since it just made me post the following poem (non-original) on Kiersten White's blog in an effort to win an ARC for her upcoming trilogy-ender, Endless:
They met on the bridge at midnight,
Their lips were all a'quiver.
He gave a cough
Her legs fell off
And floated down the river.
*ahem* I did not win. In fact, my entry never made it into the comments section. Like, it never showed up. How weird is that? Maybe I offended Ms. White. I was just trying to be, you know, witty! Different from the rest! I . . . I . . . *whimper*
And this is why I hate contests. Because my brain freaks out. Goes from paroxysms of imaginary delight to doom and gloom in a matter of seconds. As if my proverbial gnome-of-despair, Darkspume, has clamped himself onto my brainstem and won't get off. Silly thing.
I guess there's some small consolation in all of this. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm sure I'll figure it out. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this (original) poem, because, Darkspume or not, I never really do give up. And besides, I'm looking for another contest to enter.
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as my knee
In breadth and width and symmetry
There is no better part of me.
Except perhaps my brainy head
Without which I would soon be dead.
Good heavens, all my sense has fled!
I think it's time I go to bed.
What? I win? I knew It!