Writing Seasons

Wednesday 20th March 2024, written approx. 1000 words (3 potential letters from characters) plus a redraft of 2 flash fiction and 1 short story for potential competition entries , 0 new rejections, 0 new agent queries, 0 competitions entered, started reading Little Wing by Freya North, 0 new book purchases, 3 coffees, 1 lemon and ginger tea, and some Moroccan nuts

With the first day of spring over, and my writing shed tidied in preparation for the warmer season, I am feeling the need to brush off some of my older work. I have an Easter holiday full of revisions planned. Blogging, studying, teaching, beta-reading and enjoying a good book…all of these activities improve your writing, yet these improvements do not always equate to success in terms of finding an agent, or winning competitions, or securing an independent publisher. In turn, the fear my writing misses the ‘magic’ needed to attract attention remains at the forefront of my mind.

An email this afternoon politely informed me my short story A Swim in the Beck did not make the long list of the Writers’ and Artists’ short story competition. Most competitions offer no personal feedback but this one did offer some general advice for those receiving an email without any good news. You can read their general feedback here.

Writing short stories that work well structurally, in spite of their limited word count, can be more challenging than writing a novel. The story I chose to enter met the ‘risk’ brief for the competition and was based on a true story. My husband and his friends really did bring an unexploded bomb home from a scrapyard one summer, and I regularly climbed the rusty signal tower on the disused railway lines where we whiled away whole days of the school holidays. How did any of us survive the late 80s? The story wasn’t right for the competition but I hope some of my readers will enjoy the nostalgic trip back to an era of relaxed parenting.

My lack of competition success does make me question my ability to engage my audience. Without feedback to guide me, how do I know what this story was missing? It could be any number of things and I try to remind myself not every traditionally published author wins awards and competitions. Lack of success does not equal poor writing – it merely reminds you somebody else’s story shined brighter on the day.

One of the worst things about ‘failing’ for me is feeling needy. As a person, I am fiercely independent. The thought of needing someone else, for anything, is a feeling I fight. This does not mean I am unable to ask for help or unable to recognise my weaknesses. When organising the ‘mechanics’ of my blog I couldn’t get my tech-whizz writer friend around quickly enough. However, it does make me a terrible patient. Aged fourteen, I broke my leg so badly it had to be pinned with metal scaffolding that made me look like an extra from Blade Runner. In hospital my mum had to apologise to staff as my fierce independence and unwillingness to be mollycoddled (and probably my fourteen year old hormones) made me very rude. I wince with embarrassment when I remember my intolerance of the NHS staff who tried to offer me care and attention.

I still hate being looked after and I don’t like being pampered. Facial, massage, manicure…no thanks. When ill, I would rather be alone than have someone fuss over me. To need a publisher and/or an agent to want me makes me feel pathetic. Desperate. The lack of control over this enormous part of my life bothers me immensely, yet there is nothing I can do (other than self-publish) so I carry on regardless of the rejections.

Every March, as my unruly magnolia blooms, and my writing shed becomes habitable (without the heater), spring arrives and brings with it much needed hope. The blossom on my walk to work today reminded me that nothing stays the same for long and no matter how much longer my writing ‘winter’ continues, one day my books will bloom. One day someone will care enough to nurture them, and as long as they don’t try and mollycoddle me too, I will find my way to my ‘summer’ season.

Kate

P.S. They really did have to evacuate my husband’s street.