Oysters, I Love
'em
by Gwen Boswell
Right, this is it, friends
and family have been telling me for years that my
letters are a comic delight. Well worth the
Christmas cards arriving (usually late). They
cannot all be wrong, so off to the trusty
Internet to see if I can earn myself a few
thousand. It can only be as easy as doing a
search on "short story competitions"
and the world will be my oyster, except that I
don’t really like oysters.
Hmmmm, the "Rupert
Trevallyan Short Story Competition" prize
money of £1,500, 5000 words, this should do me
nicely. Need to knock it out by January 31st,
which gives me about three weeks, results in by
April 31st. Pretty good, should pay
for our Easter trip.
"Tips on short story
writing", I don’t think so. I have what
is known in the world of fine literature as
"raw talent." I can’t let all
these rules impede my creative juices, I want to
them to flow, forget the Bisto. No, stick your
rules, I have never been much of a rule follower
anyway hence my early departure from grammar
school. I want to be different, bring a new
boldness, vibrancy and innovation to the world of
short story writing. I have read J D Salinger, so
I just know the world needs me desperately.
Right, judges, all down
here, all respected writers and all that, let’s
take a look at them then. Blimey, I have never
seen three more miserable fizz-hogs in all my
life, what have they been reading over the last
thirty years? Memoirs of a Spanish Inquisitor?.
Where is Ben Elton when I need him? I wanted to
throw the odd ‘f" word into my story
for reality and a bit of grittiness.
How can I relate to this
lot? They all look like wine experts with
constipation. All wearing shiny broaches, pinning
down floaty scarves that have been swirled in a
sophisticated fashion around very long, prima
ballerina type necks. Hair, I am sure, coffered
by someone called "Sergio" or "Jean-Paul"
in hairdressers, sorry, styling saloons, on high
streets without litter or graffiti. I bet the
saloons have water fountains in the middle of
them too, to aid relaxation for when hair is
being teased and tossed like a grey salad. These
hairdressers want all their customers to be nice
and floppy before they are presented with the
bill so when the shock hits them and they go
ridged, it is hardly noticeable. Gee, I’m
digressing and I am not supposed to do that in
stories.
These judges are beginning
to intimidate me, they have written proper
stories too, long ones. I must find the courage
to fight it, I must think positively, I can spell
words like surreptitiously and physiological,
perhaps if I stick them both in the first
paragraph I will impress them. I won’t use
the word nice in the story either.
What’s this down here,
funny story competition, win £20. Oysters, I
love ‘em!
|
