New Scary Thing!

I forgot, in my terrified state, to post my scariest moment of the week: submitting to the Canada Writes Short Story Prize. I mean, it's not scary if I don't think about it, but it's hard to put on the back burner. I've never done anything like this. Ever. I don't buy lottery tickets; I don't enter contests. I don't write short stories. I write big long heaving things that snap wrists and test eyesight.

But let's face it: I'm in a bit of a writing limbo while I wait to see if Sandy can work her literary magic and convince a publisher to air my big scribbles. So I might as well do something constructive in the meantime that doesn't involve rocking back and forth in the corner. I've illustrated the upcoming book, Witches Don't Do Winter, and I've taught BoyChild to take the bus on his own (thank you OC Transpo), so I thought I'd dust off my short fiction files and see if there was anything worthwhile.

Thanks to the drunkhouse down the street, the story fragment that spoke to me most was the one about a dazed kid winding his way home in Halifax after having traded away his expensive bike for a bum's shopping cart. Yeah. It's got "prizewinner" written all over it, eh? But in the writing of it, I bonded with my daughter and paraded ideas past my husband, and generally had a good time. I felt like a writer.

Which means that in the act is the proof. Some days -- not all days, of course -- but some of them...are good days.