Pretty Nervous Writing Aardvarks Speak Out!

Now that I'm back from Europe and life has settle down somewhat, it's time to think about my next trip: The PNWA Writers Conference in Seattle on July 25-28. That unpronounceable acronym, by the way, stands for the Pacific Northwest Writers Association. I call them the Pretty Nervous Writing Aardvarks so I can keep the letters in the right order.

I hadn't planned to attend the conference; it seemed like an indulgence so soon after Europe. But on Memorial Day I received a call from the Writing Aardvarks: My unfinished memoir, Too Small to Succeed, is a finalist in the Nonfiction/Memoir category. The PNWA lady (I was so amazed I now can't remember her name or hardly any other word in the phone conversation other than "finalist") asked me if I was attending the conference in July. Well, I am now, I wanted to stay, but mustered my manners and said I would very much like to attend.

So now I'm going, and I haven't been to a writing conference since I was 10, when I won a school writing contest with a poem about World War II. It went like this:

That crazy Hitler, he started a war,

and I have no doubt that there will be more. 

They won't be by him, because he is dead,

but from my point of view he had rocks in his head.

The poem went on for pages, I'm sorry to say, and my mother actually sent me a copy recently. Well, Benny liked it, anyway.

Anyway, this means that Too Small to Succeed is no longer just a Weird Little Project on the Side. I wrote the first two chapters in 2010 and then dropped it for two years, picking it up again last year. I kept working on it even after rejoining the Business Times in January and it's passed the 30,000-word mark now.

To help things along last summer, I joined a local memoir group. You know you're in a heavy crowd when your recession memoir tracing the country's financial collapse is the most lighthearted of the group. The other writers' topics ranged from sex cults to the Holocaust, much to the disturbance of other patrons at the Berkeley cafe where we met. The memoir group's leader ran a tight ship, necessitating a constant stream of emails and long phone calls about my writing purpose after I missed a few meetings.

So I ditched the memoir group, but I still needed feedback, so I entered the memoir's first 27 pages in the Writing Aardvark's literary contest, lured by the promise of detailed critiques from two judges.

Be careful what you wish for, for now my finalist status, the critiques and my preparations for the conference are making me self-conscious. Yesterday I read my 11 chapters for the first time in over a month, and while they hold up all right, writing new stuff has been difficult. I spent six hours writing yesterday, muttering at my laptop while Benny watched Sponge Bob and read his Percy Jackson books, hoping that eventually I'd produce something that wasn't terrible.

The results are not great: Chapter 12 is about September 2007, a month full of adjustments to our new apartment, my new editing job and Benny's new preschool, not to mention a horrifying pile of bills that added up to more than Ron's monthly take-home pay. Shiver. Throw in a Sept. 17 deadline to write 24 Latino Business Awards profiles in my spare time and this chapter makes me want to crawl under the dining room table with the cat. Not so funny. I'm having difficulty maintaining the amused detachment of earlier chapters. That humorous tone the judges liked so much is nowhere in evidence in Chapter 12, so now I must decide whether I've lost my voice or whether the story has simply shifted in a new direction.

This, of course, has happened before and as Stephen King says, sometimes writing feels like you're just shoveling shit from a sitting position. You just have to have faith that something good is buried in there, and if there isn't, that what you're shoveling will eventually lead to something good. In times like these, any encouragement helps and so thank you again, Pretty Nervous Writing Aardvarks.

Picky Picky Picky Contest Guidelines

So this morning I mailed off my entry to a literary writing contest and I’m still reeling.

Contests like those sponsored by the Pretty Nervous Writing Aardvarks, or PNWA, are a valuable way for unpublished writers to get noticed, but I must say that the submission guidelines give a whole new meaning to the phrase “barriers to entry.”

First of all, I’m convinced that the guidelines are a product of years, if not decades, of pet peeves developed by literary writing contest judges, because let me tell you, they are not written with the writer in mind. And yes, I realize that these august personages are donating their time and expertise and any little thing we can do to smooth the path is in our own best interests.

And actually, I suspect that literary writing contests like convoluted rules and submission processes. First of all, they provide a wonderful excuse to reject obviously scrabbled-together, last-minute entries rife with spelling and grammar mistakes. (“Ah, I note this writer did NOT put his category number on the outside of the envelope! Out of the pool!”) Secondly, such guidelines weed out the mediocrities and through natural selection produce the most astute and sophisticated of contestants, those freaky brainiacs who never consider submitting a 5.24-inch by 8-inch SASE envelope when obviously only a 4.125-inch by 9.5-inch envelope is called for. Finally, such guidelines only increase the prestige of the writing contest, implying that due to the enormous volume of submissions, requiring tiny little boxes packed with information on each upper right-hand corner is the only way to preserve the honored judges’ sanity.

It is in this spirit that I offer my own Literary Writing Contest Guidelines. I myself am not sponsoring a literary writing contest (oh heavens no), but it’s fun to assemble those hoops. So I offer this template for any individuals or organizations eager to discover desperate, unpublished writers while garnering a little prestige for themselves, but unsure how to go about it.

____________________________________________________

CONGRATULATIONS for choosing to participate in the Picky Picky Picky Literary Writing Contest. We are thrilled to offer this opportunity for fabulous prizes to American authors. Unfortunately due to shipping schedules, we are unable to accept submissions from states that begin and end with the same letter, but we look forward to seeing our Ohioan friends’ work in next months Less Picky Picky Picky contest.

Participants may submit in one of 47 categories. Unproperly categorized submissions will be discarded. Once you choose your category number, put it on everything: your pages, your big envelope, your postcard, your SAS #10 envelope, your check, tattoo it on your forehead. Own your category.

Your submission must be 4 pages, no more, no less. Double-spaced. Writers submitting single-spaced copy will be shot. The Synopsis is page one. The outline is page two. The author’s bio is page three. The table of contents should take up at least half of page four. Of course that means only a half-page is left for your story, but for our expert judges, 125 words is more than enough.

All submissions must be received by Feb. 29, 2013. Submissions mailed after that date will only be accepted through the Space-Time Continuum and received on Feb. 29, 2013. We will not sign for submissions. REPEAT, we will not sign for submission. We are busy people and have no time to sign for submissions. Teach your envelopes to be self-reliant.

Questions? Comments? We do not welcome them. Sink or swim — that’s the literary world today.

Sincerely,

Picky Picky Picky Literary Writing Contest Luminaries

Short Play Project

When I'm not working on my recession memoir and having tiny anxiety attacks about it, I'm pondering a submission to 3Girls Theatre here in the Bay Area. The theater is soliciting plays by Bay Area women about family dysfunction over the holidays. They'll pick one to be a part of their Holiday Showcase in December.

So I'm developing a script for it. That sounds impressive, but what it really means is "I scribbled some ideas on the back of a hotel room receipt in Eugene, Ore." But I like writing 10-minute plays — it's a lot of fun — so I'll try to have something ready by the end of August.

Pretty Nervous Writing Aardvarks speak out!

When we last left our intrepid contestant, she was following a bunch of goddam picky guidelines to enter the PNWA contest. Reducing an 80,000-word manuscript to a 5-page synopsis was a real trip, and I considered just mailing the thing off a major accomplishment.

Which was a good thing, because "Killer Robots Never Work" didn't make the cut as a finalist. They did, however, send along two long critiques of the synopsis and first 50 pages.

Judge No. 1 was apparently drinking heavily when he/she read my stuff, because No. 1 loved the Killer Robots, thought the writing was wonderful (blush), liked the fake explosion of Aphrodite City and called it an "entertaining, interesting and imaginative story." No. 1 had some good suggestions as well, like cutting detail out of the synopsis and easing into some of the characters and changes so that the reader can keep up. This story is about two twin sisters, and No. 1 felt that while Percy's character and motivation was immediately clear, Andie's needed more work. Grade: 87 out of 100.

Judge No. 2 seemed to like it too. No. 2 liked the synopsis and the plot, really liked the physical descriptions of the first planet, Venus, and said it was a pleasure to read. The judge also said "this is a strong storyline and would be enjoyed by the readers of this genre, especially those who enjoy stories in the style of de Lint and Asmov." (I haven't read either -- perhaps I should.) But No. 2 also wanted to understand my main character, Andie, better and said the dialogue between the twins was stiff. The most interesting criticism was that the pacing was was "a bit boringly the same," with suggestions how to vary it. Despite all the positives, No. 2 graded it 61 out of 100.

So, all in all, I'm pleased with the Pretty Nervous Aardvarks and plan to enter next year. It's always encouraging to know people will take one's weird writing somewhat seriously and not send people to your house with a butterfly net.

Pretty Nervous Writing Aardvarks

Today I'm indulging in time theft at work, putting together my entry to the good folks of the PNWA, the Pretty Nervous Writing Aardvarks. They are a picky picky picky bunch. Next year, they'll want the entries notarized, with an 8X10 glossy and a urine sample.

So I'm banging out a 5-page synopsis of my novel and trying to produce Word documents with the appropriate information in the corners. (But NOT my name. The Aardvarks are very serious about this. Throughout the guidelines they repeat do NOT put your name on your manuscript. Do NOT put your name on your manuscript. Dear God and for the sake of all that is holy, DO NOT PUT YOUR NAME ON YOUR MANUSCRIPT. Now I'm scared to death.)

I'm also flirting with disaster since the packets must be received by Feb. 19 and because of President's Day I can't mail the thing until Tuesday. And so my literary ambitions are at the mercy of the U.S. Postal Service, which hopefully won't take more than four days to send a big envelope to Washington state.

The Killer Contest Robot

The Killer Contest Robot has rolled into the room and will only be appeased by a double-spaced contest submission. Thankfully, I have a contest to enter, thanks to Fog City Writer.

Now $50 seems like a hefty chunk of change, but somebody has to keep the Pacific Northwest Writers Association in whiskey and toner cartridges. Every entry receives two critiques, probably a nice "Thank you for playing but killer robots creep us out" note. If you win, you get to wear a ribbon at their conference in Seattle. Woweee.

This contest accepts entries in a dozen categories, including short memoir. I probably won't finish it in time for this contest, but I'm thinking of writing a short memoir of our move to San Francisco. Memoirs seem to be hot these days, the more traumatic the better. Not to minimize anybody's bone-deep suffering or anything, but I'm still having flashbacks to that frantic day we left our house in Michigan. Shiver.