Contest...

I began writing for this erotic fiction contest a week before it was due. Part of me wished I had given myself more time to mull over it but another part was content with the short chunk of time I had to get this turned in. Three times I ran into the advertisement for this erotic fiction contest benefiting the Chicago Women’s Health Center and felt that I would regret it if I didn’t give this thing a shot.
I emailed Poppy, the woman running it and asked 1.5 million questions. All work had to be submitted by April 16 and the contest was April 21. The criteria was this had to be no more than two pages long, and she’d be screening for degradation and violence but otherwise anything would go. Someone else would be reading my work if that was ok, and there was a small entry fee that would be donated to CWHC. There would also be a raffle and dancing later in the evening.
Pen in hand, paper ready, I began one afternoon at Barnes and Noble while in between clients. Well, I tried to begin but how does one begin something like this? How do I quickly develop a story to suck the reader in, but hurry to the juicy parts then wrap it up all in a pretty package within the confines of two pages?
I stare out the window, my cinnamon tea wafting into my nostrils. As usual my brain starts to meander…
“You should publish this stuff!” Rob exclaimed one afternoon after reading a sexy note I wrote him.
“Nope.” I replied. “That isn’t meant to be shared with anyone.”
“Seriously. You set the right mood, your grammar is good…you need to do something with this.” he continued.
I shake my head smiling.
My phone rings pulling me back to reality. It’s the salon.
“Hey Melissa, are you close by?” Georgette’s voice asks.
“Yup.” I stare at my still blank page.
“Ok, I have a walk in for you.”
“I’ll be right over.”
We get off the phone and I head back, secretly relieved but also secretly annoyed because I want more time to dream something up.
I do a haircut and walk back over to Barnes and Noble. I gingerly make my way upstairs and to the Sex/Relationships section and pick up a copy of Penthouse Uncensored giggling to myself that I’m needing this to get my head in the place it needs to be to start writing.
I flip through the pages, scanning the stories and walk back downstairs to write something. I have two hours before my next client. It’s spring break for Chicago Public Schools and things are quiet at work allowing me this precious time to do other work. Again I’m faced with a pen and a blank page. “Just write!” I tell myself. Write and find out where it goes. I do. I write and write and then abruptly stop. I’m stuck. I don’t like it. I take a walk abandoning it for the day.
The next day is much of the same. I’m staring at the page willing something else to happen. I begin again and again, I’m not happy with it, getting stuck once more.
“Tell your story.” my cousin said to me when I explained my difficulty in coming up with what to say at Rob’s funeral. Hmm. What is my story? What do I want to tell? How do I want to convey it? I sigh and begin again.
This time I don’t stop. My handwriting is sloppy and scrawling but words, thoughts, and actions, are pouring out of me until I realize what’s happening and then I stop. I’m suddenly freaked out that it’s happening. I’m writing something I actually like. What I asked for is showing up on the page. I’m actually accepting that I can write a rough draft. I can do something utterly messy and it’s ok. I always want to edit as I go, never allowing anything to simply happen before analyzing it.
I sit back and breathe, giggle and decide to take a break. I head back to work. I need two things on top of finishing the actual piece. I need someone to edit it and I need to adjust my schedule so I can be there on time. I want to ask my receptionist co-worker LaRae to do both. I do not however, want to actually ask. I want to forget the whole thing.
“LaRae, may I ask a favor of you?” I find myself asking her before chickening out.
“Of course.”
“How are you at grammatical editing?”
“I’m good.” she nods.
I go on to explain what I’m doing and she agrees to help and is all sorts of excited. When I ask for the schedule adjustment, she makes it and it’s set! Sooo…I have to finish this. Yup. Sure do. I tell her I’ll have the piece ready by the weekend. I say this more for myself to continue to hold myself accountable more than anything.
The next day I finish it. I type it up and send it to her, relieved that it’s out of my hands for now.
She returns a couple of days later with the revisions. We come up with some compromises on certain words, and sentences, before she agrees to make the corrections again, and then I’ll be set.
On the due date, Saturday April 16, the final copy lands in my Inbox from LaRae and I forward it to Poppy. Whew! Done and done! I happily get on with the rest of my work day after sending a squealing text to Jeff that my work had been submitted. This is actually happening…!
I woke up on the 21st feeling excited, anxious and nervous about the day and evening ahead. I got ready for work, kissed Jeff goodbye and was out the door feeling my body move faster than was necessary. It’s like I’m trying to get away from myself, from the crazy that fires off in my head and I can’t move fast enough to escape it. It’s all happening in my mind. There is nothing different about today than yesterday and yet I can’t seem to calm down.
At work I try to remain as present as possible and enjoy everyone’s company while battling the self doubt that began to creep in half way through my work day. Two weeks ago I was envisioning that I was going to win this thing. I was thinking happy, sparkly thoughts about my ability to write and suddenly all the sparkle was gone. This hateful part of myself says nasty things telling me that there are plenty of writers out there that are way more talented, smarter, and more experienced than I will ever hope to be. It tells me I have no business entering a contest, or sharing anything because my work isn’t worth sharing. Besides what will people think of me when they see that I wrote about *gasp* …sex.
I do my best to ignore this crap. I’ve lived with hateful, negative self talk all my life and can see it is a twisted form of protection. It used to be available to soften the blow of loss and or criticism should that happen. I’ll hurt myself before anyone has the chance to do it for me. I no longer wish to give in to it. I feel I’ll attract loss and negative energy if I keep it up. I’ll give up if I let it persist and really feel like a failure so I’d rather not go there. It’s easier said than done though.
Work ends and off I go. I take the train back into the city hoping I remember which direction I should take the bus being I didn’t write down any directions, just decided to rely on my memory. (yet another form of self sabotage…evading responsibility by not finding out where the hell I‘m going.) Lost or not I’ve been wanting to try the Whistler for a while now and am excited for the opportunity to do so. It’s a tiny, dark, intimate bar with expertly made cocktails in Logan Square. Jeff sends a text saying that he and his cousin Nick will be on their way soon. Yay! I’m ecstatic to see them both.
I alternate between staring out the window on the train watching the trees, cars and streets pass by and closing my eyes taking a tiny nap to relax. I decide no matter what happens I am thrilled that I tried this. Negative self talk or not, I did something. Even if I fall on my face, I tried, knowing I gave this my best effort and I feel truly proud of what I wrote.
“This is Fullerton.” the train voice announces jolting me awake. I stand and exit the train, walking down the stairs to get on the bus. I find the correct one and wait. Jeff and Nick are downtown and I wonder if I’ll get there first.
My heart begins to pound when I begin to recognize where I am after being on the Fullerton bus for about fifteen minutes. As I get off the bus, a few stops later and begin walking, a familiar feeling washes over me. It’s a healthy dose of fear combined with excitement that I used to feel every time I was about to dive into the pool from the block at a swim meet in high school, and every time I lined up with other runners during a track meet before tearing down the lane fearing my heart just might explode. This is the kind of fear that I feel when I’m in so deep there is no turning back. I had to dive into the pool, had to run like I was running for my life or otherwise risk embarrassment and disappointment. I have to walk through this door. Better to try and fail than to not try at all right?
I pull open the door of the bar and step inside, a fresh wave of doubt rushing in and flooding my body. “They’re going to make fun of you.” it begins. “Why did you even try? Look at these people, how creative and stylish they are. Who do you think you are? You look ridiculous. You don’t fit. You don’t belong here.”
“Where are you right now?” I ask this self doubt and am struck by a memory of being in A.P. English my senior year of high school. We had to anonymously analyze some short story or essay, exchange papers and read them a loud. Analyzing was the hardest thing in the world for me. I didn’t understand it and wanted to so badly. I wrote as well as I could and felt ok about it until this guy read it aloud and proceeded to rip it to shreds. That was my last experience with having my work read aloud.
“What’s real?” I ask this part. Silence. Here and now is real. I tell it. Here and now I am twenty nine, not eighteen. I wrote a story, I didn’t analyze one. No one is shunning me. People are smiling at me. I’m not the only one who has submitted something. I am not as alone as I feel.
I meander around the crowded bar, wanting a place to be, wanting the attention of the bartender, wanting to be annihilated so I can shut out the crazy in my head. I remind myself though that I won’t enjoy anything if I take in too much alcohol. There is no running from my head. I can choose to listen or not but alcohol only drowns it temporarily. Besides, I want to be fully present while my story is begin read.
I chat with a pretty girl with long pearls wrapped around her neck before getting a drink menu and ordering. Jeff and Nick walk in, and I feel a wave of relief wash over me.
The three of us, drinks in hand talk a little about our day, and about the contest. I’m glancing around looking for Poppy even though I’ve never seen this woman before. I need to give her my entry fee. I’m also toying with the idea of reading something should she need more volunteers.
“I think that’s her.” I say to Jeff, nodding in this dark haired woman’s direction. She’s holding a clipboard and looking awfully busy.
“Just ask.” he says.
“I know! I’m feeling so shy though.” I sigh. “Will you hold this please?” I hand him my drink before walking over to the woman asking if she is indeed, Poppy.
“Yes!” she beams.
I introduce myself, hand over my fee and she asks if I want to read something.
“Sure.” The words escape me.
“Ok, so, I have this piece that is kind of a fantasy…is that ok?”
It’s just words right? I can read…right?
“Yup!”
“Great! Thank you so much!” she hands me the piece and I join Jeff and Nick again.
Minutes later another woman with short curly dark hair is on the dimly lit stage announcing that the evening is beginning and she will read the first story. I’m relieved to be able to observe, to not be first. Poppy reads another story before they draw raffle tickets.
The announcer gets back on stage announcing that the next story is titled “The Picnic” and she invites the woman reading it to come up to the stage. My heart jumps and pounds wildly.
“That’s my story!” I whisper excitedly to Jeff and Nick, moving to stand closer to Jeff wanting to feel protected…just incase.
The room is quiet all the sudden as the words I carefully put together tumble out of this woman’s maroon colored lips. I soak in her voice, the image of her, the whole experience of what is unfolding before me. I feel my cheeks blush as she gets to the juicy bits and notice that every ounce of my being is brimming with gratitude for this woman.
When she finishes applause erupts and the announcer walks back on to the stage saying “Whew! I didn’t want that one to end!” I felt at that moment, no matter what else happened, I had succeeded.
Jeff and Nick were full of kind words and I felt my shyness melt away. That is, until I had to read…
When it was my turn to stand up in front of everyone and read the piece I didn’t actually review before this moment, the crazy in my head started talking again reminding me that I’m ill prepared, I won’t speak loudly enough or confidently enough because I am intimidated by this device, this microphone that will amplify my voice. I look out at the crowd and see a sea of human beings but Jeff and Nick’s faces are the only two that are actually clear to me. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I don’t have to speed through this as I begin. Three sentences in, I began to stumble. There were words I had never before uttered in my life residing on this page. I had trouble getting through the dialogue being it wasn’t separated from the paragraphs. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest. I was one page in when I wanted to stop and turn around. Again, I remembered swim meets and how I had to get through it no matter what. Sometimes I kicked some ass, other times I got my ass kicked. Either way, I finished.
“Oh. My. God.” I whispered to Jeff once I was wrapped up in his arms.
“That was a hard one.” he whispers back.
We all have another drink as the reading continues. Everyone is thoroughly grossed out and simultaneously entertained by a story oddly enough titled “Picnic” including Velveeta cheese, a deer and bacon grease. Watching the guy squirm while reading it was just as entertaining as the words.
The last story was also entertaining. It was an office setting and included words like “love stick” and “honey pot”. The woman reading it had a boisterous, animated voice and seemed like a lot of fun.
Minutes later, the tallies were up and the winners were announced. The “other” Picnic took first place. Oh my. Beat by processed cheese and a deer. Jeff, Nick and I stare at each other for a moment before my ears take in Nick’s kind words and my body accepts Jeff’s warm hug.
I still feel giddy in the best way. Winning or not I am so grateful for the experience, for trying, and seeing that my efforts were still met with love, kindness, and acceptance.