Here’s a link to the award-winning story https://alpinefellowship.com/campfire-meditations-by-mary-murray-brown and some thoughts about the winning.
F. Scott Fitzgerald boasts 122 rejection slips. Despite not counting, I know I’m nearing this number. Earlier this year, I sent my novel to nearly one hundred agents and have heard only unfortunatelys and good lucks. Nor am I really expecting anything, or thinking myself deserving of it merely for the effort. (Nor do I presume to be F. Scott Fitzgerald!) The fun is in the process. Writing is being, thinking, healing. Better out than in.
So it was to huge surprise bordering on terror that I received the following email about a short story I had almost all but forgotten.
I went about opening and closing the email, checking if it were real, mouthing out the words to myself. Congratulations. Winner. 1,800 entries. Five minutes were left of detention duty, the students present in body but not mind or spirit. I dismissed them early, half-pretending I had misread the clock. They scattered, barely able to swallow their smiles, and leaving me to freely weep. After the weeping was done, I called Rubén. I'm so happy for you! I'm crying too! He said. Remember the desk? He's referring to the writing desk, bought second hand, which we carried across the Barcelona barrios to my little flat (into which a year later, he moved in). You'll write your masterpiece on this, he had said. A lot started on that day.
Next I was consigned to two hours of debate club. This time it was me who was present in body but not mind or spirit. My wonderful girls argued the merits of violent versus non-violent protesting and my feedback was pitiful, my judging haphazard. My mind was whirling. Was this an error? A mistaken email address? A prank? A phishing scam? (still not sure what those are). How long would this take to sink in?
It's yours, my husband says. You won it. We celebrate with cañas later that night with my favourite cheeses cut into triangles. I suck on an olive. But the date of the symposium. It’s a few days before our wedding. I’ll miss the hen. My sister will kill me! He shakes his head. You must go. I won’t marry you unless you go. He jokes.
The same story would also be shortlisted in the Bath Short Story Award and later to win second place in the Chipping Norton Short Story award. From those I merrily withdrew, the place going to an equally if not more deserving writer.
A few months after receiving the email, and the shock has gone. That time, it was my turn, my moment. It won’t be mine many other times, so I might as well enjoy it. I’ll post more about the symposium once I’ve managed to digest it all. For now, it’s still something I happily remember, but not with the same fondness that I recall our wedding day, so magically perfect, or my niece telling me she loves my dog. It’s just a prize. There are so many. And hundreds of those entries could have won. Am I changed? No. Do I still doubt my ability to write? Yes. Will I keep writing? Yes.
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