Alan Marshall Short Story competition

I arrived home tonight to two letters in my mailbox, one a letter from one of my credit card companies with a terse reminder that my card payment is overdue, the other an envelope with the Shire of Nillumbik logo on it. I looked, looked twice, looked again. Oh no, this was it -- my first short story competition attempt, it's fate held within a business sized cream envelope.

I imagined winning. I imagined being shortlisted. I imagined recieving a commendation, some words of praise, of encouragement, of success. Such is the support I receive from Emily, the flattering feedback from Suzi, the general comments given to me on the critique group that read Iris before I submitted her, that I could hardly imagine not being recognised in some way. Yet, despite my false confidence, any form of recognition seemed too good to be true.

The letter, two pages (double sided), advised the results, the judges report, the list of stories and authors who had so impressed the judge that she wrote glowing words of encouragement. Judging was difficult, Cate admitted, the quality of entries was exceptionally high. Over 600 short stories were received. She was given a short-list and of those she laboured for weeks to choose the winning entries.

Mine was not among them. Iris, I quickly learned, had failed to impress.

Surprise came first, then disappointment, then a brief flush of shame for having thought she had a chance. I have such a rich source of encouragement in Emily that my confidence in my writing has outstripped the reality that I'm just another person with big dreams and some talent... but not enough to win, not enough to receive a commendation, probably not even enough to have made it into the shortlisted pile for Cate to read. But, you know what, despite how much I really wanted some recognition from some faceless stranger whose work I've never read, I'm relieved the wait is over. I'm relieved that I know.

I think nothing less of Iris. I think nothing less of my writing. I think nothing less of my dreams, of my future, of the certainty that one day I will have my moment in the light, just as Emily will have hers. Our boys, our characters, they matter.

I long to read these winning entries. I know they will entrance me just as they entranced Cate. If Iris was better than the winners, then she would have won. She did not, but that does not devalue her, or me. There's room for us all. And, even if there isn't, even if my writing is seen only by Emily, by my friends and a few people on a critique group, the fact remains -- I write because I have to. Just as a painter paints, an artist creates, a writer writes... this is my duty, it is my life.

To the winners of the Nillumbik 'Alan Marshall short story competition', I tip my hat to you and am proud that my little story was judged along-side yours.