Tuesday, September 29, 2009


I lost a competition this week. The stakes were only bragging rights and my pride.
I still cried.
Not because I am a sore loser, but because it brought to light how subjective an endeavor becoming a published author can be.

Some of the entries were clearly better than mine. The writing was more concise. The plot was more intriguing. The hook stronger. I can accept that.

But one of the entries wasn't ( in my humble opinion) even though it was chose over mine. The language was cliche and repetitive. The plot was thin and the situation entirely predictable.

In short, I didn't like it.

But the judges did.

That is the core of my fear and disappointment. I have manuscripts that I love... truly, truly love. The characters in them are as real to me as friends I have known in the real world. I know how they think. I know how they dress. I know what their homes look like.

How can I sacrifice them for rejection?

How I can trust someone will care for them as much as I do?

How do I take that risk?

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