There was a writing competition at my college at the beginning of this month. I wasn't expecting to place first, but I was hoping to at least place somewhere. Even Honorable Mention would've been cool, but I just got the e-mail telling me, "...yeah, so your story sucked," which is always awesome.
My story had nothing to do with horrible things happening to good people, drug abuse, or parents scarring their children in unmentionable ways like so many of the others floating around campus. Every semester that I have taken a creative writing course, everyone submits the same story: Step-dad rapes the daughter, she gets pregnant, gets shoved out of the home, gets hooked on crack, et cetera, et cetera. Or something "profound" about the human condition because "It's different! Dark and edgy!" 'Cept it's not different because everyone writes it. Or tries to, anyway.
My story was completely just for entertainment value, which is probably why it was left behind in the dust. I am not really that bummed that my story didn't win, I didn't expect it to--would've been awesome though!--but I can't shake the feeling that it's just another sign that maybe, it wasn't meant to be; this whole "aspiring to be a novelist" goal. I have more to learn about writing, sure, but when Terry Brooks publishes the first of his Sword of Shannara series when he's 15 and the writing is not much different from my own, I gotta wonder: Is it my stories? Or do my ideas suck the big one?
If I ever get to post some of them on here, I suppose I will finally find out. Yippee.
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