Winner winner chicken dinner

Ok, so I'm a little proud here. Got first place in the Catherine Contest (Toronto RWA). Wahoo! Requested for a full manuscript by the judging editor. Wahoo, wahoo! And now my book goes to the best-of-the-best type of finals. Wahooooooo!

If you've kept up on my neuroses described in these (un)hallowed pages, then you'll understand about my final big wahoo: I finally beat that Hover chick! Before I get all full of myself, let's keep this real: she's schooled my ass on 90% of anything else I've entered and she's won contests I didn't even final in, so it's just my tiny consolation. And yes, as I've mentioned before, she's clearly a really good writer and now I'll probably have to go buy her stuff, and yes, everything points to her being a super nice and well-balanced person, unlike yours truly. 

Really, when it comes down to it, the take home point (one of many) should be: type A achievers probably ought not to be entering contests. I'm no longer a "gunner" per se. (Have I explained what a gunner is? A "gunner" is a big ol' nerd who busts their hump to out-score, out-answer, out-early morning round, out-surgical assist all the other medical school nerds. Why the hell I felt the need to be a gunner is beyond me. I'm in family medicine. Practicing rural medicine. It's not like there are a gazillion of us clamoring to be overworked/overextended, on call every 72 hours of our entire life (sometimes more), and getting paid in canned goods and percocet honey. Oh geez, percocet honey. That's a story that needs to wait for another day, but remind me, I'll get to it.)

Where was I? 

Gunner. Type A. Yup, so I have no expertise in this writing thing. No leg to stand on. No sales. No amazon reviews. Nuttin'. 

Just….wahoo!!