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'.
Author, daydreamer, and practitioner of trying very hard to duct tape folks together and help when I can.