It's Awards Season

I've made some boneheaded and costly moves in my efforts to market my novel. Desperation will do that. At least with my book review scammer, I was able to recoup my money. Not so with the writing competitions I entered.

What led me down this path escapes my memory. I might have seen an article telling authors to enter contests, or a specific competition was highlighted somewhere online. And again, because my talent is "special", I thought, why not? 

I pity the poor people who were tasked with reading my entry. I bet they're volunteers, too, so their agony wasn't even monetarily rewarded. They probably have a nice anecdote to laugh with their friends about, though, and it's always a plus to be an entertaining party guest. More invitations!

"Get this: the author rambled on for pages and pages about some hick town and her never-ending insecurities, until I wanted to commit hara-kiri. And all the characters did was talk-talk-talk. Exhausting. Thumbing through it was the worst five minutes of my life." 

"Ha ha ha ha! Another glass of chablis?"

"Obviously, one must be a gauche American to enjoy this twaddle."

For whatever reason, the majority of these competitions are UK-based. I'm not saying the British can't appreciate American culture, mainly as low-brow entertainment, but for "serious" prizes, well, come on. As a long-time country music fan, I've dealt with disdain for decades. You get used to it.

Plus, my book's title didn't help. Take a look at these shortlisted titles from the Rubery Book Award. All titles must be metaphors! You shan't know what you're going to read until you read it! I wonder if there's a class one can take to learn how to devise a cryptic title. I bet all the shortlisted novels are literary fiction. Prove me wrong.

My book isn't for everyone...or apparently anyone. It starts slow; a reader can't latch onto the hook immediately. It spells "honour" as "honor". (Okay, I don't think that word is in my manuscript. It might be; can't remember.)

I've only got seven more competitions to go. Really? Seven? Good God; I'm an idiot. Unless the outfit emails me to say the results are in, I'm not going to bother to check.

I have to laugh at my silly moves. It's either laugh or cry as I scan my bank statement.

Ahh, I guess I'm only in the game for the chuckles.