I will have a go at this. Big prize money. Might be lower odds than the poetry competitions. Not that there’s much difference, anyway, between a piece of short fiction and a prose poem ( – is there?).
They’ve set a limit of five hundred words. Tell a whole story within that constraint.
Dougal and his ageing curmudgeonly fellow-artists love to slag her off as being unable to draw. She herself proclaims that she can’t draw, but I think these blunt, raw gouache paint-drawings – and the sculptures – are primitively, sophisticatedly, elegantly, vulgarly, confidently amazing.
Her true purpose is to communicate passion, says her Guardian reviewer (albeit a tad sycophantically). Her works share epiphanies of love and loneliness…
Hey – that’s me! What I write about! Me! My life…
The point is, it’s everybody’s life, isn’t it.
Tell me it’s not your life.
For the competition I will retell my story – everybody‘s story – of love, of loneliness. Make them laugh and cry. Reach a dramatic crescendo. Then a grand finale.
Above all, win some dosh.
to subscribe leave your email address