Oct 162014

Picture by Joanne Hoggart
Artist: Joanne Hoggart

Flash fiction’ competition

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.

I want to achieve what Tracey Emin has achieved in her latest exhibition of herself in all her nakedness.

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.
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