The Worst Sort of People

 

I entered a new world last week, and it was a dark place indeed from which I have yet to emerge. And I must admit to feeling somewhat damaged by the experience. This is what happened…

I’d entered a short story competition, weeks ago; and later I received an email which invited competition entrants to a prize giving evening.

This was excitement enough.

The teenager and I planned to go, and we placed our names on the guest list. We hoped to enjoy hearing the prize winners reading out their inspirational extracts; whilst at the same time jealously sticking pins into blu tac mini effigies of them.

Simple delights!

We’d got it all planned. It was going to be a fun night.

Then I had an email to say that the judges were “highly impressed” with my short story, and “would I be prepared to read an extract out on the night?” They also tantalisingly asked if I’d like to invite any extra guests.

This sent me into a spin. What did this mean? I didn’t dare to hope, but it was hard not to. Before I knew it I’d invited Half the County to join me at the event. Then I further panicked at the thought of reading an extract aloud to them.

Even worse the details about the event hadn’t yet been emailed. I spent a week in a sort of panicky limbo not knowing the exact arrangements. Two days before the event I was still waiting to find out which particular extract they wanted me to read, and the exact timings.

Eventually, I was told to choose an extract of my choice that would take between 3 and 5 minutes to read out.

This was difficulty enough.

I eventually found a section that would last about four minutes, and panicked some more about my voice, as it tends to dry up when I get nervous.

I spent hours practising my piece and then a nerve wracking day with The Teenager and a Dear Friend who trained me further. By this time I was now having trouble with the simple standing up and sitting down part too and having to practice that as well as the extract.

My hands were like ice when we finally arrived at the library for the event.

I discovered I’d been short-listed.

Another Chap was asked to read an extract. Everyone clapped as he rose to his feet. I tried to listen to his story but my brain had shut down, and I couldn’t make any sense of it at all. He was also nervous and shaking as he read. All I could see was his shaking paper.

Then it was my turn. The Acclaimed Author introduced me, and nobody clapped as I rose to my feet. Only when I reached the very front did the Acclaimed Author begin a half-hearted clap, and as I turned to speak there was a slight ripple of reluctant applause.

I knew that my audience were all probably sticking pins in miniature blu tac effigies of me as I read my piece. There is nothing worse than reading to a dispirited crowd, and if that crowd are dispirited writers too, then it’s ten times worse. They were writers, hopefuls like me, hoping to have some reward for all their hard work, and everyone in that audience had just discovered that they had not been lucky enough to get onto the short list. One dispirited writer is bad enough, but there were forty or so of them in that room together with their disgruntled partners, all of whom had had a wasted journey, and who were now having to listen, much against their will, to my sorry extract, when all  of them would far rather have been giving voice to their own.

I was told much later that I added actions to my story; I have no memory of having done so. I sat down to some genuine applause from Half the County, my Dear Friend and The Teenager, absolutely thrilled to have at last shared something I’d written with an audience.

Afterwards, still in a state of shock, my hands and feet still frozen,  I couldn’t take in anything else that was being said. Nor could I take in any of the other stories that were being read out by the two children that followed me.

I didn’t win anything!

The other chap did.

There were four possible prizes 1^st,2^nd,3^rd and a special prize for an entry from the Shire. The other chap won the Shire prize. Not one of the main prize winners was there to receive their prizes.

The Acclaimed Author announced the prize winners, and I didn’t even realise he had.

The Acclaimed Author then read out the winning story, but I couldn’t hear a word.

The Acclaimed Author then spent half an hour telling us all to write.

Boxes of chocolates were given out to the children who’d read out their work.

I didn’t even get one of those.

Half the County, Dear Friend and The Teenager were disappointed, and I felt terribly bad and embarrassed about having dragged them out all on such a cold night.

Later, when the room was nearly empty we were approached by the Acclaimed Author.

‘I was hoping to speak to the Shire entry people,’ he said, not realising he was actually talking to one of them as he looked straight over my shoulder.

There had only been four readers, two of them had been children, and one of them had been the Other Chap to whom he’d already spent an age chatting to. In a room that was practically empty apart from the organisers you’d have thought he would have recognised me as the other person who had stood there next to him reading an extract aloud for four minutes.

Hurt, I walked away from him.

His books were on sale. We picked one up and turned to a page. He’s a fine writer. But hurt would-be writers in a state of shock do not make for good customers. So I didn’t buy one.

Writers are the worst sort of people, it is true, for to my shame  I must admit to taking a modicum of pleasure in the fact that  the Acclaimed Author has read far more of my work than I have read of his.

And I intend to keep it that way!

Forever!