Disappointment

So Severe Discomfort is not The Guardian's 'self-published book of the month' for October.

I had high hopes when I spotted this competition - but I have high hopes whenever I enter a competition or send a submission off to a prospective agent or publisher.  Victory or acceptance is certain and as a result, my work will reach the audience it deserves.  Books will sell in serious numbers.  Funds will be raised that do more than buy biscuits.  Public opinion will shift.  The Daily Mail's sales will slump.  The minds of politicians will be changed.  Policies will be rewritten...   

However, within minutes of dropping the envelope into the box or pressing send, I am convinced that I haven't a hope in hell of getting out of the slush piles, let alone winning the prize or contract.  It's all a waste of time.  I've pitched it wrong - and to the wrong people.  It starts too slowly.  The characters are too ordinary.  It's not literary enough.  Its chronological format is too conventional.

- It's not very good...

- But 'Occupy London' gave it a great review, and so did those people on Amazon and Goodreads, and only a couple of them are my friends.

- You don't have any friends...

This Gollumesque monolgue persists until an outcome is known.  The lingering hope is torture until the result is published.  The deadline passes without contact. The rejection letter or email arrives.  It's simultaneously a disappointment and a release.

This time it was worse than usual as, having entered the competition in August I assumed it would be September's result I needed to watch.  As the first Tuesday approached and there was no contact, hope faded.  A worthy winner was named.  Then I looked more closely and found September's result was the judgment on July's entries.  Hope was cruelly rekindled for another month - only to be snuffed out again. 

And I really was optimistic this time.  Previous winners of the Guardian's monthly contest have been a pretty ecclectic selection and, although it ought to be a measure of literary merit, you do half-hope that a progressive paper might take pity on your political agenda if not your prose.  Imagination conjures up a scene in which an earnest junior reviewer pleads your cause, even as the Chancellor is on his feet at the Conservative conference being cheered for slashing in-and-out of work benefits alike.  But if there was (and it's conforting to think there might have been), he or she hasn't prevailed.

Never mind, eh?  It may have made very little difference to the book's prospects.  After all, I had to search surprisingly hard for this month's result as the story doesn't even figure on the 'books' page of their 'culture' section today.  If I had been the winner (Mark Capell with Cafe Insomnia - good luck, old chap!) I would have felt more than a little short-changed at that. 

Anyway, I'll keep trying.  I am an optimist at heart - didn't I return to benefits advice work in 2013, just as things started to get really nasty?  The prospect of fighting a long defeat does not daunt me.

So let's see - I wonder if the Morning Star run a writing competition?