FLASH!

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to win. I’d be delusional if I said that I expected to. Almost every year, the New Hampshire Writers’ Project hosts its Three Minute Fiction Slam, a friendly competition for New Hampshire writers, who are given three minutes to read a short story in front of a live audience and three judges. First there are regional competitions in different areas of the state. The regional winners go on to compete in the state final at the end of the year.

This was my fourth time competing. My first time, I almost got lost finding the regional site. It was your quintessential dark and stormy night. I was looking for an antique store where the competition was to be held. The side road that my GPS led me to was unlit. The parking lot I drove into was unlit. I saw another car drive into what until then appeared to be an abandoned lot. Fearing I was in some sort of Stephen King movie, I cautiously opened my car door and asked a person getting out of the other vehicle if I was in the right place. Together we stumbled around the parking lot looking for the entrance, the address of which was a road other than that of the parking lot, as the building sat at an angle facing an intersection. When we finally found the place—wet and cold as we were—we were told by the host that we had needed to sign up in advance to compete. Now, I had been on the organization’s website and had not seen any way to sign up. I emailed the organization’s president who told me that I just needed to show up. Contrary to that advice, I was told by the regional coordinator that she maintains an email list and had sent out an email to everyone on the list. Since my fellow traveler and I were not on her email list, we had not gotten her communication. The coordinator grudgingly added us to the list, with me being the last of ten or eleven competitors. The setting was eerie, to say the least. This was some sort of oddball antique store, with a giant head of Elvis (I’m talking about ten feet high) sitting in one corner, a stone statue of St. Anthony pierced with arrows suspended from the ceiling, and a life-sized female mannequin attired in fishnet stockings, leather police gear, and S&M paraphernalia standing next to the podium. And ringing the ceiling was an army of yellow rubber duckies. The three judges were all prolific writers, one the winner of numerous prestigious sci-fi awards, all with local connections. They were fair, generous and insightful in their feedback. The evening wore on, and I was very tired. Several of the stories were quite good, some were very funny, and I was impressed with my local colleagues. The feedback I received was helpful but left me feeling that the judges were lukewarm to my piece. There was a break for the judges to deliberate and, being fatigued and feeling that I had gotten out of the evening what I wanted, I started gathering up my things to head home. At that point, the judges returned, so I sat down, and they announced the third and second place qualifiers. When they got to first place and announced my name, I just broke out in laughter. I took my place beside the S&M mannequin and gratefully accepted the journal I had won.

The next time I competed, I didn’t win, but the feedback from the judges led me to revise my piece and eventually get it published. This time around, I was an old hand at presenting. I didn’t have a piece that I considered really “finished,” but I wanted to participate, and I had only one piece sitting in my computer that fit the definition of flash, so I decided to read that. Although it needed work, the piece was, I thought, engaging, different, and amusing. I arrived early to help set up and schmooze with my fellow writers. I went to the community center where the last competition had been held, to the same room in which it had taken place, and found one other person setting up chairs. We chatted about writing and poker and, after half an hour of nobody else showing up, a man came into the room to inform us that we seemed to be in the wrong place. Fortunately, we didn’t have far to travel, as the meeting was being held in the room just a floor above us.

Having done this before, I wasn’t nervous as I had been the first couple of times, and I read my piece with good pacing, instead of rushing it, pausing for emphasis and allowing the humorous lines to sink in, and making eye contact with the audience. The judges, again, were very accomplished writers, two of whom have regularly judged these competitions. They gave me very positive feedback on my presentation. The content feedback was helpful in understanding how others might experience the piece, but judges, like everyone, have their own points of view. Two of the judges were heavily steeped in the sci-fi and fantasy genres and the other in the murder mystery genre. I’m more of a literary fiction guy, and the nuance of what I was getting at seemed to elude them. Now, to be fair, the judges did not have my written piece in front of them, and, with their experiences in their respective genres, they had developed certain solid practices in crafting good stories. And some of their input made me realize that, even if they were not looking at my piece from a literary fiction perspective and might not have “gotten” my point completely, there might be some ways I could better convey my intent to those who might not think as I do and who might not care to do a careful analysis of my story. So, it was definitely a useful exercise. The gentleman who won presented a wonderfully written, poignant story about mortality, control, choice and gardening. When he was reading his piece, I “knew” he would win, and deservedly so. Listening to the other offerings gave me the privilege of marveling at what someone could create within such a restrictive time span, the way I marvel at art or music that I appreciate. And I had gotten to talk to the winner a bit before the competition, and he was a kind, thoughtful, curious and interesting person, so his story held greater meaning for me for having met him.

We writers work so much in isolation, both when we are actually putting words on the page and when we are with others physically, but mentally in our own heads listening to our characters talk to one another, love each other and break each others’ hearts. The opportunities to present our work are rare, and taking advantage of these opportunities is a precious gift that we can give ourselves.

E.H. Jacobs is the author of the novel, Splintered River, a contemporary literary political drama. His short stories, poetry and creative non-fiction can be seen at: ehjacobsauthor.com.