Writing contests are a thing--a fun thing, but an unpredictable thing. Writing contests aren't something any of us ought to pin our hopes on, but that's no reason to not enter any. This past Sunday I submitted a quintet of pieces to a contest run by a local-ish organization. Sunday was the deadline, of course. Whispering Prairie Press has another contest running that's still open, but that's an issue for another day. I already chucked two short stories and three poems over the metaphorical wall at them on the Ides of March. Those will either work out or they won't.
Whatever the result, there really wasn't a reason for me not to enter: there wasn't an entry fee, and it's not like I have a shortage of scribblings around here. I had to polish them for submission, but that's really just a synonym for finishing them..
Now I wait. I wait for likely rejection . . . but maybe something else.