A meeting of minds

Writing Head wanders onto an empty stage clutching a pen and notepad.   

Improv Head bounds on clutching an imaginary picnic hamper.

Improv Head: Hi. Fantastic day for a picnic in this beautiful park. I’m Mel.

Writing Head: But that's my name, too. 

IH: Wow. That’s awesome, isn’t it?

WH: No. It’s terrible.

IH: You're blocking me.

WH: Yes, but it’s far too much of a coincidence.

IH: It worked for Shakespeare.

WH: Yes, but he gave his identical characters different names. It’ll be confusing   

having identical Mels.

IH: Hey. Enough of the ‘yes but’ crap. Audiences love this kind of stuff.

WH: Audiences? (Starts trembling and turns to stare out into the darkened theatre).

IH: Nice emotional response, Mel.  Now, what don’t you like about audiences?

WH: They give me a funny feeling in my stomach.

IH: Name it.

WH: A sort of swirly, churny sensation.

IH: Name it.

WH: I’m terrified.

IH: Great. Now let’s raise the emotional stakes.

WH: I mean what if my characters aren’t believable?

IH: Good. Keep escalating.

WH: Or the point of view is all wrong?

IH: Don’t back away.

WH: Or they find my style derivative and clichéd?

IH: You're killing me. I’m looking for a last line.

WH: WHAT IF THEY HATE WHAT I’VE WRITTEN?

IH: And, "scene"! (Exits).

WH starts scribbling on her notepad

IH: (Returns to the stage) What are you doing?

WH: I’m writing that down. 

IH: You can’t do that. I called "scene". It's finished.

WH: Yes, and it’s just what I’ve been looking for.

IH: Yes, but the whole point of making up this stuff is its in the moment-ness.

WH: ‘In the moment-ness’?

IH: Okay, okay. So you’re the writer. 

WH: (Continues to write in notepad.) ‘In the moment-ness.’ (Laughs to herself).

IH: (Tries to grab the notepad). Hey, you can't just steal that line. 

I mean, if I knew you were going to write it down, I'd have thought about it a bit more.

WH: Yes, but I love it.

IH: Yes, AND I love it.

WH: Oh, shut up with all the 'yes, and' stuff. You're doing my head in.

IH: Is that your last line?

WH: I'm going to brain you in a minute.

IH: Or is that it? You know, I think I preferred the last one..

Improv Head and Writing Head exit still bickering.

Competing concerns

The smell of your own curdling sweat as the deadline approaches. The roar of the crowd in your sleep-deprived head as you press send.

They're cheap(ish). They're plentiful. They lift you out of the dark cave where you toil - unseen, unheard, unhinged - into a world of glitter and shiny things. What's not to like about writing competitions?
 
There's the months of yo-yoing emotions.

The phone rings and it's the Big Name Judge wanting to congratulate you personally on your knockout story - and, by the way, do you fancy a coffee sometime?

The phone doesn't ring and it's because your story is
a) lost in cyber space
or
b) languishing next to the shredder in the pile of The Damned.

There's the bridled joy of hearing that really lovely people you cannot avoid have had the success that could have been yours, if only you didn't know so many darn writers. Because that's how it works. Seriously. It's a cosmic thing. Research has shown misanthropes increase their chances of success a hundred fold.

And then, once in a millennium, it's your turn and writing competitions are irrefutable proof of your place in the writing world. 'I am shortlisted, therefore I am.'

Of course, it's never enough. Even if you win, you won't be able to stop thinking about all the stories that are prettier than yours; the ones that will get bigger and better prizes.

But when the dust has settled, you''ll be back. Like the dog who knows he'll get a rap on the snout when he snaffles that untended sandwich. You just can't help yourself.