I’ve been struck by a bolt of literary lightning flung from the gods of science fiction. My injuries are unbridled joy, creeping paranoia, and a sudden case of stage fright.
So as I mentioned two or three weeks back, I’d been named as one of eight finalists for the Writers of the Future competition: top three get money, professional publication, and a trip to Los Angeles for a fantastic workshop.
Here’s the thing: I found out yesterday I came first. Whoa.
So my joy is unbridled for obvious reasons, and I’m paranoid insofar as I assumed all of yesterday it had been a terrible mistake, and they were going to call me and say they’d given the award to someone else, “you know Tim, the person who wrote the good story.” And stage-fright, as large numbers of people I don’t know will now be actually reading one of my stories.
These are all, as they say, good problems. I’m not complaining. I’m pleased and very fortunate. My winning story had accumulated a bunch of form rejections – I’d all but given up on it providing me anything more than a half-dozen more rejections and maybe a token market somewhere, if I was lucky.
But the judges for WotF had different ideas, and as such I’ve scored my first professional sale and a trip to LA early next year. Pleased, to say the least. 