5 Things I Liked About Competing in a Short-Story Writing Battle

A single-elimination tournament with 64 spots, pitting competitors head-to-head in order to declare one winner. Yes, this describes March Madness, which kicks off this week, but it also fits the Writing Battle short-story competition I recently entered. I didn’t end up doing the literary equivalent of cutting down the nets, but I really did enjoy the experience.

It started in January when I mentioned to a friend that one of my goals for the new year was to write more, and she pointed me in the direction of Writing Battle, which dubs itself a “peer-powered short story competition where everyone receives oodles of feedback.”

The basic gist: The event kicks off with all entrants receiving three random prompts—you have a time limit (3 days, in this case) to submit a story that incorporates the prompts and fits in the word count (1,000 words, in this case)—every few days, each entrant gets sent two stories to read, write feedback, and pick a winner—this happens several times until some stories make the single-elimination final bracket, where other judges vote on them until there are final winners who get a cash prize.

Let me tell you, it was a roller coaster.

Here are 5 things that I liked about it that I wanted to share with you:

1. The motivation

Sitting down and wanting to write and staring at a blank page and saying, “OK, so what do I write about?” is SO ANNOYING. The simple act of paying 15 bucks to get some prompts, a deadline, and the promise of feedback solved that instantaneously. With constraints to work within it was much easier to brainstorm and commit to something, anything, in order to beat the clock.

My genre prompt was “False Utopia,” my character prompt was “Executioner,” and my object prompts was “Violin.” I dreamt up an idea about a person being invited to the symphony by their boss, but in this society watching the symphony is like going to watch gladiators at the Roman Coliseum, and the tone would be like “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson. In a million years I don’t think I would have put all of that together without the specific conditions created by this battle.

Rick Rubin writes about prioritizing action and progress in his excellent book The Creative Act: A Way of Being, saying, “Beginning a work, completing a work, and sharing a work—these are key moments where many of us become stuck … We tend to think that what we’re making is the most important thing in our lives and that it’s going to define us for all eternity. Consider moving forward with the more accurate point of view that it’s a small work, a beginning. The mission is to complete the project so you can move on to the next. That next one is a stepping-stone to the following work. And so it continues in productive rhythm for the entirety of your creative life.”

2. The process of getting to the finals

When I first entered I believed I was only doing it for the motivation to start writing and the promise of getting feedback on my writing so that I could improve. Once I wrote the story I thought, “Hey, that’s not bad, I’m proud of that!” I was completely happy.

Then I got to the part where I read other people’s stories and gave feedback, and I tried very hard to be encouraging and specific in my feedback in the way that I imagined I’d want them to read my story, and that was so much fun, and I was completely happy.

Then I found out that I made the finals, and learned that in three days I’d find out how far I advanced and whether I won, and also I’d get to read all of the feedback that people wrote about my story, and I started to change my expectations and think about what it would be like to win, and I wasn’t completely happy because now I wanted to win.

It was fascinating to be able to watch my expectations change and how my feelings changed along with them, expectations creating suffering like the second truth of Buddhism playing out in real time. But there was also still the chance that I would win and those expectations would be met …

3. The feeling of losing

I don’t know if I was a 1-seed or a 16-seed in the 64-story bracket, but whatever the case I lost in the first round, and at first this bummed me out. Once winning became a possibility my ego got involved, and so it got stung. Also, as Kelly astutely pointed out, I was looking for a nice, easy way out of uncertainty—if I won on my first try, then obviously I would have found my next clear career path of dominating short-story competitions across the globe, or something.

Winning or losing is a simple binary way to see success and failure, but equating winning to success and losing to failure is far too limiting a worldview for me. Me, I’m with Giannis:

That being said, losing still hurt! The good news is that at the same time I learned I had lost, I also received all of the feedback on my story, so after I finished taking an hour or two to feel that sadness, I cleared my head and moved on to see what people had to say.

4. The feedback

People were so nice!! They took time to read my story, think about it, and write compliments, potential areas for improvement, motivational comments, and edits that were insightful, challenging, and uplifting, and frankly there was nothing in it for them except that we all agreed to do the same thing for each other. That communal process was inspirational, and it stemmed the tide of my negativity.

I mean, check out some of the cool things people said!

• This gripping and gruesome story is well set up, effectively paced, and packs a chilling punch at the end.

• The idea of bringing barbarism to an elegant art like orchestral music is such a good idea for a story. So sinister!

• Wow! What a metaphor for the ethical sacrifices those who wish to ascend to ladder to success must make! I loved your treatment of the genre and the empathy for an aspiring youthful neophyte. Such a deliciously vicious story! Also, you sure know your way around music.

I’m going to be honest, I don’t know how often I’ve been described as “gruesome,” “chilling,” “sinister,” and “deliciously vicious,” but it was kind of cool that my writing can be.

I understand being afraid to put yourself out there because to invite judgment and criticism might hurt, but I also believe that getting an idea into the world and outside of your own head to a place where it can benefit from other people’s thinking is a fantastic way to improve 1) the thing itself, and 2) your own future thinking. I put myself out there, took some punches, and came out better for it all thanks to the perspective of these people, and I am very grateful.

5. The story I wrote

Here’s the thing I wrote. Like me, it’s got some room for improvement, and it’s a bit weird in parts, but I’m happy with it, and I wanted to share it with you.

The Symphony

by Jed Heneberry

“I think it’s time you joined me at the Symphony,” his boss said. “Meet me outside the concert hall at 8.” 

Leaving nothing to chance, he spent the afternoon researching classical music before arriving at 7:30. As he watched the crowd arrive, recognizing many notable citizens, the magnitude of the invitation began to dawn on him. He hadn’t always been part of the society he now found himself ascending—until that point he didn’t even know the city had an orchestra—but after years of working tirelessly to please his teachers and superiors, he felt ready to solidify his newly acquired standing. 

In addition to the many luminaries were some guests he wouldn’t have expected at an old-fashioned concert like this. As he eyed one such attendee, a hulking man in a black garment, his boss turned the corner and gave an imperceptible nod. “It is good you are here,” his boss said. “Time to take your next step, I think. Are you ready?” The boss was uncommonly tall, formidable, and used to others’ agreement. “I’m ready,” he answered. 

They entered the lobby and walked through the biometric scanners. “You’re cleared,” said the guard. “Enjoy the Symphony.” He followed his boss toward the leftmost of three tunnels leading into the grand hall. The tunnel stretched for longer than he expected—halfway through it was pitch black before his eyes adjusted and the hall came into view. It, too, was larger than he had anticipated, seating at least two thousand, and the seats were full. Soothing, shifting colors of electronic light bathed the interior. A large circle of glass cut into the ceiling afforded a clear view of the night sky. The walls were polished monoliths of black and grey. After some time assessing his surroundings, two things kept his attention: The crowd was buzzing, and unlike every other building he’d ever been in, this one had no cameras.

“We will hear Stravinksy’s Rite of Spring,” said his boss. “One of my favorites.” As they sat, the stage doors opened and the orchestra filed in, the musicians dressed in matching white garments. He recognized some of their instruments as cousins to the fiddles and drums he once heard in childhood, but most were unknown to him. Suddenly, the right side of the hall burst into a frenzy of applause that spread as the conductor made her way to the stage. She wore an extravagant garment, a red jacket with tails, red pants, impossibly tall black shoes, and a piece of black cloth tied intricately around her neck. Taking her place at center stage, she basked in the resounding cheers. His boss, preternaturally calm in all settings, was screaming, fist pumping in the air, eyes wild. “When in Rome,” he thought, and clapped louder.

With a bow, the conductor turned toward the orchestra. She raised her hands, stilling the crowd, and the Symphony began. Its first sounds were strident and discordant, like a rusted machine rumbling back to life. He couldn’t remember hearing music performed since the village, which meant it had been twenty years or more. It was thrilling to behold. Here, in the heart of the city, were gathered its favored sons and daughters to experience a wondrous ceremony that had been sacrificed somewhere in time on the path to progress, yet still contained the power to enthrall, beguile, and awe. He was swept up.

As the first movement resolved and the next began, the orchestra displayed its full might, thrumming rhythmically, staccato, awakening the crowd’s full furor. At its head the conductor, convulsing like a woman possessed, commanded the musical beast to go where she willed it, which was louder, faster, bigger, bigger, bigger until the audience began stomping along to the driving rhythm. It took his breath away. The stomping grew, and the conductor flashed an impish grin at the mob, then pushed the tempo even faster, impossibly fast. Sweat poured off the musicians as they played with ferocity and totality of focus. Then, there was a new sound—a snap—and the engine ground to a halt. The first violin, in the frenzy, had broken a string.

For a moment all sound ceased. No one breathed. It was his boss’s guttural roar that broke the silence, and soon there was a chorus of hundreds. The hall was on its feet, clamorous. He stood to join them and spied the hulking man walking down the aisle toward the stage. The man wore a hood now, and dragged something long and heavy down the aisle. Onstage the conductor was delighting in the crowd’s riotous glee while the violinist sat motionless, head in hands. As the giant ascended the stage, the large object came into view—an executioner’s axe.

The conductor directed the hooded man to her own stand, and indicated the violinist should be brought there as well. “Is this really happening?” he asked his boss. “I can’t be a part of this.” He turned, but felt a tight grip on his shoulder. “Do what you must,” his boss said. “But leave, and you needn’t bother coming in tomorrow.” He froze, unable to run, but incapable of looking. “You’re smart,” his boss went on. “I have big plans for you, but I have to trust you. That’s why we are all here.” His boss made a sweeping gesture, taking in the mad scene around the hall. “We are all bonded by this night.” 

He was horrified. He desperately wanted to reach the echelons of society that had been closed to him his entire life, but that was before he knew this cost. “Now,” his boss said coldly, “I suggest you enjoy the show.” Looking back to the tunnel he saw frothing masses between him and his escape. On stage he saw the executioner patiently raise the axe. Then he stared at the violinist, and for a second their eyes met, and his heart was filled with a shame he knew would never, ever fade.

Thanks for reading! Share any thoughts at jed@kindandfunny.com.