The Go Teen Writers prompt winners are announced today.
I've never gotten up so fast in my life. It helped that I'd left the page open in my browser, so all that kept me away from the news was a tiny little reload button (well, I also had to open the laptop and log in- but that's aside from my point). And what greeted me when I read the list?
Honorable Mention
P.R. GoldenI didn't even get into third place, and I don't care. Because while winning is fine, getting into Honorable Mention out of 82 other writers, while being judged by published authors? I think that's really, really cool.
As usual, I did not get nervous until right before who wins is decided. Try being half asleep, then suddenly remembering the winners for a judged writing contest--that you entered--are going to be announced the next morning. Especially when you are torn between jumping around from joy at having made it as far as you did or sitting petrified with that horribly unsure fear that you wouldn't win, that you weren't good enough. Nasty stuff, I tell you.
But it doesn't matter. You know why? Because I, P.R. Golden (my pen name, FYI) are hereafter and forever more tickled pink. Pink from hope, that someday, my books will sit snugly on the shelf in the bestseller aisle for many years to come, that one of these days I will have my very own author website, with all kind of slick JavaScript, HTML and CSS. Because let's face it, only 3 or 4 authors I know of have a truly nice website, and that's not counting J.K. Rowling, because hers is pretty epic.
Speaking of J.K. Rowling, Pottermore's opening soon. I'm glad, because it's been in Beta for a very long time. It looks pretty safe as well, since users can't truly interact and you have to choose one of the user names they generate for you when you sign up. It all looks pretty awesome.
Also, for your enjoyment, here is the piece of writing I entered:
Mira was the type of girl who didn’t care what anyone thought. But when her entire future rode on someone’s opinion, she didn’t have a choice.
“Posture, Mira. Your spine must be an elegant, graceful I.” Madame Pettit glared, rapping her solid wooden cane at the base of her charge’s spine. Mira winced, but stood straighter, ignoring the pain flowing warmly up her back as she pirouetted again.
“Dismissed,” the judge said suddenly, waving his hand at the right side of the room. Mira smiled proudly. At least until she realized her position. She froze, but then raced from the room, a trail of tears in her wake.
