So…Last February I entered a Short Story Contest.

Not only did I enter a short story contest, but I entered a Non-Fiction Short Story Contest.

Not only Did I enter a Non-Fiction Short Story Contest, but I submitted my story a month before deadline.

Not Only Did I submit my story 30 days before deadline, But I edited my submission.

I gave it to friends for their opinions,

I edited,

I proofread,

I talked to my mother-in-law in England and we read each draft aloud to each other over the phone.

Today The long list for the CBC Canada Writes 2016 Creative Non-Fiction Prize was released.

I wasn’t on it.

I started to realize I may not make the list two weeks ago when I read a blog post from someone who made the previous years longlist. She was notified a month before the lists release as they needed a Bio.

Winning Would have been amazing, not only because of the prizes. I mean..who doesn’t want to win $6,000 because of their writing…But I’m not going to lie, I really would have loved the self-validation.

In Sims when you write a story your skill increases, you can sell it a publisher and receive daily royalties. There’s also a #motherlode cheat that instantly puts $50,000 sim credits into your account. And when you’re a creative personality, your happiness also increases when you finish a piece.

That being said, since it’s no longer entered into a contest I shall now release my short story “I Used To Fake it” into the wild!

I’ll post a short excerpt at the bottom of this post but you can read the full version on my wattpad here.

As per usual I would love any feedback; You Loved it, You Hated it, It made you want Pizza…

I used to fake it. When we were told to sit on the floor we would all hurry, our status defined by dusky flower patterned cushions. We’d scramble to claim our own private islands, or else be regulated to sharing the carpet.  After settling my island furthest from the door I would sit tense, my legs crossed tailor fashion, and a box of tissues my silent companion. Thirty minutes was a lifetime of anxiety, trying to quietly blow my nose and still my pounding heart. My eyes would dart everywhere but at what was gripped tightly in my small hands. I’d fight to keep my head down and my breathing under control, rarely turning a page and never seeing the words that were on it. They called it Silent Reading Time, and my third grade self had learned to fake it.

Every Friday our class would go as a group to the library. Marking the exits with a glance and keeping to my line, we were marched two by two down the hallway. Using the buddy system to ensure our safe arrival we climbed the stairs, the slap of rubber soles against the brick coloured tiles echoed with my breath in the corridors. I knew I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to homeroom alone, but I knew all the ways out, and I could tell you where the closest bathroom was…Continue Reading