Wing Ding

Every year since 2000, with an exception in 2006, I’ve found myself reading upwards of 300 manuscripts for a writing awards program. This year, I read 327. My job is an easy one – weed out the obvious shit from the obvious good stuff. Then I pass the good stuff on to a couple of hoity-toity folks with advanced literary degrees who perform a similar, though more educated, culling. Then on to the final judge.

Phase one is complete – 327 entries reviewed. I spent five days surrounded by them, experiencing all that was bad and good about this weird world of writing.

Of course, now I can’t write anything myself. Not that I ever write useful things…but when it comes to updating a blog that only three people read, I’ve found myself in one of those “all work and no play make Johnny a bad boy” phases.

I also spent the weekend drinking heavily, which may be a factor in my current inability to string simple thoughts together. And I’m coming down with some wicked cold. When I get up, I’m dizzy. I’m doing the whole blowing blood thing as my sinuses quietly turn inside out, and I’m coughing up that lovely morning phlegm that sits there, at the bottom of the sink, all green and angry, whispering terrible things.

I’ve scaled back on the drinking this week, with the exception of last night where I attended a friend’s play about trapped coal miners and their concerned wives, in the hopes that I’ll experience a miraculous and rapid recovery. Enough of a recovery, at least, to weather another weekend of solid gonzo drinking, when the hoity-toity literary types mentioned above come to my apartment to narrow down the playing field. They take payment in beer and Chinese food…and they aren’t shy when it comes to consumption. About half of the 327 have made it into my “maybe” pile, so these two monsters will put on their academic robes and drink 50 beers each and trim the pile down to almost nothing. Then, raging and insane, they’ll dig through the “no” pile and giggle at all the terrible stories in there.

Each year, my “no” pile has amused many shut-in literary types. A bad story is a bad story, but my job isn’t really to look for that. The bulk of my “no” pile consists of people who submit outrageous manuscripts. For example, one year, someone submitted their story (the first 50 pages of a completed 670 page project) that was entirely in wingdings – the MS Word font that uses funny characters instead of letters, sometimes called “Webdings”. The applicant explained that his story was the first “wingding” novel ever.

I really wanted to ask him for an electronic version so I could convert it back to English, but I was stopped by my advisors.

Font and spacing issues dominate my “no” pile. People who insist that their story can only be told in 8 point font, single spaced, and so on. Or my favorite – some goofball script font. There are instructions everywhere saying that the entry must be double spaced, 12 point font. So not only are you insane and writing using wingdings, but you can’t follow directions.

Getting manuscripts in different languages. That’s fun. I’ve seen Israeli, Czech, and Spanish.

One year, I got a suicide note. They paid the reading fee, diligently filled out the application form, and the entry was just a handwritten post-it saying “I have decided to end it all. I will be dead by the time you read this.”

The check cashed, so I didn’t see the need to pursue the issue.

One person paid the reading fee using rolls of pennies.

Then there was the old gag where the application form is attached to a balloon. Open the box and up it goes, much to my surprise. After reading a few hundred manuscripts, the last thing I wanted was to see one of them moving towards me.

Everything is balanced out by the astounding work that does come across my desk. Or beer-splattered floor, if it’s late in the day. On average, every tenth entry leaves me wanting more. I’ll find myself sitting and reading the entire piece, absorbed, then at a real loss when I get to the last page.

Regardless, I’m glad when the reading phase is over. This year, I plan to take a week reading some trashy fantasy novel and going to sleep early. Then I’ll be able to write my own, personal bad stories.