The 5th Annual Holiday Contest!!!!
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| FINALISTS!!! |
Darlings!
I must apologize!
Just look what I've done to you!
You look haggard!
Bags under your eyes!
Hair in a disarray!
Nervous tics and twitches popping up at every turn!
And chocolate of all kinds being consumed in an uncontrolled fashion!!!
(Well, okay, I admit that around here the chocolate thing is pretty much par for the course, not confined to anxiety over waiting for contest finalists to be posted... uncontrolled chocolate consumption is a good thing :))
But I do sympathize!
Bad enough that I always make you wait the weekend to find out who the contest finalists are, but this time I made you wait a WHOLE EXTRA DAY! I'm so sorry!
Is that a jam stain on your blouse?
Please.
Go take a shower and put on clean clothes.
We'll wait. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
There now.
Isn't that better?
Isn't that better?
And now, at long last, the waiting is over!
Almost :)
Because as always, we must begin with a few words from the people in charge around here.
First, I want to thank EVERYONE who found time in their busy holiday season schedule to write an entry for this contest - all 96 of you! The overall quality of the entries was amazing! There were no easy cuts. My assistant judges and I found something to like in every story and hated having to cut anyone!
Second, I want to thank EVERYONE who took the time to go around to as many of the 48 different blogs as you could, as well as the 48 entries posted in the comments here, and read and leave supportive comments for the writers who worked so hard on these stories. In this business where rejection is a common and unavoidable part of the process, it means a great deal to writers to know that their work was read and enjoyed, and to receive a few kind words about their writing. It is one of the best things about this community - that people are so generous and kind to each other.
Third, before I list the finalists, I want to say again how really difficult it was to choose. There were so many fabulous entries. The sheer volume meant that many great stories had to be cut. So if yours didn't make the final cut please don't feel bad. There was a huge amount of competition. Judging, no matter how hard we try to be objective, is always subjective at a certain point - we all have our own preferences for what makes a great story. And the fact that you didn't make the final cut DOES NOT mean you didn't write a great story. Everyone who plonked their butt in a chair and worked hard to write a story for this contest is a winner! You showed up. You did your best work. You practiced your craft. You wrote to specifications. You bravely shared your writing with the world. And you have a brand new story that is now yours to hone and tweak if you like and maybe submit at some point to a magazine or as a PB manuscript. So bravo to everyone who entered!
Finally, I'd like to be very clear about the voting process. Due to the large number of entries, there are 12 finalists listed below. I have deliberately listed them by title only, so as to help with objectivity. Please read through them and choose the one you feel is best and vote. You are MOST welcome to share a link to this post on FB, twitter, or wherever you like to hang out and encourage people to come read ALL the finalists and vote for the one they think is best. Please do that. The more people who read and enjoy these stories the better, and the more objective votes we get the better. HOWEVER (and I want to be very clear on this) please do not ask people to vote for a specific number or title, or for the story about Mrs. Claus dancing the makaraina with Rudolph or whatever. Trolling for votes or trying to influence the outcome is counter to the spirit of this competition which is supposed to be based on merit. I thank you in advance for respecting this.
Remember that the judging criteria were:
1. Kid-appeal! - These stories are intended for a young audience, so entries that were well-written but lacked child-friendliness or whose humor or content felt more appropriate for an older or adult audience did not make the cut.
2. It (hopefully) goes without saying that you must follow the contest rules - there were very specific instructions about the opening line which almost all of you followed to the letter... but a couple of strong entries did not. I thought the instructions were clear because of the multiple examples given... but one entry in particular caused serious debate among the judges as to whether the rules had been followed or not - the opening line was clearly modeled on the song but did not follow the pattern spelled out. In the end, we did not add that entry to the finalist list because some people who weren't sure emailed for clarification and this author did not, and about 90 of the 96 entries followed the correct pattern flawlessly. So... executive decision... although we weren't entirely happy about it.
3. Quality of story - the rules stated that entries were to tell a story, so if they appeared to be more of a description or mood piece, they didn't make the cut. We looked for a true story arc, and unfortunately there were quite a few lovely, well-written entries that failed to meet this criteria.
4. Quality of writing - use of language, correctness of tense, spelling and grammar, quality of rhyme and meter for the poetry entries, and overall impression of writing were factored in.
5. Originality and creativity - because that is often what sets one story above another.
We cut 84 entries to leave you with these 12. It was very hard! We did the best we could. There were a number of stories where the judges loved the concept, but the rhyme/meter needed too much work to make the finals. And there were some that modeled the song beautifully with perfect meter and rhyme that failed to tell a story. In any case, I hope you'll all find at least one of your favorites on the list below.
#1 CITY CRITTER CHRISTMAS
Soaring over skaters at the Rockefeller Rink,
Pigeon spies a Christmas tree and stops to have a think.
Perched upon a frosty branch that twinkles red and blue,
he wishes that the holidays were meant for critters, too.
Dashing through the Christmas tree in front of 30 Rock,
Squirrel bumps into Pigeon and he stops to have a talk.
"Why so sad?" he asks the bird. "It's Christmas Eve, you know."
"Not for critters," Pigeon says. "Hey, look who's right below!"
Trudging home from Macy's (where he worked a double shift)...
it's Santa Claus! He slips, he slides, he winds up in a drift!
Squirrel and Pigeon watch him fall—it's not a jolly sight.
They scurry down the Christmas tree to see if he's all right.
Twisting on the sidewalk while the critters yank his boot,
Santa Claus begins to yell, "Lay off my Santa suit!"
"We'll help you up," the critters say. "We know you're in a rush!
You should be heading to your sleigh, not stuck here in the slush!"
Getting to his feet as shoppers shop and skaters twirl,
Santa grins at Pigeon, then he turns and grins at Squirrel.
"Thanks," he tells the critters, gently wringing out his hat.
"I'll give you both a Christmas gift!" They like the sound of that.
Sharing roasted chestnuts Santa purchased on the street,
Squirrel and Pigeon sit upon their Christmas tree and eat.
They look out at the city, filled with angels, while they chew,
agreeing that the holidays are meant for critters, too.
#2 Red Berries in the Snow
Hopping along the twisty trail in the quiet, wintry woods,
Rabbit spied red berries poking through the snow. “The Giver will be here
soon,” he squealed. Then a heavy branch dropped snow on his head. Rabbit’s
whiskers froze into tiny icicles.
Rabbit spied red berries poking through the snow. “The Giver will be here
soon,” he squealed. Then a heavy branch dropped snow on his head. Rabbit’s
whiskers froze into tiny icicles.
He hopped to Mole’s house and thumped his foot on the cold
ground near the door. Thump, Thumpity-Thump, Thump. “I saw red berries in the
snow!” Rabbit hollered down the hole. “Please tell the Giver that I’d like a warm
scarf this year. I’m going home to thaw my whiskers.”
ground near the door. Thump, Thumpity-Thump, Thump. “I saw red berries in the
snow!” Rabbit hollered down the hole. “Please tell the Giver that I’d like a warm
scarf this year. I’m going home to thaw my whiskers.”
Mole was dizzy from Rabbit’s wild thumping, but he clawed
his way through his dark tunnel and popped out next to Mouse’s tidy nest. “Red
berries in the snow,” Mole announced. “Kindly tell the Giver that Rabbit would
like a scarf to keep his whiskers warm. And I would like a lamp for my tunnel. I’m
going to sit in my favorite chair until my aching head feels better.”
his way through his dark tunnel and popped out next to Mouse’s tidy nest. “Red
berries in the snow,” Mole announced. “Kindly tell the Giver that Rabbit would
like a scarf to keep his whiskers warm. And I would like a lamp for my tunnel. I’m
going to sit in my favorite chair until my aching head feels better.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” stammered Mouse as she pulled on her boots.
“Rabbit and Mole are so impatient. Red Berries in the snow! Scarves and lamps!
I’ve no time to waste.” She scurried up an oak tree and teetered on a tiny
branch. “Good evening Owl,” she said. “It’s the sharing season and we must send
the Giver a message. Tell him that Rabbit would like a warm scarf and Mole would
like a bright lamp. Since I never seem to have enough time, I would like a
watch.”
“Rabbit and Mole are so impatient. Red Berries in the snow! Scarves and lamps!
I’ve no time to waste.” She scurried up an oak tree and teetered on a tiny
branch. “Good evening Owl,” she said. “It’s the sharing season and we must send
the Giver a message. Tell him that Rabbit would like a warm scarf and Mole would
like a bright lamp. Since I never seem to have enough time, I would like a
watch.”
Owl listened carefully, then he lifted his strong wings and
flew North until he saw the tallest evergreen in the woods. He circled it three
times and landed deep within its boughs.
flew North until he saw the tallest evergreen in the woods. He circled it three
times and landed deep within its boughs.
In the warmth of the morning, Rabbit found his scarf. Mole
switched on his lamp and Mouse admired her watch. Beside each present lay a
note that read: Your greatest gift will be found just outside your door. “Hooray!”
said Rabbit, and he threw open his door. Mole and Mouse were staring back at
him, and he knew the Giver’s words were true.
#3 The Incidentswitched on his lamp and Mouse admired her watch. Beside each present lay a
note that read: Your greatest gift will be found just outside your door. “Hooray!”
said Rabbit, and he threw open his door. Mole and Mouse were staring back at
him, and he knew the Giver’s words were true.
Fleeting through the crowded aisles
Of the mall - both hands held tight,
'Cause Mom and Dad are really mad
About "the incident" tonight.
Of the mall - both hands held tight,
'Cause Mom and Dad are really mad
About "the incident" tonight.
It all started with a fun-filled trip
To sit on Santa's knee
So I could tell him all the things
I hoped he'd bring for me.
To sit on Santa's knee
So I could tell him all the things
I hoped he'd bring for me.
But when I saw the line of kids
Went far past Santa's sleigh,
I knew somewhere, someway, somehow,
I had to get away.
Went far past Santa's sleigh,
I knew somewhere, someway, somehow,
I had to get away.
So I thought up an escape route,
'Cause I think it's so unfair,
For kids to wait instead of play
When toys are everywhere.
'Cause I think it's so unfair,
For kids to wait instead of play
When toys are everywhere.
Quick - I bolted up the steps,
Down aisles, and through a store.
I figured it was better than
that long line - what a bore!
Down aisles, and through a store.
I figured it was better than
that long line - what a bore!
But the store was NOT a fun one.
It was filled with frilly things,
Stuff that grown-up ladies wear,
NO TOYS like Santa brings.
It was filled with frilly things,
Stuff that grown-up ladies wear,
NO TOYS like Santa brings.
And then . . . my parents found me.
I knew it wasn't good.
So I hid inside a clothes rack
Like any smart kid would.
I knew it wasn't good.
So I hid inside a clothes rack
Like any smart kid would.
Then without so much as looking,
Mom reached in and grabbed my collar
While Dad stood with his lips pinched tight,
trying not to holler.
Mom reached in and grabbed my collar
While Dad stood with his lips pinched tight,
trying not to holler.
They yanked me from that clothes rack,
Past holiday displays,
Down the escalator,
And 'round people like a maze.
Past holiday displays,
Down the escalator,
And 'round people like a maze.
And as we fled past Santa,
I thought I saw him grin -
I guess I'll send a letter
About how good I've been.
#4 The Hanukkah ElfI thought I saw him grin -
I guess I'll send a letter
About how good I've been.
Tapping on the window pane at the Klein family home was Max, Santa’s hungriest elf. He was waving a jar and a letter. It read:
Dear Santa,
Potato pancakes, jelly donuts, games and light. Please come to my house on Hanukkah.
Love, Joe
“Santa has to deliver presents tonight,” the elf stepped inside. “So he sent me, Max. And this oil. When do we eat?”
“After we light the menorah,” Joe said. “Bring the jar.”
Max filled each of the eight cups with Santa’s gift. The boy and the elf lit the wicks.
The menorah glowed bright, but Santa’s oil was gone.
Joe frowned. “We need more to make the latkes and sufganiyot.”
Max’s stomach growled. “Time for a little elf magic.”
Twinkle. Wiggle. Clap.
The jar refilled. “Okay, Joe. Let’s get cooking.”
Max flipped the potato pancakes. Joe fried the donuts.
The boy and the elf devoured their feast.
Bellies full, faces sticky with applesauce and jam, Max and Joe settled their stomachs with a game of dreidel.
“I think I’ll save my chocolate winnings for the ride home,” Max said.
Joe read the letters on the top. “Nun. Gimel. He. Shin. In Hebrew that stands for A Great Miracle Happened There. Thank you for the oil.”
“I came for the food and made friend,” Max smiled. “I hope we can celebrate Hanukkah together again. Santa will be flying by soon. I should get to the roof.”
But Max didn’t move.
“What’s wrong?” asked Joe.
“How will Santa know where to find me? This isn’t one of his usual stops.”
“Yes it is.” Joe grinned and pointed to the stockings on the mantle. “We celebrate Christmas too. Merry Christmas, Max!”
“Happy Everything, Joe!”
#5 The Christmas Seed
Circling round the planet Mars on their space craft RV-3,
the children begged and pleaded for a real live Christmas tree.
“There is no way,” cried Maw and Paw, “for that to come about.”
So Sue and Lou and Baby Boo would have to do without.
No Christmas tree? That cannot be…they vowed to find a way.
Sue climbed up high and searched the sky, but only saw a sleigh.
And Lou got tangled in the lights while looking in a drawer.
And Baby Boo picked up a seed as he crawled on the floor.
“Take that away,” cried Maw and Paw, “that’s not for Boo to eat”
But Boo skedaddled like a flash to the ejection seat.
Maw screamed! Lou tripped! Sue scrambled down! Paw reached to
save his kid.
They heard a BOOM! It shook the room! The spaceship blew its lid!
They watched as Boo flew through the air; it was a fearful sight.
This wasn’t quite the way they’d planned to spend this Christmas
night.
And Maw, she moaned, and Paw, he groaned, and Sue and Lou,
they cried.
But then they heard a HO! HO! HO! and Santa slid inside.
He opened up his big red sack – plucked out a doll for Sue,
a watch for Paw, a book for Maw, a bat and ball for Lou.
But Maw and Paw, their faces drooped, and Sue and Lou, they
frowned,
until they heard, deep in the sack, a most familiar sound.
Then Santa reached way down inside and pulled out Baby Boo.
“I saved the best for last,” he said. “This one’s for all of you!”
And scrambling up onto his sleigh, he pointed straight at Mars
The seed Boo found had grown into a Christmas tree with stars.
And Santa’s booming voice rang out as he rode out of sight,
“May peace and love and joy be yours on this and every night.”
So if you get a telescope, please aim the lens towards Mars,
and you might see Boo’s Christmas tree, adorned with twinkling
stars.
#6 Randolph, Not A Reindeer
“Packing up the presents at the North Pole workshop.” The elves and reindeer sang the traditional Christmas song. But Randolph couldn’t sing. Tears made the words stick in his throat.
Randolph was thinking about when Santa had told him that Randolph had not been chosen to pull the sleigh. “It’s not that you’re not fast enough, Randolph,” Santa had said, his eyes sad. “It’s…”
“Yes, I know, Santa,” Randolph had said, blinking back the tears. He had heard the rumours already. How all the children had cried, because Randolph had melted all the snow as he flew by.
Because Randolph was not a reindeer, but a raindeer, it rained wherever he went.
So instead of singing with the elves and reindeer, Randolph was doing what he did best: cleaning.
The elves started to chatter about the snowstorm that had taken place the night before in Canada.
“I’ve heard the snow is all the way to the rooftops,” said one elf.
“Santa is bringing extra food along,” said another.
The Christmas sleigh flew off , and everyone listened to the radio as it gave updates on Santa’s progress. All was well.
Then Santa hit Canada. The radio crackled, “Santa here, over. We’ve got an emergency, over. Send over everyone, over.”
Santa wanted everyone? Even Randolph?
Randolph flew high in the sky. Faster, faster, faster until he reached Santa and his sleigh.
Snow was not only up to the rooftops, but it was also covering the chimneys. That meant that Santa could not deliver the presents and food!
Elves were digging out the chimneys as fast as they could, but it was not fast enough. Randolph knew what he must do.
He flew over a house. The rain from the raindeer’s clouds melted the snow from the roof. Soon the chimney was exposed.
“Ho ho ho, well done, Randolph,” laughed Santa.
Santa went down the chimney, and then Randolph flew to the next house. And the next one.
“Packing up the presents at the North Pole workshop.” The elves and reindeer sang as they worked, and this time Randolph sang along.
Randolph was thinking about when Santa had told him that Randolph had not been chosen to pull the sleigh. “It’s not that you’re not fast enough, Randolph,” Santa had said, his eyes sad. “It’s…”
“Yes, I know, Santa,” Randolph had said, blinking back the tears. He had heard the rumours already. How all the children had cried, because Randolph had melted all the snow as he flew by.
Because Randolph was not a reindeer, but a raindeer, it rained wherever he went.
So instead of singing with the elves and reindeer, Randolph was doing what he did best: cleaning.
The elves started to chatter about the snowstorm that had taken place the night before in Canada.
“I’ve heard the snow is all the way to the rooftops,” said one elf.
“Santa is bringing extra food along,” said another.
The Christmas sleigh flew off , and everyone listened to the radio as it gave updates on Santa’s progress. All was well.
Then Santa hit Canada. The radio crackled, “Santa here, over. We’ve got an emergency, over. Send over everyone, over.”
Santa wanted everyone? Even Randolph?
Randolph flew high in the sky. Faster, faster, faster until he reached Santa and his sleigh.
Snow was not only up to the rooftops, but it was also covering the chimneys. That meant that Santa could not deliver the presents and food!
Elves were digging out the chimneys as fast as they could, but it was not fast enough. Randolph knew what he must do.
He flew over a house. The rain from the raindeer’s clouds melted the snow from the roof. Soon the chimney was exposed.
“Ho ho ho, well done, Randolph,” laughed Santa.
Santa went down the chimney, and then Randolph flew to the next house. And the next one.
“Packing up the presents at the North Pole workshop.” The elves and reindeer sang as they worked, and this time Randolph sang along.
#7 No Peeking!
Sneakin’ around the present stash
At the bottom of the tree,
In stealth mode, got my ninja on,
Look how black-ops I can be!
I shouldn’t look, but too late now,
Hey, I think this one’s for me!
Later I might regret this choice,
But right now I’ve got to see.
Santa, please forgive me sir, it’s awfully hard to wait.
Voices saying, “It’s not Christmas – put that present down right now, Miss!”
Sneakin’ around the present stash
Is the most fun thing to do.
Parents are at their office bash,
If you were me, you’d peek too!
Here I go, I’m gonna open just one little gift.
Peel the tape slow, careful – don’t tear…
Jokes on me now, I got UNDERWEAR!
Wrap it back up, no time to waste
Hide this sneaky thing I did.
I’ll call St. Nick and plead my case,
“Please remember, I’m a kid!”
#8 The Gift Of The Magpie (And Friends)
Flitting around the birdfeeder at the tiny woodland house, birds of all kinds shared the feast that appeared like magic when winter arrived. Chickadee dipped and swooped while spreading his dee dee dee cheer. Goldfinch called po-ta-to-chip. Titmouse tap-tapped his seed. Magpie noticed Sparrow whose feathers slumped as she stared in the window.
“What’s wrong dear friend? In this season of chill, these people feed us from their goodwill. You should chirp, you should sing, you should eat your fill.”
“It’s the boy,” Sparrow cried.
The birds loved the boy. He watched them whenever he was home, and he spent his allowance on birdseed.
“His mom said there isn’t enough money to buy a Christmas tree this year.”
Magpie peered into the house. The boy was drawing birds, but Magpie saw him wipe his eyes.
“We’ll help him smile, I do decree. We’ll get our friend a Christmas tree.”
The closest trees to the house were maples and oaks whose leaves had fallen for the winter. Squirrel nibbled the stem of a young cedar tree so they could take it to the boy. But the whole flock of birds couldn’t lift one tree.
“Plan B is better, this I know. You’ll still need your muscles though,” Magpie enthused.
They practiced making tree-shaped pyramids, but the bottom birds got tired or hungry before the star-bird could settle on top. On their third attempt the neighbor’s cat almost got her own Christmas treat! Feathers flew; Cat missed, but Magpie got an idea!
“Who says we need an evergreen? Come all my friends, it’s time to preen!”
On the dawn-quiet of Christmas morning, the boy donned boots and a coat. He went to the closest maple by his window to hang birdseed ornaments for his friends. He gasped and smiled. From it’s naked branches hung colorful, delicate feathers gleaming with the new day’s light. He sang out loud as he added his ornaments. “Merry Christmas my woodland friends!” The morning air filled with bird song in reply.
#9 A New Classic?Waiting in line for Santa’s knee
At the mall we always shop.
Suddenly, someone nudges me.
It’s an undercover cop!
You will not believe this crazy story when you hear…
He’s dressed like an elf, by golly!
In my shock, I drop my dolly.
The cop asks for my help, you see.
This is what he has to say:
“Three bullies have been on a spree.
For their stunts they now must pay!”
“They must be stopped,” I do agree
“What kind of help can I bring?”
He replies, “Teamwork is the key.
We will organize a sting.
“Those creeps are smashing candy canes swiped from little kids.
Wait ‘til you get to Santa’s chair.
Then get your cane, and I’ll be there.
“They’ll grab your treat and try to flee.
It will really make my day
To catch them in the act—all three—
And propel them on their way.”
Our plan works out just perfectly.
We make an unlikely team:
An elf cop and a little girl.
Sounds just like a wacky dream!
The mall’s now very safe, you’ll find;
So hop up on Santa’s lap.
Watch out if mischief’s on your mind,
For we’ll set another trap!
#10 Clucking Christmas
Sneezing around the reindeer pen on the night before Christmas… AAAAACHOOOO! HOOONK! Santa blew his nose for the 50th time that Christmas Eve. “You’re done with your bath, Donner. Now you’re sparkling clean for our big… ACHOOO! HONK! …night.”
Mrs. Claus, with Agnes, her favorite backyard chicken, clucking behind her, said, “Santa dear, you’re allergic to those reindeer. There’s no way they can lead your sleigh tonight.”
A triple sneeze shot out of Santa and onto Donner. “Hogwash,” Santa muttered weakly.
Agnes scurried back to the henhouse. “Santa’s allergic to the reindeer. We have to help him!”
“Poor Santa! He’s a good egg,” Beaker moaned.
“Should we buy him allergy pills?” Lovey asked.
“This is our big chance!” Dixie flapped.
“Everyone in favor say ‘squawk,’ ” said Agnes.
“Squawk!” It was unanimous.
The chickens bustled outside and took a place in front of the sleigh.
Santa sighed. “I guess I have no choice. Reindeer, you get the night off.” He grabbed the reins. “On Agnes! On Bertha!”
The chickens weren’t listening. “Agnes! Why did he call your name first?!” Dixie clucked.
“Jiminy Christmas! You chickens don’t rule the roost,” Santa sputtered. “On Lovey! On Beaker!”
The chickens frantically flapped their wings. The sleigh crept forward, then moved faster and faster. It lifted a foot off the ground and Santa breathed a sigh of relief.
Bu
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By: Sheena Wilkinson,
on 9/12/2014
Blog: An Awfully Big Blog Adventure (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Short stories, writing competitions, judging, Add a tag
In my past life, as a teacher, one of my most disliked tasks was marking. Not because I didn’t like reading my pupils’ work (though I often didn’t), but because having to assess a piece of writing against a set of increasingly arbitrary assessment objectives sometimes made me think it was all about jumping through hoops rather than the actual rules of good writing.
When I sat down a few weeks ago to judge a short story competition, I delighted in the fact that this time I was setting my own objectives, and they were pretty simple. Does this story work? Does it draw me in and keep me hooked? Do I feel confident in this writer’s hands?
I’ve won quite a few short story competitions, and it was flattering to be asked to judge this one. It was a fairly small, but very professionally-run competition, organised by a magazine. The magazine is Northern-Ireland-based, as am I, but attracted entries from all over the UK. The stories had been pre-shortlisted and were judged anonymously. Not knowing anything about a writer really makes you focus on what’s important in the story.
I’ve often read judges’ reports on competitions which say that the winner announced itself in the first few sentences, and I know agents and publishers often say that they can tell almost at once if a book is going to impress. This wasn’t my experience. Instead, though I found it easy to choose the winning story, several stories promised a great deal in the first paragraph, only to disappoint as the story went on. Some writers had put so much emphasis on that all-important hooking of the reader that they forgot to reel her in, and she was left dangling.
Several of the stories contained fantastic writing – really imaginative use of language. Heart-stopping moments. Intense character identification. Yet none of these stories was placed. Why? Because great use of language isn’t enough – a story has a job to do, and if it doesn’t do that, if it doesn’t take a character from A to B, it doesn’t matter how delightful its metaphors are.
I write young adult fiction, and it’s normally a 70,000 word novel as opposed to a 2,000 word story. Yet I found the experience of assessing these stories really helped me to look dispassionately at my own work. Young adults, like short story judges, are hard to please. They aren’t fooled by metaphor-fur-coat and no story-knickers. They won’t keep going if a story doesn’t live up to early promise.
I enjoyed assessing these stories, and I’m looking forward to meeting the winners at the ceremony in November. But even more, I enjoyed being reminded of the nuts and bolts of good story-telling, and I hope my own readers stand to benefit from that.
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By: Pauline Fisk,
on 4/2/2013
Blog: An Awfully Big Blog Adventure (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: judging, National Portrait Gallery, national competition, Shropshire/Staffordshire, regional heats, poetry by heart, poetry, Add a tag
Last week, I was a judge in the regional Staffordshire/Shropshire heat of the first ever National Poetry by Heart competition. ‘Oh yes, I’ll do that,’ I’d airily said, imagining how nice it would be to sit listening to young people bringing poems to life. The night before the competition, however, I lay awake worrying. All those young people with their hopes of making it through to the final at the National Portrait Gallery - I imagined them practicing hard, giving it their best, trying to remember their selected poems and deliver them in a way that proved they understood them. And all to be marked on score cards by judges which included me.
What if I got it wrong? Never mind the other judges - what if the best boy/girl didn’t win and I was the one to blame? Would I be the one the audience would end up shaking its collective head at when so-and-so’s shining talent was overlooked? I mugged up on all the poems to prepare myself. Some of my favourites on the judging list hadn’t been chosen to my disappointment, but that’s the way things go. There were some brilliant choices too.
I read the poems out loud to get a feel for how easy or difficult they might be, both to understand and to perform. Then I waded my way through the judging criteria [as complicated as a national curriculum in miniature – were we really meant to take all this into account in the short time that a poem was being read?]. I practiced judging using performances on line. Finally I was about as prepared as I could be - yet still I had that niggling doubt. I feared my judgment would let someone’s talent fail to shine.
But then I don’t like judgments. Never have done. God help the general public if I’d ever been a magistrate. I shudder to imagine the petty criminals who’d have walked free to re- offend.
So why had I agreed to do this, you might well ask? Certainly it wasn’t born of a desire to select the best at the expense of the rest. No, it was for the poetry that I said ‘yes’. ‘Best news of the week after the renaissance of Ziggy Stardust,’ is how John Walsh, in the Independent, described the Poetry by Heart competition back in January when it was announced. ‘School champions will declaim Keats or Browning at oikish rivals from other schools. There’ll be heats and a nail-biting final in April. It’s very Michael Gove – and I’m all for it.’
Good for you, John Walsh. I’m ignoring your mention of John Gove [and Keats and Browning, since so many modern poets are included too] but when you say that poetry learned by heart is like a private iPoems library available for download, I’m with you. And I’m with Andrew Motion when he talks about poetry moving us before we understand it, because it operates as ‘emotional noise’. ‘Its sounds allow us to receive it in our hearts, as well as in our heads,’ Andrew Motion says.
And that was what happened on the night. Without delving into the secrets of the judges’ deliberations, I can tell you that though the choice was tight the best girl won and, as far as I was concerned, she did it with her second poem, Edwin Morgan’s ‘Strawberries’, which she absolutely made her own. Before the competition, I’d identified this poem as one of those that interested me least, but Shropshire/Staffordshire finalist, Concorde College's Alexandra Tham, unwrapped what it was saying and made it shine.
6 Comments on Poetry By Heart: Pauline Fisk on a judge's perspective, last added: 4/6/2013
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This is fascinating. I came second in a Poetry Reciting Competition as a child - and was told it was because the girl who won stood up straighter than I did. I recall a feeling of great injustice as no one had suggested this was one of the criteria! So it's reassuring to know that someone is judging one of these competitions on the ability to bring a poem to life.
This sounds a wonderful thing to have done, Pauline! I too remember entering verse speaking competitions as a child - my claim to fame is single-handedly wrenching the Skipton Music Festival's sonnet-recitation class away from nothing but Shakespeare and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, by winning one year with a Charles Causley sonnet! No one ever taught me how, I just did it, because I too loved Causley. So glad you do too!
I loved doing it and I really meant it when I said the way the winner recited 'Strawberries' will stay with me. She made the poem her own. And there were so many other good poems on the list. Go to the Poetry by Heart anthology and take a look at them all.
I'd heard a mention of this competition - and do feel that learning and speaking poetry can be a way for words to get into your heart, and more. Thanks for this persepective, Pauline.
I was a judge at a BBC radio version of such a competition - maybe seven years back - and found the balance between "performance and presentation skills" and the child's (at least apparently) natural relationship with the poem became very much part of the judging process.
Off to search for the PbH Anthology.
There was what appeared to be an effortless relationship between the winning performance and the poem she chose. I seem to remember when I learnt stuff by heart as a child [and I learnt a lot] that it was all to do with the feat of remembering. I can't remember it being a vehicle for digging deep into the meaning of a poem, and into my own heart. This was one of the reasons why I found this judging experience so interesting.