Phooey!

Maybe I'm meant to be an athlete (viz "hot pink gazelle") and not a writer.

I know, that's silly when I am so not athletic and have been writing practically since birth. But I have to tell you,  today I do wonder. In early spring, I submitted what I thought was a very good piece of writing, a moving story wrenched from my soul, to the Edna Staebler Personal Essay Competition sponsored by TNQ literary magazine. The winners were supposed to be announced in August. So I've been waiting.

The winners have just been announced. My essay is not first and it is not second. Earlier this year, I entered the CBC Non-Fiction Literary Competition. Ten writers were shortlisted, not including moi. TEN!

I can only assume that either I'm a lousy writer, or my writing does not work for competitions.
And I've decided to go with the latter. So - no more competitions. As my father used to say, @#$ them if they can't take a joke.

In world news, my beloved Jon Stewart last night mourned Obama buckling to pressure to declare a kind of war, once more, in Iraq. Since the last time worked so very well for all concerned. And in more horrible news, the Fords continue their dive-bombing of our city. Instead of Rob, we now have his brother, Candidate Doug! Not a crack and booze addict, just a vicious manipulative enabler, so much better.

It is cold, amazingly, bleakly cold for mid-September, and various relatives have been demanding, inconsiderate and annoying, which does not help my usually buoyant mood. Not at all buoyant right now. Time to go into the garden, Maud, with a glass of wine and listen to the birds. Pick some cherry tomatoes.

Though their time is nearly up.