I know, can you believe it? I’m still pinching myself. When I first heard the news I was requested to keep it quiet, which was okay by me because I kept expecting a call back saying something like, “You’re Karen Andrews? Sorry, we thought you were Karen Andrens. Whoops our mistake. How embarrassing.”
My poem “At The Park” won the Poetry section of the Ellen Gudrun Kastan Literary Awards – part of the New Voices Writers’ Festival I posted a flyer about a few weeks ago, before all this happened.
Here’s my written speech:
I wrote two speeches for this afternoon. The first I drafted was with the absolute certainty that the first year of this award was 2006. I was going to tell you I had no hope of entering because the deadline was mere weeks after the birth of my second child and life was somewhat hectic.
It was only late yesterday afternoon when I finally did the math and realised, no, they began in 2007 and I was fabricating the entire memory.
(Since I’ve had kids the years have converged into one great blur so maybe it’s understandable!)
So, in fact it was in 2007 when I picked up the first submission flyer and still think I have it stashed away in my writing filing cabinet at home.
I didn’t have a chance to focus more on writing until late 2007/ beginning of 2008. Last year I’d already entered a piece in the Alan Marshall Short Story Award and wondered if I had anything to enter into the Ellen Gudrun Kastan as well? Then I thought of this poem, started on the following day a similar incident occurred to me at the park with my daughter, when she slapped away my hand in an act of outraged independence.
It was still a work in progress but I had a gut feeling about it, and so sent it in. It didn’t win anything.
For some people I can understand if that kind of disappointment leads to a questioning of their own talents, or the value of their work. It certainly can shake one’s confidence – it did mine – because it makes you wonder. You wonder why you bothered entering it in the first place, or if the judge burst out laughing while they read it, or used their copy to line the bottom of their canary cage. Or something similar.
I would encourage all beginning writers though not to be afraid of those kinds of emotions, to not give up; or not to enter your work in competitions or general submissions.
You just never know what might happen.
What I did is I sat down with the poem again – perhaps it was a month or two later and looked at it with fresh eyes. I gave it a new title. I gave it to a friend, who is a writer and poet to ask her opinion. She made some suggestions. Basically, I wasn’t afraid to experiment. I am forever tinkering on my work, and doubt I’ll be ever fully satisfied on something I write. I suspect this is a personality defect. Whatever it is; whatever the inner drive or hunch that inspires you to first pick up the pen, I say embrace it and use it.
Never underestimate what opportunities perseverance and hard work can create.
I’m just one very small example.
Thank you.
As it happened, I didn’t say this speech word-for-word. I skimmed parts and (think) had a bit of a blank moment standing there. I do this on all important occasions. Like, at Surprise!’s book launch last year? And I forgot to thank Adam? And my family? I didn’t realise until a friend pulled me aside later. Gah. Mea Culpa.
I said the other day on Twitter that I find it very difficult to articulate just how the writing process and I gel together. People tell me they’re amazed I get anything done looking after two little children full-time and frankly (on some days) I agree with them. However I am also getting better at demanding solo time for myself, which I then use to get some work done. If you’re serious enough about writing – or any other passion for that matter – you will go out of your way to make it happen.
So that was my long-winded way of saying I hope my speech didn’t suck – both in the written form, or in delivery.
Here’s a few of the judge’s comments:
In just three brief stanzas, the poem lightly though pointedly, and without excessive labour or unnecessary description, observes three generations at the park, and comments on the human comedy of their inter-connected cross-generational fate. The poem succeeds through its economy, directness and clarity, arriving at the heart of its meaning without undue fuss, yet turning on a nice sense of subtlety and nuance allowed by its structure and imagery.
Wow. Just…wow. I have no other words at the moment.
I’ll post more thoughts soon. I’ll sign off tonight a very tired, but heart-warmed, lass.
(P.S *And for those of you who’ll remember, I promise I won’t accidentally throw the cheque out this time. Scouts honour.)
