Prompt: Write a drabble—a short story of exactly 100 words—based on the photo prompt below. You can be funny, poignant, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 138.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address will be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured, all submissions received before the entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules.

Entry Deadline: October 20, 2025.

The post Your Story #138 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Most contests, such as the Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards, ask for several hard copies of your book. Contests for unpublished novels often require a synopsis and your first 5,000 words. If your work moves on to the next round, you may then be asked for the full manuscript.

A search for “book contests” returned 416,000 results. You can narrow your search by using a list like the NewPages Big List of Writing Contests. So what do judges look for in book submissions?

1. Cover design

Judges review whether your hard copy front cover art reflects the story and that your title and name are clear. They review standard back cover elements: story description, testimonials, bar code, and author bio (unless that’s inside). Judges also note whether the spine contains the title and author.

One author submitted their self-published e-book I loved without a cover, which knocked down their score.

2. Interior layout and design

Judges verify your front matter’s order. They also review the presence and formatting of running heads and page number placement. Font size and type are important elements as they affect readability.

Formatting—such as when a different character’s dialogue or body language starts on a new line—often plays a significant factor in making the text easier to follow. Having a poorly formatted book lowers your score.

3. Spelling, punctuation, and grammar (aka text mechanics)

Most published works have minor errors—a dropped comma or a misspelling. Spell-check your work and review your punctuation and grammar. Consider hiring a copyeditor as more than a few errors will lead to a lower score.

4. Voice and writing style

The only time you want your writing to pull the reader out of the story is due to strong writing that makes the reader think (or so interesting the reader wants to reread it). Judges look for writing that keeps the eye moving, including:

• Economical, active language (without a lot of “to be” verbs).
• Significant details (Gucci bag or twill rucksack), including unique metaphors.
• Engaging body language that inspires a reader’s emotional reaction.

5. Character appeal and development

Well-rounded characters that, again, inspire an emotional reaction—bad guys with admirable qualities (think Save the Cat!) and heroes with weak qualities (i.e., what the hero does in private)—will score higher.

Characters with interesting backgrounds or quirks also stand out and score higher. One despicable character I recall had a great sense of humor, which led to a higher score.

6. Plot and story strength and appeal

Judges must often read dozens of books in a short period. They may prefer fast pacing, varied sentence length, and surprising plot twists. They also review whether your book fits in with its genre expectations—for instance, does your mystery include red herrings?

Other features judges review:

• Believable characters.
• Strong premise.
• Presence of subplot(s).
• Well-constructed scenes and chapters.

CONCLUSION

Writing contests can help you reach your writing goals. Feedback, when included, can be an invaluable resource to help you know where to improve. Even better, winning a contest can help you build your platform.

Some contests offer early-bird discounts. Build your own contest database, then enter by your calendar’s deadlines. Be sure to read the entry guidelines and follow them. If you’re looking for feedback, verify it’s included—and best wishes as you prepare to enter your first or next book writing contest.

The post Sharpen These 6 Elements Before Entering a Book Writing Contest appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(25 Publishing FAQs for Writers.)

Some writers think any kind of a submission fee is a scam. Other writers see no problems with them at all. So what’s the real deal with submission fees? And should writers pay submission fees?

Should writers pay submission fees?

Like so many things in the publishing world, the answer to this question is not so clear cut as some might think. Context, expectation, and, yes, financial situation will all factor into one writer’s decision-making process when it comes to paying submission fees. Here are three things to consider.

Literary journals and contests often require a submission fee. 

While not always the case, many literary journals and contests require a submission fee to submit writing. Often for the journals, the submission fee might be $3 to $5, which would’ve been the equivalent of postage and return postage back when submissions were handled through the mail. That doesn’t mean a writer should pay these fees, just giving context.

Recently, I saw a journal that charged $15.99 per submission with no limit to the number of submissions a writer could make. Even though this publication pays writers, that seems like a very excessive submission fee to me. And for some writers, the $3 to $5 fee may feel excessive, because those fees add up quick.

Meanwhile, contests tend to charge fees of $15 to $100 or more. These submission fees can add up even faster, especially when winning is not guaranteed, and it’s why I usually advise writers who do enter contests to enter those that offer some sort of premium with the entry fee (like a subscription to the magazine, the winning book in a book competition, or something else).

But don’t think that free contests that offer cash prizes are the way to go. Click here to read about one of my most embarrassing rookie mistakes as a teenage poet to understand why free is not always better (or cheaper) than fee.

Submission fees should guarantee nothing.

Writers who pay submission fees to contests are not guaranteed to win. In fact, most contests with worthwhile prizes are very competitive as far as the quality of writing that is submitted. So it’s not as simple as showing up with an entry fee and taking home the grand prize. Odds are usually slanted in the other direction, just because there are a lot of great writers out there.

Likewise, writers should not feel that their writing will be published just because of paying a submission fee to a literary journal. In fact, if that’s the case, I would be wary of the legitimacy of the magazine and the value of being published in it. It would be akin to my previously mentioned rookie mistake, except that the writers are paying money upfront for the vanity project.

Submission fees add up over time.

For some writers, any submission fee is a difficult expense. So there is a level of privilege built into any type of writing endeavor that requires a submission fee. That doesn’t mean the literary journal, contest, or other entity isn’t legitimate, but fees are money, plain and simple.

Some writers might be able to handle $3 and $5 submission fees for a while but find they get more difficult after sending out a dozen or more submissions at this rate. Other writers might find contests with $25 submission fees an acceptable level once or twice, but it only takes a dozen of these entries for the expenses to get into the hundreds of dollars. 

So writers shouldn’t pay submission fees?

I won’t argue with any writer who says they won’t do submission fees anytime under any circumstance. That’s their prerogative. But personally, I do pay submission fees from time to time myself, so I understand the other side of the argument if a writer is in a position to afford them.

We don’t require submission fees for writers to submit nonfiction pitches for our magazine and website, but we do offer writing competitions with entry fees. The fees go toward the prize money, paying judges to read all the entries, hosting fees, and other expenses. That’s generally the case with any legitimate writing contest. 

And the winners really do win significant prizes. Every writer is different, but this is often the reason why I enter: the chance at a cash prize with publication and distribution to a guaranteed audience of readers. They really are opportunities to earn money and expand your readership, though nothing is guaranteed.

So I do follow my own advice and enter contests that offer up some sort of premium as part of the entry fee, whether that’s a magazine subscription, copy of the winning chapbook, or other incentive. For me, it’s an investment in my writing career, like attending a writing retreat or conference. But it’s my choice, and I only do it when it feels right to me and for my situation.

So should writers pay submission fees? As with most things in life, it really is a personal decision that will be different for each writer.

The post Should Writers Pay Submission Fees? appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Prompt: Write a short story of 650 words or fewer based on the photo prompt above. You can be poignant, funny, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line “Your Story 119.”

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address with be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules

Entry Deadline: CLOSED

Out of over 100 entries, WD editors chose the following 5 finalists. Vote for your favorite entry using the poll at the bottom of the page.

Firenze

As Flori opened the shutters to catch the morning sun her cell phone chirruped. Seeing the name she almost smiled while swiping to connect.

“Good morning, Selma.”

“It’s evening here. You really did it, then?”

“I’m well, thank you. And you? … Did what, exactly?”

“Moved halfway around the world without telling anyone.”

“Not precisely. I moved, but Italy is only about a quarter of the way around the world. And I left you a detailed voicemail over a month ago.”

“Well I just got it.”

No, you just bothered to listen to it, Flori thought, pulling a chair over so she could drink in the view of the Duomo sparkling in the distance.

“I can’t believe you moved without a thought for me or Nash or Paris. Really Auntie Flo, I thought…”

“What? That I needed your approval? It doesn’t work that way, Selly.” Flori sank into the chair and lifted her bare feet to the windowsill.

“You know I hate to be called Selly,” Selma snapped.

“And you’ve known for some time that I prefer to be called Flori, and yet here we are.”

Total silence on the line. A small bird flew up and perched on the sill next to Flori’s foot. How convenient if the call dropped now, she thought.

“I’m sorry, Auntie Flo..ri but really I… I’m so surprised and hurt… we’re all surprised and hurt that you would do this to us. We worry about you.”

“Really? Precisely how is my decision to move to Italy hurtful to you?”

“But…”

Flori held up her hand even though Selma couldn’t see it. “Still talking. Furthermore, if this is so distressing to your brother and sister, who I also called weeks ago, they can contact me themselves. Now, do elaborate about why you’re suddenly so worried about me?” The bird cocked its head and flew off.

“Well, moving away from your family at your age doesn’t seem wise. Plus selling everything without considering that there might be some things of Grandma’s that we might want.”

Murmurs of the wakening neighborhood wafted in on the breeze. “Ah, I see.” Her sister Beverly would never be dead while Selma was above ground, Flori thought, shifting in her chair. “On the day of your grandmother’s funeral three years ago, you and Paris announced you would like certain things of hers. A bit insensitive, perhaps, seeing as how I was trying to come to grips with my mother’s death. But I said – very graciously, I think – I’d be willing to discuss this with you the next time you came to the house. That never happened because none of you – my so-called family – have visited or called me in the past three years.”

More silence. Flori decided not to fill it. It was Selma’s dime, as they used to say. She uncrossed her ankles and crossed them the other way.

Just as she was beginning to think the call really had dropped, Selma said, “Well… the pandemic… my sense of time… I didn’t think it had been that long. And you never called either.”

“No, I didn’t,” Flori said. “I guess I thought that your deep concern for your ancient relative who lived alone would prompt you to call me.” The bird reappeared, twittered, and flew off. “Apparently I was mistaken.”

“But we love you!”

A door closed nearby. “Well you have an interesting way of showing it. Anyway, I sent you a note with my current address. If you want to visit, there are many wonderful Air BnBs in Florence. Now I’m sure you’re busy so I’ll let you go. Ciao, Selma, buona sera!”

Flori disconnected as Paolo appeared at her elbow carrying cappuccino and pastries from the local panetteria. “Per te, cara.”

“Grazie, tesoro.” Flori smiled, tilting her head to meet the young man’s kiss.

Avenue de Manzanita

Marcus sat on a simple wooden chair that he had placed not quite on the balcony of his small apartment. He had just enough view to gaze out but not be easily seen. He didn’t want to be seen anyway. He hadn’t wanted to for a long time.

The Avenue de Manzanita sprawled out five stories below him as it swept down into the valley into the heart of the city and eventually to the river. The manzanita shrubs the street was named for long ago had slowly given way to tall buildings, brick sidewalks, and pavement. The few trees left along at least this stretch of the road had once been manicured and well kept but now were scrawny and scraggly.

Marcus poured another shot, or was it two, into the glass on the small folding table at his side. A table, a chair, a bed. Nothing else in the room. He needed nothing else. He’d gotten rid of all of it years ago.

“Wasteful,” he said, swallowing the whiskey quickly, spilling a little of it on his chin, which he didn’t bother to wipe away. No one would visit him today anyway except perhaps for that damn-fooled busybody who lived across the hall. What she saw in him he could never figure out. He’d tried so many times to offend her as much as possible but she just didn’t take the hint.

“Wasteful,” he said again.

Marcus could just make out the latest installment of the on-going argument in one of the tenement apartments off to his right. Ricky was drunk again and Maria was upset and yelling at him about taking care of the family and being responsible. After all, they were his kids. A plate crashed against a wall. A door slammed shut. Ricky had probably just escaped again. Maria was a pleasant enough young woman who had made the mistake of loving a loser and bearing his children.

Another shot of whiskey poured and then quickly drained.

The low buzzing of a busy street in a city that was bigger than it needed to be. The smell of exhaust, the smell of heat and sweat. The smell of long days with nothing to do but stare at the Avenue de Manzanita where there was too much to look at but nothing to see.

How easy it would be to bemoan “the good old days” but the truth was they had never been there. Marcus wasn’t even sure that the Avenue de Manzanita had ever actually had shrubs and trees and grass along it. He couldn’t remember them anymore.

He could remember living down there, though, and playing in those streets and running into traffic. He could remember the horns honking as angry drivers tried to avoid the people also crawling along the streets. He could remember the small food stand that his grandfather and then his father ran a couple blocks away from where he now lived. He could remember the argument with his father when he told him that he wasn’t going to take over the “family business”. He had bigger dreams. He was going to be somebody. He was going to get away from this Avenue and this neighborhood and this city and these people.

Was!

There was a knock on the door. “Marcus, dear. Are you in there? Mind if I come in for a visit?”

Was he in here? Marcus wasn’t sure anymore.

Untitled 1

The smell of baking bread and freshly brewed espresso clung to the cool morning air, waves of steam spiraled through the breeze as it rose from the street cafes below and crept up through the open window of an apartment above where Martino was taking a deep breath to calm his nerves.

His hands, steadied now, gripped the body of his camera more firmly as he gently rested the telephoto lens on the window frame and took a knee. Placing his eye against the view finder, Martino methodically exhaled his lungful of breath, failing to appreciate or even notice the pleasant array of aromas he’d imbibed.

“That’s your problem,” his wife had said. “You’re incapable of seeing beauty anymore.”

Maybe she was right, he thought. Maybe he had never acquired that skill to begin with. But he’d had other skills, far more marketable skills. He was a paid snoop. His job wasn’t to see beauty, it was to take pictures of people in the midst of their indiscretions and supply the photographic evidence to the suspicious spouse. He knew first hand that things that had the appearance of beauty, such as a happy couple out for a stroll, were capable of hiding the most astounding deceit. While others might see it as a beautiful image of love, he knew first-hand the type of deception that hid behind such a facade.

Waiting for his subjects to appear, he viewed the scene with a careful eye, picking apart every piece of beauty on the street below.

His wife, he knew, had suffered under the weight of his gaze. The little imperfections in her features that he used to find so attractive had started to repulse him. The crooked shape of her mouth when she smiled…

When was the last time he had seen her smile? She was unhappy with him, he understood that. He may even bear the brunt of the blame for her misery. Whatever the case may be, however, the simple fact of the matter was that her unhappiness was ugly to him.

How long had this gone on? Had he ever found her beautiful? All those years ago, when they met, on a street very much like the one he viewed through his camera, had he not been capable of seeing her beauty?

The whining hum of a vespa speeding up the road brought his attention back to his work. He watched as the driver swerved, narrowly avoiding a tabby cat stretched out in the road. The cat opened its eyes briefly, looked up at Martino and gave him an indifferent look, before turning its back to him.

Through the aim of the camera, fixed as it was on the cafe across the street, a sizable spider could be seen dutifully putting the finishing touches on a web that hung between the door and the wall, only to see the tapestry torn apart when the door swung open.

Despite all of his experience and his breathing exercises, Martino couldn’t help but feel his body tense into an aching knot. He’d read that “snapshot” was originally a hunting term, and that’s exactly what he felt like: a hunter about to make a kill. His finger rested on the button, but he pressed it as though he was pulling a trigger. A tall and handsome young man emerged, an unseen woman trailing behind him, as Martino fired off several pictures.

Later, when Martino examined the spoils of his hunt, the freeze-frames of the man he’d been following for the better part of a week revealed that he was accompanied by a woman whose happiness was undeniable. She had a strand of hair covering her eyes, but there was no hiding how piercing they were.

Her smile, big and crooked as it was, was so beautiful that Martino could barely hold back his tears as he deleted the pictures.

 SHORT STORY #119

“Sad.”

Jay looked at his companion, lounging half on, half off their high perch overlooking the city.

Roused from his torpid state, the other looked back at Jay. “Huh?” he replied.

“I said it’s sad.”

“What’s sad?”

“Look at that city beneath us. So empty. Remember the days when the streets fairly teemed with life. And now, nothing. Barely a single person scrambling about.”

“Yeah. I guess it is kinda sad.”

“I mean, all those lives lost. All those dreams crushed. If they had only paid attention to the world around them, instead of focusing on their own puny lives. Imagine if they had all banded together to react to the threat they faced. If they had put aside their petty differences and worked together.” He turned to look at his friend. “They might even have been able to thrive a bit longer.” Jay sat there for a moment, slowly shaking his head.

“What’s it to you, my friend?” replied his companion.

“I don’t know. Just looking at all those empty streets, I guess. Imagining all the work that went into the construction of this city. Thinking about all the promise their builders looked forward to creating.”

Jay’s companion hitched himself up and gave a deep-throated chuckle. “Well, I guess it’s a little late for their what-if’s, don’cha think?”

Jay sighed.“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But there must be a lesson in there somewhere.”

He roused himself from his perch on the rooftop and began to climb down to street level, his companion close behind. Reaching the street, the two friends began to make their way through the silent chasm formed by the buildings around them. The streets were littered with the detritus of daily living; windblown newsprint tumbling down the roadway, discarded fast food wrappers flapping in the breeze, vehicles abandoned and beginning to rust.

They looked into the storefronts, their plate glass windows shattered, their store shelves empty. In one, the lights still flickered and the clacking sound of metal against metal drew their attention inward. Climbing over the remaining shards, the two friends explored the empty aisles until they found the source of the sound, a ceiling fan banging against a partially collapsed support of the suspended ceiling. But nothing moving. No signs of life.

Shaking their heads in disgust, they made their way back to the front of the store and climbed back out.

“Not much left to scavenge, amigo.”

Jay shook his head sadly.“I’m afraid not.”

They continued their way down the broad thoroughfare. The signs of the natural world beginning to reclaim it’s own were everywhere. Small plants beginning to push up through cracks in the sidewalk. Small rodents scurrying from one sewer cap to another, nervously scanning the landscape.

Jay pointed at one of the creatures. “See. They know how to survive. They take nothing for granted. They work together. And they will likely survive longer and more effectively than any of this city’s residents were able to do.” Another pause. “And why? Because they know what the inhabitants of this city did not. That despite all of their fancy accomplishments, their inventions, their technologies, the people who lived here couldn’t adapt. They couldn’t take threats to their security seriously. They always figured that their technology would protect them.” Another sad shake of his head.

His friend gave a low chortle. “Guess they were wrong. Huh, partner?”

They walked on a little further.

Suddenly out of the corner of his eye, Jay caught a brief glimpse of movement at the next intersection. Silently signaling his friend, they hurried to the spot in time to see the shadow disappear into a building.

The green alien carnivore turned to his friend and smiled, his teeth gleaming in the bright sun. “A little one. I guess that’s all that’s left at this point. But just about the right size for a snack.”

Untitled 2

I am actually here, standing in the same place my grandma stood when she took that picture all those years ago. Apartment 26D of the Mayberry apartment complex. The complex sits vacant now, however I can still sense the last occupant’s presence, and smell their cigarettes that stained the walls. Looking out the window I can see what she saw: a city full of hope and promise. She would’ve said, “Well dear, it almost looks the same, save for the peeling paint and the cable dishes.” Same tall buildings, so tall they almost crowd out the street. But Grandma isn’t with me to make any comparisons. And the picture she took is now hanging on my wall, with a reserved spot next to it, for this picture.

I used to stare at that picture on her wall and make up stores of all the people who lived in the buildings, of all the people just out of view walking on the street. I would look at that picture with wonder and imagination. Grandma would look at that picture with sadness, of a time long past.

“That picture, so you want it?” my mother had asked, as if she had to. Her tone held an edge of annoyance, she must have repeated herself. I had been holding that picture, staring at it as I once did as a child, getting lost in my own thoughts. Now just a piece of decoration that was unwanted, something for us to “deal with” as we clean out grandma’s house. The funny thing is, Grandma wouldn’t care what we did with it, she didn’t hold value to things.

“Memories are priceless, Julie, don’t ever forget that. Everything, every possession, can be replaced,” she had said to me, more than once over my lifetime. And I believed her. She had to start over when she came to America, a young girl with her parents and older brother, Sam. Starting with only the money hid in their shoes and the clothes they could carry on them, as they could not afford to pay for luggage. Sam was killed not long after he started work on the docks. Grandma’s time in the Mayberry apartment complex was not the best time of her life, but it was the start of her American life. “I would do it again, if given the change,” she had said, “after getting through the rough times, life was rather smooth. And don’t forget, I met your grandfather here,” she would smile the biggest smile when she talked about Grandpa; “and don’t ever be afraid to try something new, even if it means giving up everything to do it.”

So I kept that picture, to remind me of her advice. Now next to it, is the picture I took, to remind me of a starting point, as I start new adventures wherever I can find them. 

The post Your Story #119 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

All you have to do is explain, in 250 words or fewer, why bookstores are important to the community.
If your essay is selected, From My Shelf Books & Gifts in charming Wellsboro, Pa., will be yours. This is a chance for all bookstore lovers to find that golden Willy Wonka ticket and fulfill a dream. No business experience, no credit check, no money down—just a $75 entry fee. (You’ll get the money back if you win, or if less than 4,000 people enter—in which case there is no winner.)

[Why Independent Bookstores Matter Now More Than Ever]

The grand prize includes 60,000 books, 6 months’ free rent, an in-place staff and free consultation from current owners Kevin and Kasey Coolidge. The deadline is March 31, 2018, and entry details can be found at wellsborobookstore.com.

Need some inspiration? Bob Eckstein, cartoonist for WD and The New Yorker, created the following, endlessly charming entry in the form of a comic:

Click to continue.

The post Ever Wanted to Own a Bookshop? Here’s Your Chance to Win One, With 6 Months of Free Rent appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Check out John Keyse-Walker’s Sun, Sand, Murder today.

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Or I could do it all myself—cut agent, editor, and publisher out of the process, cast my words on the electronic wind, and hope that my own editing and marketing efforts would cause readers to pick my work from the Amazon river of self-published authors.

Neither course seemed particularly attractive, and I didn’t feel like one was more likely to succeed than the other. But then I learned of another method available to land that publishing contract with one of the big traditional New York publishers—entering a writing contest. In the genre of mystery and crime fiction, the area I am most familiar with, it was the path to publication taken by authors Stefanie Pintoff, C. B. McKenzie, Les Roberts, Doug Corleone, Linda Rodriguez, Donna Andrews, Eleanor Kuhns, Mary Miley Theobald, Christine Barber, and Tricia Fields, to name a few.

It was also my route to publication. After a try using the time-honored agent-query-send-some-pages-not-for-me method, I entered the Mystery Writers of America/Minotaur Books First Crime Novel Competition and won the 2015 award. The prize was a $10,000 advance and a publishing contract with Minotaur Books, the U.S. mystery/crime imprint of international publishing giant Macmillan—my first book, SUN, SAND MURDER, released on September 13. The contest win opened a number of doors; I now have an agent, a second book written, and a third in process.

The MWA contest I won is not the only one available to the unpublished writer. Even considering only the mystery/crime fiction field, there are a fair number of contests that offer publication to the winner, including the Tony Hillerman Prize, Malice Domestic, and Private Eye Writers of America. There are also contests for romance, children’s, and literary fiction writers. Dig a little and you will probably find contests in your specific genre that have a publishing contract as the prize.

Are you a subscriber to Writer’s Digest magazine
yet? If not, get a discounted one-year sub here.

I’ve heard some writers say contests are a waste of effort because the odds of success are too long, with thousands of entries in each. That is not the actual case. There are surprisingly modest numbers of entries in most contests. The MWA First Crime Novel contest usually receives just shy of four hundred entries. The Hillerman Prize usually sees around two hundred. Those odds are certainly no worse than the ones faced in most literary agent’s slush piles, and may be better. Also, keep in mind that contests are not about who can write the best query letter, the factor on which most opportunities with literary agents hinge. In contests, the judges, usually writers and editors, actually read your work, or at least some of it. If query letters are not your strong suit, a contest may be the way to go.

Perhaps the best kept secret about contests is that you don’t need to win in order to receive a publishing contract. While most contests have only a single formal winner, and many do not name who the finalists are, those who make the final cut are read by editors/judges in the sponsoring publishing houses, and are sometimes offered contracts even if they don’t win. I personally know of one author who followed this route to a first contract and who has gone on to multiple contracts since that time. And even if you don’t get a contract the first time around, those who read your work may like what they see, and remember you the next time your name or your work is in front of them.

So if you are trying to find your way through the crowds of writers to a publishing contract with a traditional publisher, consider taking the third path—enter a contest. The result may change your writing life.

Click to continue.

The post Contests: A Non-Traditional Route to Publication appeared first on Writer's Digest.

You enter a writing contest, win it, and ride that wave of success to glorious bestsellerdom.

Or maybe it’s more like this: You don’t win the contest, but you get a priceless, insightful critique from a seasoned judge. You revise your novel, enter another writing contest, win it, and ride that wave of success to glorious bestsellerdom.

Check out Anna Bradley’s A Wicked Way to Win an Earl today. 

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Oh, rookie. If only it were that easy. The truth is, there are some writing contest horror stories out there. What if you don’t get one of those priceless, insightful critiques? What if your judge eviscerates your entry with all the finesse of a rabid dog attacking a bloody carcass? Believe me, you’ll feel it when you’ve been a victim of the “slash and trash” method of judging. It leaves bite marks.

So, do you put your neck into that foaming mouth, and hope for the best?

That depends. Why did you enter the contest? What do you expect to gain from the experience? Are you focused on the win, or on the judge’s feedback? Are you a serial entrant, or do you only enter contests to gain access to specific industry professionals? If you know why you’re there, you’re more likely to get what you need and avoid the bite marks.

My First Time

I’d love to say my first contest entry blew everyone away and I won the contest, but it didn’t, and I didn’t. I didn’t even make it to the final round, but I did get an invaluable critique from one of my judges. I was a rookie. I needed to be schooled, and my judge gave me just what I needed.

The revisions I made based on that one judge’s suggestions triggered an avalanche in the rest of the book, and I ended up rewriting the entire thing. Because of one great critique, and almost without realizing it, I’d completed a second draft.

Winning the Contest Means You’re Perfect

By the time I entered my second contest I’d finished my book. I was better prepared this time, and I won the contest. There’s no doubt about it—a win is gratifying. We writers do have our egos, after all.

My entry was perfect, of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t have won, right?

Wrong, rookie. One sharp-eyed judge went “track changes” crazy on my entry. Head hopping, passive voice, weak verbs? Yes, yes, and yes. I studied her critique, and lo and behold I found head hopping, passive voice and weak verbs throughout the entire manuscript, not just the contest entry. Funny how that happens.

Are you a subscriber to Writer’s Digest magazine
yet? If not, get a discounted one-year sub here.

My book had issues, but thanks to another great critique I was able to address them before I sent the manuscript off to prospective agents.

My point is this: if you get a great critique, work it, and work it hard. Work it like you’re cage dancing in thigh-high white go-go boots.

Winning Isn’t Everything—It’s the Only Thing

It may interest you to know the editor who crowned me queen of the contest didn’t ask to see the rest of my book. But I was satisfied because I got my work in front of her, which was the reason I entered that contest in the first place.

Contests are a great way to access otherwise inaccessible people in the business. But alas, a contest win will not necessarily leave an editor panting for more. Editors and agents have numerous reasons for turning down work, most of which are a mystery to writers.

If your only goal is to win, you may be missing out on the most valuable part of the experience. I hate to say it, but your mama was right. It’s not about whether you win or lose. It’s about how good the judges’ critique is.

The Afterglow

I’m not going to lie to you. It feels amazing to receive glowing praise from industry professionals. Don’t hesitate to bask in that glow. Roll around in that warm fuzzy. You worked hard for it, and you likely won’t get the chance to sun yourself in your own spotlight for long. Rejection looms on every writer’s horizon—it’s part of the deal. But if a few bite marks help us grow a thicker skin, well, let’s just say a thick skin is an advantage in this industry.

The Verdict

When it comes to writing contests, enter at your own risk. You may lose a finger or two. Before you decide against it, though, ask yourself if the benefits of a great critique outweigh the drawbacks of a bad one.

After all, what’s a few fingers?

Click to continue.

The post Writing Contest Conundrum: Are Competitions Worth the Effort? appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Prompt: Write the opening sentence (25 words or fewer) to a story based on the photo to the left.

Thanks to everyone who entered and/or voted in WD’s Your Story #64! Here are the results.

The winners, in ranking order, are as follows:

1. As the winter wind whipped against the worn cedar plank shingles of the 100-year old log cabin, temptation and fear began crippling the inside.

2. Our story died like it had lived—behind two-way mirrors and clouded glass, like old ghosts that stare from empty windows.

3. Grandma slept in a dark and dusty attic every night for seven years, four months, and three weeks until the law showed up last Saturday.

4. Her window, like a petulant child, refused my hungry eyes a glimpse inside, reflecting instead the cold, lonely landscape to which I was banished.

5. Delicate curtains and a lone cypress mirrored in tempered glass hid a life more splintered than the shingles clinging to the cabin in the glade.

6. Grandpa said he didn’t recognize the .35 Remington we found under the floorboards in Lissie’s room.

7. Becca had finally returned to Grandma’s cabin – once considered a haven – where her parents had nearly killed her nearly 14 years before.

8. The Necromancer chanted seven times, one spell for each child, until even the second story window was invisible to the murderous horde below.

9. It looked like a simple house, but the device contained within would change the world forever.

10. After my brothers and I left that old creaking house, our empty rooms amplified my mother’s footsteps as she nervously paced the halls.

The post Your Story 64: Winners! appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Thank you to everyone who entered and voted in WD’s Your Story #63 contest!

In celebration of National Short Story Month, the Writer’s Digest May/June 2015 issue will feature a special expanded edition of Your Story that spotlights three winning entries.

Out of nearly 500 stories, readers helped us pick three diverse winners: “Just Pick One” by Nathan Lewis, “Bottom Rocking” by TJ Foster and “Deadly Consequences” by Julie Griffith. These three stories will appear in the May/June 2015 issue of Writer’s Digest.

The winning entries:

Just Pick One
by Nathan Lewis

“Just pick one,” you would say.

“What’s the difference?” I mutter, holding what, for all intents and purposes, look like two identical cans of formula.

Similac? Enfamil? What kind of names are those for baby formula? Wouldn’t something like Young Health be better? If you were here I’d tell you that, and you would laugh and tell me again to just pick one as you nonchalantly perused the baby food.

A “Can I help you, sir?” interrupts my internal debate and I turn to see a boy of no older than 16 peeking at me with disdain from behind a much-too-long curtain of hair. I look from him to the cans of formula in my hands to the basket in my cart containing Emma’s sleeping form, and then back to the teenage employee.

Just pick one.

“Erm—” I fumble with the cans, choosing the Enfamil for no reason at all. “No, I’m fine, thanks.” I drop the can into my cart and fumble through my pockets for the list I’d somehow lost in the last 15 seconds.

Luckily the young man is exactly as interested in helping me decipher baby formula as he initially seemed. He moves past me in a careful combination of urgency and indifference, and soon I’m alone again with my cart of groceries, my daughter and, with a victorious yank from my jacket pocket, my grocery list.

The sudden movement jostles the cart, and in turn the sleeping baby beneath me. “No, shh,” I urge quietly, holding stock still as her small face stretches and yawns. Her meaty fists punch the blankets as she blinks awake.

For an instant we stay like that—me still holding my list above my head, her looking blankly up at me—and I feel entirely incapable as a father.

For that moment I was 23 again. I was young, stupid and barely able to make macaroni and cheese. My living room was decorated with superhero posters and a pair of swords. I drank milk out of the carton. I did laundry only when I ran out of underwear. For that second, I was the last person who should be in charge of another living creature, much less a two-week-old baby girl. Then the moment passed, and the small body in front of me produced the most piercing scream I’d thought capable from such a tiny thing.

“Sorry,” I say humbly to the cashier as I rush my way through the line, juggling my keys, wallet, phone and list, all while digging through the baby bag for something to bribe my daughter with. The cashier seems sympathetic as she folds my debit card and receipt together and hands them to me. I cram them into my pocket and make my way through the automatic doors of the store and out to the parking lot.

Emma screams the whole way, ignoring my offering of nook, blanket and stuffed animal, seeming to crescendo as I approach the back of your car—or my car now, I guess.

“I know, I know. I’m going,” I say to Emma as much as to myself, digging through my pockets, yet again searching for the keys. I catch the eye of a disdainful old woman from across the lot, but I only nod and she rolls her eyes and saunters toward the store.

After a thorough search, the keys remain at large. Emma’s screams are relentless but her blue eyes stay on me. Out of options, I lean forward to rest my elbows on the baby basket and hold my head in my hands, meeting my daughter’s stare, silencing her to my own surprise.

“I know,” I say, smiling to myself. “I should have gotten the other baby formula.”

I see the keys on the ground in the parking space next to me and I retrieve them. I pile the groceries into the trunk and strap Emma’s basket into the backseat in only two tries. By the time I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, Emma is asleep again. I sit still, gratefully sipping the coffee I’d left in the cupholder.

Of all moments, it’s now when I miss you most. I never knew it when you were alive, but god did I love the way you laughed at me when I was stupid.

“Similac,” I whisper to Emma, and back out.

—

Bottom Rocking
by TJ Foster

I awake to my smartphone’s incessant vibrating. Six missed calls, five voicemails. All from my mother, telling me my father can’t connect to the Wi-Fi from his new tablet. Each message more frantic than the last, as if the world depended on him reading tabloids and checking stocks.

Delete.

I toss the phone back onto my nightstand and press my thumbprint against the watch on my left wrist. My bedroom door opens and I head downstairs, the lights in the hallway coming on as I pass. I enter the kitchen and the coffeemaker begins brewing one final cup. Light and sweet, the same as every morning.

My friends told me bottom rocking was the quickest high one could ever get. The healthiest of addictions. I contemplate this while sipping my cup of organic French vanilla from a temperature-regulating mug. I’d contemplated it every night while my television solicited things and my central air kept me comfortable at a consistent 61 degrees Fahrenheit. Every morning I have my final cup of coffee, only to return home later to a hot, home-cooked meal. Literally. A meal cooked by my home.

If you drive by a bar late at night, after all the drunks stumble home, you’ll still see a light on. You’ll see a group of people in Salvation Army hand-me-down clothing, modeling the spring line of hopelessness and abandonment. They come for a drink and stay for therapy.

Last month, my friends dragged me out to such a bar, saying “There are things in this world actually worth losing sleep over.” There, I heard stories that changed everything. A girl’s parents murdered in their home after sociopaths hacked their wireless locks. A young woman raped by a man she met on Tinder. A boy shot in broad daylight by a cop, who apparently thought the 11-year-old’s cell phone was a gun. It’s so easy to vent to people you don’t even know.

I step out my front door and lock it by hitting a button on the side of my watch. I slip on my sunglasses, which greet me with “Hello, Jillian,” and quickly adjust for today’s level of sunlight. As I approach my car, something crashes into it and falls to the ground. Startled, I reach down and pick up a plastic drone with a GoPro mounted on top. A kid no older than 8 comes running over with an iPad in hand.

“Sorry, Miss. I’m still getting the hang of this thing,” he stammers. I reluctantly hand back his toy and start my car with the push of a button. I still carry my keys everywhere, but they all open doors that no longer need them. A blue detonation device hangs from the same ring.

I didn’t sleep the night after the bar. My friends were downstairs rigging my apartment with explosives. Tiny little bombs the size of fingernails hidden behind light switches, paintings, appliances. Twelve hours later, they handed me the detonator. They told me if I ever wanted to hit rock bottom, I could join them with the push of a button.

I toy with the device in my pocket as the steering wheel guides me effortlessly to my destination. I don’t even have to press the gas. Along the way I pass a car, engulfed in flames while the driver tries hopelessly to climb through a broken window.

The things we create destroy us before we destroy them.

I arrive at the bar a few minutes later. My car parallel parks itself across the street, exactly half an inch from the curb. In an empty lot next to the bar, people of all ages are playing kickball, a game I haven’t played since grade school. I spot my friends running around in the early morning sun, laughing and high-fiving each other. No group of people seemed more at peace. Bottom rocking is more than a fix. It’s self-preservation.

My phone vibrates in my purse: Mom again. I step out of my car and throw it as hard as I can against the pavement. I snap my sunglasses in half as they tell me it’s 58 degrees outside. When my watch reminds me to eat a well-balanced breakfast, I rip it off my wrist and toss it into the self-cleaning garbage can on the sidewalk.

As I run toward the empty lot, I press the blue button and drop my keys in the middle of the street.

—

Deadly Consequences
by Julie Griffith

The woman reached the park, the halfway point in her evening run, and headed for a drinking fountain located near the bronze statue of William Pierce, founding father of the town. She sometimes wondered what the Puritan minister would say about the appalling things that took place in the park after sunset, often right beneath of the staring gaze of his likeness.

There was a man at the drinking fountain, so she stood back to wait her turn. When he straightened and turned in her direction, she recognized him as the man she saw in the coffee shop the previous morning—the cute one with blue eyes and nice smile who’d said hello. Any other time, she’d have been happy to run into him. But today, with her messy ponytail and sweat-soaked jogging attire, she was sure she looked awful and smelled worse. She bent over and pretended to tie her shoe.

After a few moments, she glanced up, relieved to find he had moved on. Maybe she’d see him again, she thought, preferably when she was more presentable. After a quick drink of water, she resumed her run.

This was her fourth week of running daily and it was finally getting easier. In fact, she felt so good that she decided to take a longer route, adding a mile to her run. It wasn’t long before she realized she’d made a mistake. It was later than she’d thought, and the sun was hovering just above the horizon. It would be fully dark before she made it back home.

As she feared, it was well past sunset when she finally reached the wooded area near her house. She had an uneasy feeling, as if she were being watched, and her skin prickled in response. She looked over her shoulder at the deserted, moonlit street and tried to dismiss the feeling, blaming her paranoia on her addiction to crime dramas. Then there was a noise behind her, like a pebble skittering across the pavement. She broke into a full-on run.

She rounded a curve in the road, bringing her secluded house into view. When she moved there from her apartment, she was relieved to no longer be an unwilling witness to her neighbors’ loud fights, followed by the equally loud sounds of their making up. Now there was no one to disturb her sleep, but there was also no one to hear her cries for help.

As she ran up her driveway, she reached into her pocket for her keys. To her horror, her pocket was empty. Then she remembered the spare she’d hidden in a place her mother insisted was too obvious. She scrambled onto the front porch and lunged for the flowerpot beside the door. Her hands were trembling, but she somehow managed to slip the key into the lock.

Once she was safely inside, she peeked out the window. No one was there. Maybe she was just imagining things. Her relief soon turned to dread as she realized she’d have to replace the lost keys and install new locks.

As she headed for the shower, she thought of the man in the park and regretted that she may have missed an opportunity to meet a nice guy, all because she was too vain.

The scruffy old man settled down on a park bench beneath the watchful eye of William Pierce and patted the wad of bills in his pocket. He’d no sooner picked up the keys he’d found lying near the statue than a man with icy blue eyes approached him and claimed they were his. The old man was almost certain they weren’t. He’d spotted them right after that fine lady left, in the exact spot where she’d stopped to tie her shoe. But when the guy offered him money, he’d handed them right over.

The blue-eyed man watched from the darkness outside her house, his fingers curled around the keys in his pocket. A good voice inside his head urged, Walk up to the door, put the keys on her doormat, then leave.

But then the bad voice spoke up. Did you see how she avoided you today? She’s just like all the others. Go on, let yourself in. Won’t she be surprised?

The bad voice won. It always won.

The post Your Story 63: Winners appeared first on Writer's Digest.

GRAND PRIZE
Zero Chance of Passage: The Pioneering Charter School Story
by Ember Reichgott Junge ($20). Beaver’s Pond Press and Charter Schools Development Corporation. Email: ember@visi.com. Web: zerochanceofpassage.com.

CHILDREN’S PICTURE BOOKS
First Place:
Gertrude’s Green Hat
by Alex J. Stokas and Christina Siravo (Illustrator) ($9.95). Wordlighter Press. Email: wordlighter@hotmail.com. Web: alexjstokas.com.

Honorable Mentions:
The Potato Chip Champ: Discovering Why Kindness Coutns
by Maria Dismondy and Dawn Beacon (Illustrator) ($10.95). Maria Dismondy, Inc. Email: info@mariadismondy.com. Web: mariadismondy.com.

The Adventures of Red Feather: Wild Horse of Corolla
by Linda Whittington Hurst and Erin E.I. Casteel (Illustrator) ($15.95). Wild Pony Press. Email: linda@lindawhurst.com. Web: lindawhittingtonhurst.net.

Rainbow the Funky Chicken
by Marna Irby and Fran Sanderlin (Illustrator) ($14.95). Mascot Books.

GENRE FICTION
First Place:
Sapphire Trails
by Marilyn Jax ($26). Beaver’s Pond Press. Email: info@marilynjax.com. Web: marilynjax.com.

Honorable Mentions:
Lily of the Springs
by Carole Bellacera ($16.99). CreateSpace. Web: carolebellacera.com.

Rest Her Soul, a James Buckner novel
by Christopher C. Gibbs ($16.95). iUniverse.

Dreamer’s Island
by Gretchen Hummel ($21.95). iUniverse. Web: gretchenhummel.com.

Murder in One Take
by April Kelly and Marsha Lyons ($12.95). Flight Risk Books. Email: flightriskbooks@gmail.com. Web: flightriskbooks.com.

Centerline
by Dave McIntyre ($15.95). Narrative. Email: narrativeLLC@aol.com. Web: centerlinethebook.com.

Great News Town
by Sue Merrell ($17.95). Lulu. Web: suemerrellbooks.com.

Kiss Me Awake
by Julie Momyer ($13.99). Goody 2 Shoes Publications. Email: momyer@live.com. Web: juliemomyer.com.

Baby Grand
by Dina Santorelli ($13.95). Stonesong. Email: dina@dinasantorelli.com. Web: dinasantorelli.com.

INSPIRATIONAL
First Place:
Wildflowers in the Median: A Restorative Journey into Healing, Justice, and Joy
by Agnes Furey and Leonard Scovens ($12.95). iUniverse. Email: agnesfurey@gmail.com. Web: wildflowersinthemedian.com.

Honorable Mentions:
Eaten by the Tiger: Surrendering to an Empowered Life
by Emile Allen, M.D. ($21.99). Inspire on Purpose. Web: eatenbythetiger.com.

Lily: A Gray Whale’s Odyssey
by “Capt. Dave” Anderson ($45). Lucid Dreamer Productions. Email: captdave@cox.net. Web: talesfromthepod.com.

Pope Annalisa
by Peter Canova ($26.95). Trimountaine Publishing. Web: popeannalisa.com.

Lessons From a Pair of Old Gloves 
by Scott Franko ($20). Scott Franko Design and Publishing. Email: scott@frankodesign.com. Web: frankodesign.com.

LIFE STORIES
First Place:
Border Crossings: Coming of Age in the Czech Resistance
by Charles Novacek ($18). 1021 Press. Email: sn@charlesnovacekbooks.com. Web: charlesnovacekbooks.com.

Honorable Mentions:
Forever Exposed: The Nikki Catsouras Story
by Lesli Catsouras ($14.95). Dog Ear Publishing. Email: info@foreverexposed.com. Web: foreverexposed.com.

North of Hollywood
by Rick Lenz ($23.95). Chromodroid Press. Email: ricknlinda@roadrunner.com. Web: ricklenzauthor.com

Love at the Speed of Email
by Lisa McKay ($12.95). Karinya Publishing. Email: lisamckaywriting@gmail.com. Web: lisamckaywriting.com.

My Extraordinary Life
by Monica Sucha Vickers ($19.99). Xlibris. Web: monicasuchavickers.com.

MAINSTREAM FICTION
First Place:
You Are Here
by Chris Delyani ($19.95). iUniverse. Email: cdelyani@gmail.com. Web: chrisdelyani.com.

Honorable Mentions:
The Debt of Tamar
by Nicole Dweck ($14.99). Devon House Press. Web: nicoledweck.com.

The Last English Village
by James Ignizio ($11.99). CreateSpace. Web: lastenglishvillage.com.

Warming Up
by Mary Hutchings Reed ($16.95). She Writes Press. Web: maryhutchingsreed.com.

Tragedy and Triumph
by Kathrin Rudland ($16.95). iUniverse.

The Hobbyist
by Darryl Shelly ($13.99). Bexley Press. Email: info@bexleypress.com. Web: darrylshelly.com.

Nikolai Returns
by Michael G. Tanner ($10.99). Telemachus Press. Web: michaeltannerbooks.com.

Imperfect Pairings
by Jackie Townsend ($11.99). Ripetta Press. Email: info@ripettapress.com. Web: jackietownsend.com.

The Prescribed Burn: A Collection of Stories
by Laryssa Wirstiuk ($17.95). Painted Egg Press. Email: laryssa@theprescribedburn.com. Web: theprescribedburn.com.

MIDDLE-GRADE/YOUNG ADULT
First Place:
There Are No Buffalo in Buffalo
by Sally Valentine and Suzanne Valentine (Illustrator) ($14.95). Pyramid Publishing. Email: RochesterAuthor@hotmail.com Web: rochesterauthor.com.

Honorable Mentions:
Arrow of the Mist
by Christina Mercer ($10.99). Christina Mercer. Web: christinamercer.com.

Song of the Summer King
by Jess E. Owen ($25). Five Elements Press. Email: jess@fiveelementspress.com. Web: jessowen.com.

Storm of Arranon: Fire and Ice
by R.E. Sheahan ($14.99). Rule of Three Press. Web: stormofarranon.com.

NONFICTION
First Place:
Caroline Severance
by Virginia Elwood-Akers ($25.95). iUniverse. Email: virgoea@aol.com. Web: virginiaelwood-akers.com.

Honorable Mentions:
Rio for Partiers
by Cristiano Nogueira ($24.95). Solcat Editora Publishing. Email: cris@rioforpartiers.com. Web: rioforpartiers.com.

Taming Your Temper: A Workbook for Individuals, Couples, and Groups
by Nathaniel David Smith, MA, NCC, LPC-S ($30). Mental Health Classes LLC. Email: nathaniel@nathanielsmithcounselor.com. Web: nathanielsmithcounselor.com.

POETRY
First Place:
Hopper’s Women
by Kendra Kopelke ($15). Ampersand Press. Email: kkopelke@ubalt.edu.

Honorable Mentions:
The Sail
by Greg Allum. Short Run Press. Email: greg@gregallum.co.uk. Web: gregallum.co.uk.

In This Forest of Monks
by Daniel Skach-Mills ($14.95). Daniel Skach-Mills. Email: skachmills@gmail.com.

REFERENCE
First Place:
Afghan Proverbs Illustrated
by Edward Zellem and the Students of Maretat High School Kabul, Afghanistan (Illustrators) ($18.95). CreateSpace. Email: author@afghanproverbs.com. Web: afghansayings.com.

Honorable Mention:
Armenia and Karabakh
by Matthew Karanian (Author-Photographer) and Robert Kurkjian (Photographer) ($24.95). Stone Garden Productions. Web: armeniatravelguide.com.

For more info on this year’s grand prize winner, Ember Reichgott Junge, be sure to check out the March/April 2014 issue of Writer’s Digest, as well as her extended interview with us. You can also find more info on the upcoming 22nd Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards, as well as other Writer’s Digest competitions.

The post 21st Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards Winners appeared first on Writer's Digest.