“News” is Now “The Imprint” And We’ve Moved to Substack!
Tick, tick, tick … the clock counted down to midnight—the moment when I, along with more than 4,000 writers worldwide, would participate in the NYC Midnight contest.
Encouraged by several friends, I decided to participate in the NYC Midnight Contest for the first time on November 8, 2024. The competition challenges writers to create stories based on assigned prompts within specific word counts. These prompts might include a genre, character, subject, action word, or location. Participants can choose between flash fiction, screenplays, short stories, or rhyming stories. Entry costs approximately $60.
I enrolled hoping the challenge of unfamiliar prompts under tight deadlines would sharpen my creative writing skills. The professional feedback and potential recognition of a winning submission added to the appeal. As midnight approached, anticipation built—what prompts would I receive? How would I measure up against thousands of fellow competitors? Could I produce something worthwhile under pressure?
On the evening of the contest, I checked my email every hour: 8 pm, 9 pm, 10 pm, 11 pm. I tried to snooze, but was too nervous. Finally, at midnight, my assignment swooshed in: Within 48 hours, submit a 250-word flash story using these prompts:
- Genre – drama
- Word – bargain
- Action – slowing
GO!
Drama: The contest website provided examples of each assigned genre, so that was clear.
Bargain: A common word, meaning some deal or transaction.
Slowing: This befuddled me. How is slowing an action? Like a tea kettle slowly boiling? Or a slow-moving vehicle? Or a backward pull, like a flashback?
Drama, Bargain, Slowing. Drama, Bargain, Slowing. Drama, Bargain, Slowing.
Tick, Tick, Tick.
My mind raced: Bargain with the devil? Bargain at a store or a garage sale? Drama—something serious, a clear conflict. Slowing? Maybe watching something tragic in slow motion?
I landed on writing a fictitious version of a real incident involving my neighbor’s tiny dog and a hawk. Goldie pawing at the door; the woman distracted with a tangled leash, finally letting Goldie out; a hawk, in slow motion, swooping down to grab Goldie. The woman flashing back to favorite Goldie moments, shrieking for the bird to stop, then hurling the leash through the air.
And because the genre was drama, I ended with this:
“Slicing through the air, the leash’s metal clip smashes onto the hawk, who screams, twisting away from the attack — and the howling woman, who holds out her hands, begging for mercy, but only the bargain leash she finally untangled falls from the sky.”
Just before the 48-hour deadline, I clicked submit and waited. And waited. I wondered if I’d make it to the next round. Feedback would accompany results, detailed commentary from three judges, including specifics about what each liked and what needed work.
During the interval, all contestants were invited to upload their stories to a private website, where we could review others’ entries, including those with different prompts. I read a few impressive ones, but I still felt confident.
When the results arrived two months later, my feedback included:
“The narrative effectively slows down to give us all the details of the pivotal moment. I felt like I was watching a scene in slow motion. This makes it easy for the reader to form an emotional bond with the scene.” And “Loved the woman’s intense focus on untangling the leash: it made for a believable set-up for the attack.” And “The prose is at its sharpest in its portrayal of Goldie and feels cinematic in the way it keeps a ‘tight lens’ on the dog.
But also:
“This is a horrifying story (from any dog-lover’s perspective), and I wonder what the greater significance is. What message are you sending the reader? It seems to be telling us: life is full of random tragedy.” And “The woman’s internal thoughts would be better used as actual spoken words, and fewer of them.”
I didn’t make the cut.
At first, I was taken aback. Why? Was my story vetoed because I killed the dog? Seriously? So many acclaimed stories end with pets dying, like The Art of Racing in the Rain or Sounder. And, yeah, I do think “life is full of random tragedy!”
Then I reflected. Maybe I was so worried about the slowing-down part that I missed completing a full character arc. Maybe the woman should have been more distracted. And maybe the dog didn’t need to die for the woman to appreciate her pet and be more present.
Hmph. Disappointed, I considered revenge, as another part of NYC Midnight’s contest invites writers to evaluate judges’ assessments. I could slam their comments, denounce their dismissal of my story’s ending. But, of course, once I’d processed the commentaries, I recognized their advice as valuable; I gave them all top scores.
I’d give myself top scores too, for writing under pressure, for writing with three random prompts, for accepting professional writers’ critiques.
As I gear up to teaching another Flash Fiction class at Project Write Now, I plan to share what I’ve learned by offering creative challenges to other writers seeking to stimulate themselves with creative prompts and thoughtful feedback. Of course, classes at PWN encourage competing with ourselves rather than each other, as we work to improve our crafts while playing with words and supporting each other.
Join Liz deBeer for an energetic five-week Flash Fiction workshop where you’ll discover the art of crafting powerful stories in under 1,000 words.
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