Odessa, FL 33556
Dear Bill Riddle,
One of my most enjoyable tasks as editor of Writer’s Digest is passing along good news to writers. This is one of those fun occasions. It is my pleasure to tell you that your entry, Food For Thought, has been awarded 12th place in Memoirs/Personal Essay category of the 79th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. In addition, Christmas 2009, has been awarded 20th place in Memoirs/Personal Essay category, Sergeant Tavera, has been awarded 30th place in Memoirs/Personal Essay category and Hard Time, has been awarded 32nd place in Memoirs/Personal Essay category. You will receive your Certificates of Achievement which honor your accomplishments in the near future. Finishing among the top 100 entries is an accomplishment you can be proud of. Your success in the face of such formidable competition speaks highly of your writing talent, and should be a source of great pride as you continue in your writing career.
All 1,001 winners will be listed at www.writersdigest.com after the December issue is published. The Grand Prize manuscript, the First Place manuscript in each category, and the names of the top 100 winners in each category will be printed in a special competition collection. If you would like to order copies of the Competition Collection, please use the order form which will be included in the envelope with your certificate. The Competition Collections are scheduled to begin mailing in December.
I congratulate you again on your accomplishment, and wish you the best of luck in your future writing.
Jessica Strawser, Editor
I’ve selected my favorite first lines from a list of 100 the American Book Review recently ranked and published. Enjoy.
3. A screaming comes across the sky. —Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (1973)
6. Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina (1877; trans. Constance Garnett)
15. The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. —Samuel Beckett, Murphy (1938)
21. Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. —James Joyce, Ulysses (1922)
24. It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not. —Paul Auster, City of Glass (1985)
46. Ages ago, Alex, Allen and Alva arrived at Antibes, and Alva allowing all, allowing anyone, against Alex’s admonition, against Allen’s angry assertion: another African amusement . . . anyhow, as all argued, an awesome African army assembled and arduously advanced against an African anthill, assiduously annihilating ant after ant, and afterward, Alex astonishingly accuses Albert as also accepting Africa’s antipodal ant annexation. —Walter Abish, Alphabetical Africa (1974)
50. I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974. —Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex (2002)
61. I have never begun a novel with more misgiving. —W. Somerset Maugham, The Razor’s Edge (1944)
69. If I am out of my mind, it’s all right with me, thought Moses Herzog. —Saul Bellow, Herzog (1964)
71. Granted: I am an inmate of a mental hospital; my keeper is watching me, he never lets me out of his sight; there’s a peephole in the door, and my keeper’s eye is the shade of brown that can never see through a blue-eyed type like me. —GŸnter Grass, The Tin Drum (1959; trans. Ralph Manheim)
77. He was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head forward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging bull. —Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim (1900)
85. When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon. —James Crumley, The Last Good Kiss (1978)
88. Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I’ve come to learn, is women. —Charles Johnson, Middle Passage (1990)
90. The towers of Zenith aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as silver rods. —Sinclair Lewis, Babbitt (1922)
91. I will tell you in a few words who I am: lover of the hummingbird that darts to the flower beyond the rotted sill where my feet are propped; lover of bright needlepoint and the bright stitching fingers of humorless old ladies bent to their sweet and infamous designs; lover of parasols made from the same puffy stuff as a young girl’s underdrawers; still lover of that small naval boat which somehow survived the distressing years of my life between her decks or in her pilothouse; and also lover of poor dear black Sonny, my mess boy, fellow victim and confidant, and of my wife and child. But most of all, lover of my harmless and sanguine self. —John Hawkes, Second Skin (1964)
100. The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. —Stephen Crane, The Red Badge of Courage (1895)
I wonder, when my manuscript is published, if mine will make the list.
Finding love can be like eating soup with a fork. —Bill Riddle, 95 Chances for Love
I love bizarre dating stories. The wackier the better. In the category of Too Much Information for a first date, I recently heard about a rendezvous that resulted from a Plenty of Fish dating site personal ad. I find the more unbelievable a story is, the more apt it is to be true. As it happens, Mike met Ginger at a restaurant to see how the chemistry was in person. Ginger was a 40-something divorcee who had been married to a man 17 years older than she was. At some point, Ginger’s hubby decided she was too old and left her for a 20-something woman. Upon discovering this, Ginger promptly went to the back yard of their McMansion and dug a grave.
I know what you’re thinking…and I’m with you. It turns out we’re both wrong. Much as I expected to hear how hubby was bludgeoned to death with a shovel and fed to the worms, it was Ginger that climbed into her freshly dug hole and, I suppose, had her own near-death experience. I’m not sure what Mike’s reply was to this disclosure, but I have to believe “Check please” was soon to follow.
Please join me, and thousands of others, to help bring this desperate situation to light.
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