I'm not the kind of writer who enters a lot of short story or novel contests. It's not because I'm afraid of losing, but I hate waiting months and months to hear if I've won. So I was certainly acting out of character when, a few weeks ago I stumbled upon a contest in a wonderful blog called: On the Tudor Trail.I was in the midst of researching the plot of a short story that's been brewing inside of me for years. The title came first The Final Rose and it was about the final rose of the season. They're quite common here in southern Ontario. One hardy rose, covered in snow, in full resplendent bloom, clinging to its stem. Of course there was going to be a supernatural element in the story, but it just wasn't revealing itself. So, The Final Rose sat on the back burner for many years waiting to be written.
In the middle of October, thoughts of Halloween stories began to percolate. The members of my writer's circle usually bring spooky, strange or twisted tales to read on the last meeting of October. I could not disappoint my fellow writers and time was running out. I thought about my unwritten tale of the rose and, perhaps it was all the grand celebrations of Elizabeth II's Diamond Jubilee that led me down the path of the Tudors.
The story fell into place quickly, but the research took a little longer. That's when I discovered On the Tudor Trail blog and the Tudor Ghost Story Contest. Not only would I have a short story to read at the writer's circle, I would enter the contest on its final day, October 31. My colleagues enjoyed my tale and gave me some valuable advice, which I incorporated before emailing the story to the contest.
I didn't have to wait long for news of the status of my story. On November 12, Natalie, the blog's moderator, emailed me to say that I had won second prize and my story would be published at On the Tudor Trail. What a thrill seeing my story in print. Congrats are still coming in from friends and family, and it has been the highlight of a difficult year.
There is a final rose in my garden this year. A large, red, floribunda variety, spreading its petals towards the sun. Soon, snow will veil the crimson blossom and wind will scatter the petals and all memory of that hardy flower.
I'm rather sorry The Final Rose has been written and found some success. I suppose I'll have to pull out my 'idea file' and look for another plot that will take me on a journey to another place and time.
