Short story hour: Hail
Outside of screenwriting, I don't write a lot of fiction.
Well, I would like to, but the thought of writing fiction conjures up feelings of deep embarrassment and woe - I'd rather share the pages of my diary (if I were capable of keeping one for longer than two days running). I tend to sit on a single short story for years and years, then hide it away with great shame and the sort of "full-body convulsions" level of horror at the thought of anyone ever reading it.
My short stories, like spec scripts, are typically things that–outside of a group of trusted readers I could count on half a hand–I share only with contest readers. But as we all know, contests are a false economy that trap writers in a never ending vortex of "if/when I win [insert life changing amount of money here]", and that make you pay (as in, actual dollars) for the privilege of oneshotting both your ego and your confidence in your own work.
This ends today. As Duncan Trussell once screamed into The Lavender Hour microphone, "fuck your awards, you psychotic reptilian cunts! We don't give awards to the mountains, and they're beautiful!"
