So there I was having a glass of water and reading through the 62 entries for the Scottish Association of Writers’ annual poetry competition. I pushed my laptop out of the way to give me some more room and...
Water and paper don’t mix too well. Who knew?
Dinnae worry, it’s all good. Disaster was averted by lightning-quick reflexes. And some kitchen paper. Thankfully, the entries remain readable, but I can tell you my wee heart was pounding for a minute there.
How are the poems? I ain’t telling. I know that there are some peeps from the Scottish writing community who read this blog and I don’t want to give anything away.
I have to write a critique on each entry and find a top 3 and perhaps “some” commended pieces and then deliver the adjudication at the annual conference in March to an audience of around 200.
I was explaining this to the wee fella. He sought some references in his own experience in order to understand what I was saying.
- So, you’ll be like Simon Cowell?
- Well...kinda. But without the ego, the high-waisted trousers and the obscene wage.
- But you’ll be nicer than him, won’t you? X-factor ruins peoples’ dreams, dad.
- I know it does, son, but sometimes people need to know that they don’t have the talent...and you might have to be cruel to be kind.
- Don’t be cruel, dad.
- No. I’ll be one of the nice judges. I’ll be ...Cheryl Cole.
He gives me that look. Like I have one foot in Stupidville and the other wedged in the toaster.
- She’s a woman, dad.
- Ok. Right. Who’s a nice male judge then? Louis Walsh?
- NO. He’s stupid. He said the kids liked John and Edward and we didn’t. We thought they were rubbish.
- Ok. Right. What about Randy Jackson?
- Then, you’ll have to call everybody “dawg”.
But just in case you were wondering, here’s me about to read 62 entries and I’m enjoying the work. Dawg.