HONOURABLE MENTION

HONOURABLE MENTION

So I wake up this morning to the ringing of the doorbell. I fall out of bed, wade thru the junk that litters my bedroom floor, find a t-shirt and stumble down stairs to answer. The posty hands me a large thin envelope with USA stamps and my name emblazoned upon it in big letters. 

followed by the words: Honourable Mention.

On closer inspection, I notice L Ron Hubbards logo in one corner. Its from his ‘Writers of the Future’ contest. Holy shit! I think. They’ve actually published one of my stories! About time those crazy scientologists printed something of mine. Its been like forever. I hold back on opening it. Taking a piss, fill the dog bowel, wash up last nights plates etc. I want to saviour the moment. I even leave the envelope hanging around the kitchen so my mother will notice it. 

‘Whats that?’ She asks. I tell her. ‘Rob Hubbard? Who’s that?’ I tell her. Finally I open the envelope. Afterall, it cant be a rejection letter right? I mean, what would be the point in spending THREE DOLLARS  on every hack, just to politely tell them they suck? So I was hopeful. Too hopeful I guess. I figured this would be a game changer, finally I would get some real recognition as a science fiction writer. 

Inside was some sort of certificate. Slightly crumpled from its long and arduous journey from the good ole US of A. 

I had no idea what any of this meant. No other explaining documents, no nothing. 

Does that mean my story got published or not? Fuck knows. It was signed by David Farland – who had evidently read the story. But that was it. I was left puzzled. 

Whatever it meant, my mother was proud anyway and gave me a hug and said we should frame it. At the time I figured this might be a good idea but common sense would eventually prevail. I first checked my e-mails, expectant of something to confirm that A: I had received said Honourable Mention and B: that it would explain what the fuck an Honourable Mention actually meant! But alas. No. I checked my other accounts too, even the junk mails. Nothing. Just this random certificate in the post all the way from America, stating Honourable Mention. But what did that mean? 

Jesus! Goddam Americans. They’re all crazy. Of course I knew deep down what it really meant. It could only mean one thing. That my story was rejected and this flimsy beat up looking certificate was just a nice way of telling me my story sucked. Finally after like an hour searching on their website I finally found my name, buried in a long list titled Honourable Mention. It read like a MIA list. Like you see on those monolithic war memorials. A long catalogue of those who had fallen in the service of creativity. While the top three authors, got their stories published and flown out to receive an award. 

I sat there seething, looking at the certificate. It really pissed me off. I would have rather they just sent me a generic e-mail rejection, than waste three whole dollars on the stamps, just to tell the same goddam thing. Why? Why go to all that trouble to print up a certificate (on card) with my name on it, then post if off, have it flown by airplanes or shipped across the Atlantic Ocean, then carried across bumpy British roads to my address, some three thousand miles away, or whatever. And there’s me opening it, with glee, feeling like a kid at Christmas. I felt like tearing it up and throwing it in the fucking bin. Then putting my fist thru my computer and giving up on writing altogether.  

But I didn’t. I decided to take it on the chin. Maybe they were right. Maybe my story did suck. But I wasn’t happy with how they told me. In fact they hadn’t told me shit.  So I couldn’t help but think, if they went to all the trouble to send me a stupid Honourable Mention certificate, you would think they might actually bother to send me an accompanying letter explaining (maybe – I don’t know), what exactly was wrong with the fucking story? That might have been fucking useful. Don’t you think? 

But no. I’m no better a writer because of it. So I decided to do one of their stupid courses, and I sat there while writer Orsan Scott Ward talked for an hour about how to write. Followed by a few shorts by Ron Hubbard himself and some exercises. I figured I might as well learn something new, maybe next time I might get something published. Who knows. 

But I still couldn’t help but google Honourable Mention and just try to get my head around it. Finally, I found a post by David Farland, the judge who read my short story and deemed it unworthy of publication. He had a whole blog called Why You got an Honourable Mention and basically went into the whys and whatnots of why he rejects stories. You know if they just sent me that, I might have been happy but the fact I had to scour the internet just to find this scrap of info, just goes to show how arrogant these assholes really are. They’re not interested in helping anyone. Because they know that one day, they’ll be put out of a job if they do. Or maybe I’m just surmising but whatever, they’re letting the writer down gently tact needs a lot of work.  

Finally, (and this is the real kicker) I decide to try and contact David Farland directly, scouring the internet once again for a fragment of information, a email, a blogspot, facebook page. Anything where I could just message the dude and just ask him: WHY?  Why did you reject my story? Was it really that bad? How could it be improved? I knew it wasn’t perfect. I knew that. But I don’t have the luxury of sharing it around my peers. None of them read. They like music, booze and getting shitfaced. And besides none of them write. They would just point out stupid things, they wouldn’t help. My only real contact is Tom Sykes but he takes forever to do anything and even forgets when I send him stuff. Or just wastes my time. 

What I needed was this guys honest opinion. How could it be improved? Was it lack of character arc? Lack of pace? Did it sag in the middle? What? But it didn’t matter anymore. I was chasing a ghost. 

David Farland, (better known as John David Wolverton) had died literally three weeks ago, after suffering a brain haemorrhage and falling into a coma. He passed away on the 14th January 2022. And so all I have left is an certificate, signed by a dead man, who liked my story enough to read it all the way thru but died before I had chance to talk to him about it. Now I feel bad. Bad because I got angry at a person, who is no longer with us. His legacy I guess, is what aspiring writers can learn from his notes and whatever nuggets of wisdom he left behind. But as for me, I don’t know. Maybe I’m just done chasing ghosts, chasing publishers. Just done. I know how to write. I’m not writing for critics, I’m writing for the public. 

So maybe I should just self publish and fuck all this chasing for acknowledgement. Ill never get it. Its just not gonna happen. I’m just not a writers writer. I’m not a big reader, but I love my fiction. And its way simpler to just write it down as a short story, than to hire actors and a crew to film it, only for it to suffer under the bludgeon of budget cuts and half assed special effects, get fired from my own movie and so on. Why bother, when I can get it right first time on paper? 

If this experience has taught me anything its this. Who’s to say what’s a good story anyway? So Ron can do himself and I’ll do me.