On Monday night, Erika and I stepped "behind the velvet rope" and witnessed firsthand the grueling burden of proof put upon literary contest judges worldwide.
Two academic friends of ours went over submissions for a college poetry competition _ while eating a barbecue chicken dinner. They got greasy fingerprints on some of the poems.
With a piece of my own writing headed before a panel of judges (if it wasn't already thrown in the trash), I wonder under what circumstances it will be scrutinized. A nice Indian dinner? Norwegian smorgasbord? McDonald's?
Unfortunately, I turned my play in through email, so there'll be no tell-tale food stains on a returned copy.
I have to stop writing these things before lunch (see yesterday). That could be my WeBLoG gimmick _ the guy who writes before lunch. I've seen worse, folks.