Have I already got your minds in the gutter? Tsk, tsk… not that kind of flash! (But I do like the way you think!) Nope, we’re talking about my first flash fiction contest.
Why in the world did I sign up for this?
One day in July, a post about a creative writing competition called the “Flash Fiction Challenge” popped up on my newsfeed. “Writing” and “competition” are two words I usually try to keep separate, although I have had some rewarding experiences writing on a specific theme for Twilight fanfiction contests in the past. [As you might have guessed, the theme is most frequently related to forbidden passion, wildly romantic first meetings, irresistible seductions, first ILYs…]
So, what drew me to participate in this particular contest?
- First off, the 8-year-old contest is professionally managed by an organization called NYC Midnight, which means entries are anonymously judged by a diverse group of writing and reading professionals. When the judges deliver their rankings, they also share critical feedback on the writing.
- Second, writers can submit their stories to a private contest forum, where many of us have been busily devouring each other’s entries and leaving review comments. [Of the 2100 contest entrants, roughly 600 of us posted our stories for peer review, so ask me what I’ve read this summer.]
- Third, short stories are not my typical go-to for reading or writing, but I recognize how much this genre can teach me. A short story is a microcosm of a long story. Every word absolutely counts. You can’t mess around!
- Finally, I do love a challenge—and boy, did I get one!
So, how’s that going for ya?
At midnight on Friday, July 22, I received an email with my assignment for the next 48 hours: genre—HISTORICAL FICTION, setting—a SEMINARY, object—SHAMPOO. By 12:02 a.m. Saturday, I’d experienced the 7 stages of writing grief: disbelief, panic, regret, resignation, disappointment, panic (again), and exhaustion. By 8 a.m., my situation hadn’t improved, and time was ticking away. I seriously watched the clock in the corner of my monitor. Of the 1,000 word maximum due at midnight the next day, I had written zero words by 2 p.m.
That’s okay, I told myself, you’re writing historical fiction. That requires research. When was shampoo invented? What was happening in the world around that time? Who were the interesting historical figures that might have been hanging around a seminary? And by the way, what exactly is a seminary? [Most people’s thoughts go immediately to monastery, but they’re not one and the same.]
Don’t panic. Once you get going, the story will flow.
You can quit now and not embarrass yourself.
If you’re doing this, you better get started!
But I don’t have a plot!
Yeah, good times.
It’s all about trust.
At some point, I decided to trust myself and start writing the plot bunny bouncing hardest on my brain. My characters usually reveal themselves to me while I’m writing, if I’m not too tense to let them go, and thankfully, that happened. A trusted writer-friend “pre-read” for me and helped me hone the story, and my trusty editor-friend made sure I had all my ducks in a grammatical row. [Don’t worry, it’s all legit to have help! In fact, I probably should have done more plot consulting early on, but I was trying to do as much as I could by myself.]
So far, this tale has a happy ending. I did, in fact, finish my first flash fiction and submit my story (around 11 p.m. Sunday) to the judges and the forum. The critical feedback has been exciting and illuminating. Not surprisingly, the better writers give the best feedback! Some are veterans at short story writing, but many are newbies like me. Everyone is kind.
If I haven’t bent your ear too long already, please feel free to take a look at my flash fic and let me know what you think! I’ll keep you posted on round two [coming up Sept. 16-18].
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HONORABLE INTENTIONS
Sweet talk the Torah with a few blessings, and she’ll unlatch her girdle and open her scrolls, but if you want to truly take her into your heart, you’ll have to work for it. And work they did, these fourth-year rabbinic candidates at the Jewish Institute of Religion in New York. The class of 1939 was a motley crew of fifteen men and one woman—the first ever enrolled at JIR, Helen Levinthal. Daughter of an eighth-generation rabbi, Helen could hold her own, even when the Talmudic debate turned to intimate topics.
“We learn in this tractate that shampooing is permitted—”
“Hey, did you hear that, Fisher?”
Helen chuckled along with the others. Boys will be boys.
Rav Stern waited for the room to settle. “Mr. Bromberg, since your vocal cords are obviously warmed up, why don’t you tell us the distinction the rabbis draw between a Nazirite using a comb or his fingers to part his hair.”
“Rashi argues the person using his fingers does not intend to remove any hair, so it’s permitted.”
“And if some hair comes out anyway?”
Bromberg shrugged. “If it wasn’t his intention to remove hair, the action is allowed, regardless of the result.”
A new voice entered the conversation. “So, basically, Rashi would sanction any action as long as one’s intentions are honorable?”
Helen forced her gaze to the page of Babylonian Talmud on the table in front of her, her cheeks filling with heat. She knew full well where Jacob Saltzman was going with his pointed question. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to woo her with Torah know-how. She could have fallen for his sharp intellect and fierce curiosity, but credibility mattered to her. Helen could afford neither the distraction nor the gossip. Her silly crush would have to wait.
A respectful silence descended upon the room. Her classmates may not have inferred Jacob’s motives, but they certainly recognized a “Big Question” when they heard one. Rav Stern tugged on his salt-and-pepper beard, a gesture that always seemed to Helen as if he were literally pulling the answers from his brain.
“Would anyone care to address Mr. Saltzman’s question?”
Helen cleared her throat. “As we’ve learned throughout our studies, much of Talmudic law relies on intent.” She caught the slight pivot of Jacob’s head in her direction and, with it, the beginnings of his sly grin. “However, we’ve also studied examples where intention is not required. For example, if a Jew is forced to eat matzoh against his will, he is considered to have satisfied the commandment. We have to pay attention to both the spirit and letter of the law.”
If Helen had expected her answer to discourage Jacob, she’d underestimated him. He seemed to grow two inches taller in his chair from determination alone. As far as Jacob Saltzman was concerned, Rashi himself had flung the gates wide open. Helen fully expected Jacob would soon charge through, Torah scrolls cradled against his right shoulder.
As it turned out, Jacob waited until the week of their ordination to call on Helen at her Upper West Side boardinghouse. She was summoned downstairs, where Jacob shot onto his feet when she walked into the sitting room.
Jacob’s light blue, cable-knit cardigan was more casual than his usual vest and tie, but he certainly did not seem more comfortable. In fact, she’d never seen him more fidgety. Only his familiar, crocheted yarmulke looked as if it belonged on his body. From the way he studied her weekend attire—a pair of rolled-up trousers and frilly peasant blouse—he seemed equally caught off-guard.
“I hope you don’t mind my stopping by,” Jacob said. “I would say I was in the neighborhood, but . . .” He shrugged, and Helen saw Jacob Saltzman blush for the first time. “The truth is, I wanted to bring you this . . .” He held out a small brown bag with the Grove Drugs logo stamped on the side.
“What’s this?”
“It’s just a little something I probably should have wrapped in fancier paper,” he said with an embarrassed huff.
Helen pushed aside the white tissue to reveal a tube of Lustre-Cream shampoo and a wooden brush. “What on earth, Jacob?”
He swept the pad of his thumb across the bristles of the brush. “I asked the sales clerk if they had a brush that would be sure not to pull out any hairs. She practically guaranteed me this one wouldn’t. You can use it with perfectly pure intentions.”
He was standing too close for Helen’s intentions to be pure, and she strongly suspected Jacob felt the same.
“Thank you so much. I can’t wait to try it tonight after my shower.” The mention of the shower caused them both to look away.
“The shampoo is just . . . I liked the way this one smelled, and I thought . . ..” She imagined him nuzzling the base of her neck, breathing in the smell he’d imagined in her hair.
“That was sweet.”
Jacob swallowed heavily. “I also wanted to tell you, Helen, I know you’re going to make a great rabbi.”
His compliment warmed her, but it didn’t change the reality. “I’m not receiving my ordination. The faculty isn’t ready to ordain a woman yet.”
“That’s terrible. You’ve been through all the courses just like the rest of us, and they’ve had you believing, all this time—”
Helen placed her hand on Jacob’s arm. “It’s okay. I have a pulpit for the High Holidays and a few speaking engagements lined up.”
“But I waited all this time to kiss you.”
“You are truly an honorable man, Jacob Saltzman.”
He pressed his lips to her smile, and thus began their own commentary.
Set aside the silver crowns and fancy gown, and for all her majestic trappings, the Torah is a gal with a million secrets to give away.
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Thanks for reading! See you next time…
Here’s where you can find my blog posts on the other 3 rounds of this contest:
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