The story that wasn’t

The Summer That Wasn’t?

Yes!

I thought. This is the one. This will be my first success as an author. $200 first prize will set me up in my new career as a world-famous writer. That night I dreamt about signing copies of my book at a gala launch event.

Waking in the morning, I thought I had better write the book before planning my debut. I’d run off the short story first and that would get me in writing mode and hopefully earn me my first £200…. Well $200, anyway. What was that… £150? Having bagged this little prize I could then go on to make a proper start on my new novel.

Coming to the end of my time as an undergraduate of the University of Scunthorpe was not the epoch-making event I had expected. It was therefore with profound relief that I delivered my final dissertation, a half-hearted exposé on the spatial impacts of gentrification on long-term residents of a pissy little slum district in Stoke on Trent. Whatever possessed me to choose Geography as a subject?

What will I do now?

...my elderly relatives would ask me. Careers questions like this were second only to that awful question:

Have you got a girlfriend yet?

Why did I always have to justify myself by what I planned to do for a career, or who I was doing... well, not, in my case. I wasn't averse to having a relationship but it didn't mean that my life was empty if I did not. As to the job question, I sure as hell wasn't going to do anything remotely connected with Geography.

"I am going to be a writer, aunty" I would say, my Dad scoffing in the background.

"Oh, that's nice dear."

For sure, I had written a few short stories, endless chapters one-to-three, sometimes reaching four, or even five. I would also write the odd poem. I had even read a couple of books about how to be a great writer. When I say I had read them, I mean I had read the first few chapters before putting them in the book pile to read later. Can't think of anything more boring than reading a book about how to write. Most of the advice was rubbish in any case.

I thought long and hard about where to start, how to get known as an author, what to do about approaching publishers, agents, and suchlike questions. Plenty of advice about that online too, but all equally crap.

One suggestion I did heed, having read about it in a Facebook post, was to take a look at Vocal Media. They had just launched a new summer series of prize competition challenges. This was the one that grabbed my attention:

Write a story about a summer that never turned out the way it was supposed to.

Vocal media is a platform for supporting, discovering and rewarding creators, or so says the blurb. It was free to register in any case. Which was just as well because I had no money. Wait, what? You have to have a paid subscription to be able to enter the prize challenges?

“Dad!” I shouted, down the stairs. Can you lend me some money?”

"Yeah... 'course," came the suspiciously instant reply, before a "Just tell me how much, and I'll run down to the cash machine this instant, m'lord."

"No, Dad, listen, this is important... I'll pay it back."

"Yeah, right!"

"Dad! Wait," I said as I ran down to the kitchen, where he was just filling the kettle.

I tried explaining how important the £100 (I didn't want to complicate matters by asking for the sterling equivalent of the $100 Vocal+ fee) would be to my future career. I had to bat away a few snide comments about getting a new suit for job interviews, I swore I would repay the amount in total. But my mean sonofa... of a father, flatly refused any cash loan, telling me I ought to go get a 'proper' job if I wanted that kind of spending money.

It didn't take long before we started shouting at each other and, exasperated, I walked out of the house, slamming the door behind me. Rifling through my jeans pockets, I was able to raise enough loose change for a pint of beer and a packet of crisps at the Dog and Bull in Church Street. I managed to make the beer last almost an hour as I sat in the corner by the seldom-used darts board, fuming at the unfairness of life and the stubbornness of parents. Eventually, the landlord took pity on me and plonked another pint down, relieving me of the empty glass.

"You look like you could use it..."

I looked up with a pathetic grin on my face.

"Thanks, Jack..." was all I could offer by way of gratitude.

At closing time, I sauntered back home and crept up to my room in darkness. As I closed the door and switched on the bedside light, I noticed a little wad of £20 notes pinned under the alarm clock. Not five but ten £20 notes, £200, with a little scribbled note on top.

"Don't spend it all at once!"

O ~ o ~

I started to write this little story for Vocal Media The Summer That Wasn’t prize challenge but never took it anywhere. I have lots of draft stories that I have started and never finished. I spotted this draft among many unfinished works when looking for something else. I thought I might as well add some kind of an ending and post it.

Thanks for reading