Unbagging the Cats 1

Unbagging the Cats 1

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Hallelujah, Chorus!

Hallelujah, chorus! You may now commence humming tasteful huzzahs as I regale my readers with a tale of semi-success.

A few weeks back, I was in the midst of a writing frenzy. I sent off eight contest submissions in one week. Now you might think, "Val, that is pure folly. The name of this game is Quality, Not Quantity." And you may very well be right. But this morning, I was greeted by an email notifying me that I was named a finalist for the first of those eight pieces I submitted. Granted, I finished out of the prize money top five. And there were eight other finalists sharing my spotlight. But still. I've submitted there twice before, and only got honorable mention, and nothing. So I'm moving in the right direction.

If you care to take a foray into the dark world of humor, and see what ol' Val's been up to, you can find my piece here, 'Tis the Season of the Whacker. I've suppressed my Valness, and am listed alphabetically under my proper name. I souped up a story from my super-secret six-year-old blog, and VOILA! Instant contest entry.

When I first found this site, and earned honorable mention, I thought to myself: They must give everyone who enters a prize. So I submitted again. And won nothing. So much for that ten dollars. If you are still wallowing in Christmas vacation free time, and want to see how far ol' Val has come as a writer, my first "winner" can be found here, Grinding the Axe. As you might notice, I enjoy a timely Christmas theme.

One of the other contests I entered announces winners on Christmas Eve. There are just three places, but they all pay. And the entry was only five bucks. However...my entry fee check has not yet cleared the bank. As well as a second check for a different contest. Perhaps that's how mail-in contests operate. I hope those dead-mouse-smelling-post-office clerks who tossed my entries so unceremoniously into battered milk crates didn't have anything to do with that.

Hallelujah, chorus. I've completed another blog post. Any writing is good writing to Val. Like a rambunctious dog needs a walk, my humor needs to be let out for a spirited romp every evening.

Hope you can Handel it. Get it? Huh? Handel. Because my title is Hallelujah, Chorus. Sometimes my humor behaves, and sometimes it chews up the newspaper.

4 comments:

Kelley said...

Congratulations! I will definitely head over there to check it out. I have been wanting to tell you, BTW, that your comments on my blog always crack me up. I look forward to reading your perspective! Now, on my way to check out her Valness.

Sioux said...

Congratulations, Val. I read your story about the whacker. I laughed, especially over some of the plays on words, and also chuckled because I had a whacker today, after wrapping some gifts and with no children around, and I had fun as I was slicing the air into ribbons with my whacker.

An gifted writer can take the ordinary and transform it into something extraordinary. You did that with your story about the whacker.

Linda O'Connell said...

In my humble opinion, The Whacker should have taken first place. The use of a whacker and innuendo, you sure have a grasp on it!

When my oldest granddaughter was little she went to the pantry and begged for a dirter. We couldn't figure it out, so we let her find it. She rooted through the trash, came up with a paper towel tube and blurted as if she were starting the Kentucky Derby, Dirt er-der-dirt, de der!

Val Thevictorian said...

Kelley,
You might have noticed by my contest entry that I would not be the one wrapping a snake in a paper tube. Because those things are made for WHACKING, by cracky! And I don't mean snakes. I'm sure Lisa Simpson would concur on the snake-whacking moratorium.

*****************
Sioux,
So you're a secret, solitary whacker. Good to know. For my files.

*****************
Linda,
Thank you so much on your vote of confidence on my whacker grasp.

Love the DIRTER story. Reminds me of the Baby Pony demanding "toe mop" every time we turned onto our gravel road. He wanted out of his car seat, to "come up" to the front seat.