Lorraine Mace

Notes from the Margin — August 2009

Text Box: I Think There Must Be Some Mistake Writing is a lonely business, but there are experiences we share. Rejections for one thing, finding reasons NOT to write is another, fear of failure and, of course, a complete lack of self-confidence, somehow coupled with the unshakeable conviction that we could be the next big thing. Writers suffer from a chronic lack of self-belief, even (or especially) in the face of success. We believe we can write, so we submit like crazy, but – and here’s the bit that drives non-writers insane – when an acceptance email, or a win, comes along, we think it must be a mistake. One of my writer friends made the final five in the Times/Chicken House children’s novel competition. Another won the Telegraph travel competition. They both reacted in the same way – five minutes of euphoria followed by weeks of agony waiting for the email to arrive saying: oops, sorry, we made a mistake and didn’t mean you! When they told me about their fears, I knew what they were going through, as I’d felt exactly the same way myself a few years back, when I won the Petra Kenneyprize for comic verse. Five minutes of dancing around the room thinking I was the bee’s knees and several other clichéd terms, followed by months of stress waiting for that email to come. My reasons for feeling like a fraud were many, but the one screaming loudest was that I wasn’t a poet. Back then, I wouldn’t have recognised an iambic pentameter if it carried a banner proclaiming its existence. Which explains why, when the letter arrived saying I’d won this very prestigious poetry competition, I knew it had to be a mistake. My entry was about menopause and I suffered more symptoms in the weeks following receipt of the letter than ever before. I had so many hot flushes that my husband kept a bucket of water at the ready in case I spontaneously combusted. I heard nothing more for weeks and weeks, so when the invitation to attend the award ceremony at Canada House in Trafalgar Square arrived, I was shocked all over again. Within days, I’d convinced myself that mine must have been the only entry in the humour category.  Derek, my husband, is made of sterner stuff and wasn’t having any of my nonsense, so off we went to London, him bursting with pride and telling perfect strangers on the train how clever I was, and me still thinking there was some mix up. We arrived at Canada House, only to find our way blocked by a clipboard-wielding doorman. I gave my name and wasn’t in the least bit surprised when he said my name wasn’t on the list of invited guests. Mortified to find my worst fears confirmed, I turned away to slink back into obscurity. I tugged at Derek’s sleeve, whilst giving the doorman what I hoped was an apologetic smile. “Don’t cause a fuss,” I whispered. “Let’s just go.” But Derek stood his ground. “That isn’t possible,” he said. “My wife is a prize winner.” The doorman smiled. “Oh, that’s a different list.” He found my name and let us in. Apart from the winners and runners up in the various categories, the place was packed with about 200 guests, made up of poets from all over the world, editors from the top writing magazines in the UK and invited dignitaries. Bearing in mind I’d won the humour category, my next fear (by this time an amoeba had more backbone than I possessed) was that no one would laugh when my turn came to read. When I made it to the rostrum, and looked out over a sea of faces waiting to be entertained, I managed to have a hot flush and cold shivers simultaneously. Fortunately, the audience was kind and they laughed. Some even laughed in the right places. After the readings, during a lovely buffet lunch, Derek found the poor judges and backed them against a wall to find out how many entries had been received for the humour category. He’d decided he couldn’t bear listening to me say all the way back to France that mine must have been the only entry. Apparently there had been quite a high number, so for all of five minutes I floated up near the ceiling. I’ve travelled a long way down the poetry road since then, but that was a day I shall never forget. Although I still think I might have received the winner’s email by mistake. Write Away! Notes from the Margin


Contact