John Swinburn

Another damn dream.  But this one might have opened up a channel to a plot for a novel.  I intended to write it down yesterday, when I awoke from the dream. But I did not. So I’ve lost some detail that I wish I hadn’t. Such is life.

I won’t go into the now-fuzzy details. Instead, I’ll get right to the plot.

A German man, rearing his one-year-old child alone, is convicted of a serious crime. Before sentencing, he flees with the child, first to Portugal, then to England and, finally to the United States, collecting forged birth certificates for the child along the way. The man quickly blends in to U.S. society, using an assumed name, and (using forged papers, of course) gets a good job. A few years later, he marries an American woman.

The boy is brought up in a middle class household. He does well in school.  Life is good all the way around.  Until the father’s secret is revealed. And the boy’s world explodes.

Because his father brought him to the U.S. illegally, the authorities decide they must deport the boy back to his homeland, Germany.  The boy knows no German and has no known relatives in Germany.  But the law is the law.

A parallel plot story has been taking place all the while, with another man and another little boy with only his father. This man, though, is from Honduras and he has no criminal record. He illegally enters the U.S. and, like his German counterpart, uses forged papers to get a job. He does well in the job market, gets married to a naturalized American citizen who was born in Canada and brings up his little boy as an American citizen. When he is found out, the little boy faces the same dilemma; he is to be deported to his “homeland,” Honduras, where no one waits for him. The law is the law.

The remainder of the novel chases the stories of the two boys and explores how their efforts to fight deportation will encounter radically different challenges based on where they were born.

The story will confront the conflicts between enforcing the law and changing it.

If I pursue this, it will take a HELL of a lot of research and effort to write as an interesting story that’s not too preachy, nor too dull.

Well, I read The Story of Steve during the read-around today. It got a few laughs.  That’s really all it’s good for, which is not a bad thing. Sometimes silly whimsy is just what the doctor ordered.

After the banquet this evening, I learned the fate of the remaining three entries I submitted for contests in the Arkansas Writers’ Conference. Two of three fell by the wayside yesterday, the other got an honorable mention.  Today, two of three (a short story and a poem) got no mention at all.  But I was very happy that my short story Cameron Bay, was awarded first place; along with that recognition came a $50 cash prize.

I enjoyed the conference. Now, though, I am beat.

A poem I wrote a few months ago, A Night on the Town, received 1st Honorable Mention in the Marie Barton Memorial Poetry Award contest at the Arkansas Writers’ Conference yesterday. At the moment, I don’t remember what the contest prompt was, but I think it made reference to something along the lines of “write a poem with a theme of ‘night.'” 1st Honorable Mention is fourth down the line from First Place, Second Place, and Third Place, if memory serves.  I have no idea how many entrants were judged in the contest.

Inasmuch as I consider myself a poet only to the extent that I occasionally write a poem (but I am not a ‘serious’ poet), I was pleased to have ‘placed’ in the contest.  My prose, though, is what I hope might shine.  My short story, Funeral Money, didn’t place. I don’t remember that prompt, either. Today, three more contests in which I have entries will be announced: Gouda Hash (a silly whimsical poem that I suspect has no chance of winning); A Lesson in Allegiance (a short story written specifically for the contest, themed on “patriotism,”), and Cameron Bay, a short story I wrote for a another contest but did not submit to that other contest.

I found it interesting that most contest awards included up to six ‘winners.’ The contest sponsored by the Village Writers’ Club had only three winners; First Place, Second Place, and Third Place. The contest chair commented about that; “we asked that each contest name three winners, with additional honorable mentions, but they said ‘no’ and named only the three.” (Or words to that effect.)

Fifty people entered the event’s twenty-six contests, contributing more than 450 entries (if the notes I made yesterday during the awards announcements were correct).  The names of several entrants were read over and over and over again, suggesting to me these folks both write well and know what the sponsors are looking for in submissions. I’m not sure I am likely to continue to submit entries; I have mixed feelings about it.

The read-arounds, though, were interesting. I rather enjoyed reading Sliding Toward the Edge yesterday. I may read The Story of Steve today. Or I may not.