Craft is where it’s at. With a lucky break from the rain, and despite unanticipated challenges with the venue, our plot of writers celebrated the weekend by digging in and doing the work. Janis, Rick and I thank all for placing their trust in the SCWC. A hearty thanks to our workshop leaders and volunteers. And thank you to special guests Matt Coyle (Odyssey’s End), Suzanne Redfearn (Where Butterflies Wander), Jennifer Silva Redmond (Honeymoon at Sea), and Judy Reeves (When Your Heart Says Go)—all dutifully aspiring to excellence and settling only for exceptional with their work.
With yet another rapturously exhausting conference now behind us, let’s get on to which conferees were awarded for pages put forth in read & critique workshops and advance submission consultation.
SCWC*San Diego 38 Award Recipients
OUTSTANDING FICTION (TBA)
TBA
by Jason Hook of Lancaster, NH
OUTSTANDING FICTION (Literary)
Mirror-Image America
by Daze Castillo of San Diego, CA
OUTSTANDING SHORT STORY
Untitled
by Diana Fulton of El Dorado, CA
Also, each SCWC holds a contest in which all writers are invited to participate. The rules are simple: Write a piece in any form you wish of no more than 250 words based on the one-word topic announced Friday night. The topic for SD38 was “Key(s).” Here’s the winning entry . . .
OUTSTANDING TOPIC STORY
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by Diana Fulton of Redwood City, CA
Somewhere in the Florida Keys …
“Morning. What brings y’all in so early?” the waitress asked, smacking her gum.
“Well, we planned to go sailin’ today,” said the woman, neatly dressed in navy Capri pants and a white linen top matching her permed hair.
“Yeah? What happened?” She twirled her pencil.
The woman glanced at her husband, who stared at the ceiling silently, hands resting on his small potbelly.
“I dropped his sailboat keys into the ocean.” Her leather cheeks reddened.
The waitress nearly spat out her gum. “You did what now?”
“I tried to toss ‘em to him, but they slipped right outta my hand. I had just put on lotion.”
The man muttered something incomprehensible.
“Sweet baby Jesus! Didn’t y’all have a floaty keychain?”
“We did, but our baby grandson was playing with it and it broke right off.”
“Lord. What are y’all gonna do?”
“We were fixin’ to have some coffee,” the man interjected, “while we wait for the boat store to open.”
“Course, yessir,” the waitress replied, “coming right up and I’ll throw in some key lime pie.”
When she returned with the order, the couple sat just as she had left them.
“Sir, I have to ask. Are you ‘bout ready to kill your wife?”
“No ma’am,” he said. “What these gray hairs have brought me is the wisdom that my wife is more important than any old boat.”
He gazed at her. She placed her age-spotted hand on top of his and smile. “My Ernie!”
Good writing is where you find it, regardless of length, and should be acknowledged. That said, I need to set this up: The hotel we were forced to hold the conference at was a stop-gap solution. Unforeseen challenges arose. Among them? Only one bartender. The one bartender they did provide was three days new to the job when we arrived. His name is Ernesto. How he managed to do so, we don’t know, but he did so with gusto and a smile. We wanted to honor him so much (for dealing so pleasantly and patiently with us), that extra points were given to anybody submitting a Topic Award story that weaved him into it.
Diana submitted the below, but in her late-night editing cut any reference to the actual topic (“Key(s)”) from the entry. However, our judges could not withhold their support for citing its quality.
WARNING: This story contains potty language. Get over it. Life should not be bleepable. We’re writers.
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by Diana Fulton of Irvine, CA
A wise writer wrote “The first murder is the hardest,” yet so far it had been deceptively easy. Why this weekend, this conference? The non-existent coffee, the broken printer, the shitty Mexican food; those transgressions could be forgiven. However, the lack of alcohol was a capital offense.
She needed a martini, maybe two or seven. For Christ’s sake, there were 150 writers at the conference, shuffling around her like zombies with a taste for agent brains. She was so damn sick of smiling she thought her face might explode, embedding false eyelashes into the walls.
Her ass had been kissed so many times she was afraid her asshole would start kissing back. How the hell was she supposed to endure this without alcohol?
The idea of murder had been simmering in her soul for years. She’d read enough unbearably crusty detective manuscripts from former lawyers and Connolly wannabes to learn how to avoid consequences.
She took the stairs, avoiding the elevator where perfectly practiced pitches pummeled her as if Blake Snell himself were throwing them.
She set the stage; a thoughtful rip in her Hello Kitty nightshirt, a lamp knocked to the floor, the gun tucked under a pillow. She had a permit to carry, she wasn’t stupid. No sense getting away with murder if you were jailed for a lesser offense. A drink would be nice.
A knock on the door, the click of the lock as it disengaged. She smiled, a genuine smile this time.
“Hello, Ernesto.”
Congratulations, all!
Dates for our 39th annual San Diego conference are Presidents’ Day Weekend, February 14-16, 2025. Limited to 175 writers, discounted pre-registration opens August 1. In the meantime, changes abound as we inaugurate SCWC 3.0. What’s all cool to come will be announcing soon.
Until next time, write more, suck less, and be the writer you aspire to be. Your work is worth it.
–Michael Steven Gregory
Executive Director, SCWC
