Judging Stuff

I got offered opportunities to judge contests almost as soon as I had published anything and while I desperately hope I did a good job, those experiences were amazing because they offered an opportunity for me to a) read a wide swath of a genre all at once, more volume and more variety than I ever would have on my own; b) take a refined and articulate position on each piece, instead of one of my two default, inarticulate positions—”great!” and “not for me…”, and c) have a conversation about my positions with intelligent people, hear their positions, see which of theirs I wanted to absorb and which of mine I wanted to defend. These experiences made me a better writer, I think, and a better thinker, I know.

And so has every judging opportunity since—I continue to learn and learn and learn, and refine and articulate my positions, as we all should. I signed up for fiction at the National Magazine Awards but said I’d do something as need be. At first I thought I’d drawn personal journalism because the essays often have structures like stories, but then I remembered I’ve written a memoir (sometimes I forget) and that can be somewhat like a very long form of personal journalism.

I don’t consider myself a memoirist, though, and certainly not a journalist, personal or otherwise, but I learned a few things from writing one—or probably I did. I am also not a terribly judgemental person (Mark, somewhere, reading on his phone, rolls his eyes) but here I am, charged to judge, and judge I have. As I’ve gotten older, even my hardest line opinions have softened—while I still believe one shouldn’t use quotation marks for emphasis, cut in lineups, or put ketchup on eggs—if you haven’t asked my opinion and no one is being harmed, I generally don’t see the point in speaking up. I save all my speaking up energy for when people ARE being harmed—and sometimes fail even then. It is an interesting challenge to demand judgement of myself in a long-form dialogue format (there are two other judges and we confer over the longlist, honourable mentions, and winners).

I AM opinionated, which I think is different than being judgemental—that’s more about being alive to the world. You could show me a hat or a caterpillar or a piece of art or a sandwich I had no idea existed before this moment, and I would form an opinion fairly quickly, even if the opinion was, “NEAT!” I always, you might have noticed, have a lot to say. Just not any confidence that I’m right, or that my opinions should carry the day.

Anyway, the NMAs are later this spring and you can find out the outcome of these and other judgements, and come say hi if you attend—I think it will be fun and interesting. And if you don’t care about magazine awards or judgement or any of the above, here is a short dialogue about Mark’s spring jacket:

MS (waiting by the front door to go to the grocery store with, wearing jacket)
RR (walking down the hall towards MS) That is not your usual spring jacket. That is some other coat? (at this point, believe that perhaps his parents had given him a spare jacket, as they are wont to do occasionally if they have a surplus)
MS (shrugging) This is not my jacket. This is some other jacket.
RR: Um, what?
MS: It looks very similar to my spring jacket, but it isn’t. See? (turns collar to reveal blue fleece lining, which indeed, never existed previously)
RR: So where did it come from?
MS: I don’t know. The dry cleaner, I guess. I was rummaging around in the closet and this was in the plastic. The colour looked right, but when I pulled it out, it was not my jacket.
RR (puts on own jacket, which is correct) Where is your jacket?
MS (shrugs)
RR: That was a nice jacket! This one is not as nice.
MS: It’s really a better quality jacket, because it’s lined. (points again to stupid blue fleece)
RR: It doesn’t LOOK as nice. What dry cleaner was this? What year was this? When was the last time you saw your own jacket?
MS: I don’t know. Before we moved? We haven’t used the dry cleaner up here, have we?
RR: Oh no, two years? So it’s all over. That jacket is never coming back.
MS: It’s all over. It’s never coming back.
RR: The dry cleaner ticketing system is a lie. They were just trying to remember what you brought in, and guessing, right?
MS: Yeah, pretty much.
RR: You looked great in that jacket. Remember, you were just wandering around in the Charlottetown H&M complaining about how you hate stores and then you tried on one thing and it was perfect and we could leave. We were both so happy. Remember?
MS: I remember. And I do hate stores.
RR: I hate dry cleaners.