That's quite a feet!

And now after a good night’s sleep, let me explain why L.S. Parkson is the winner of our contest “Wherefore a.r.t. though?”

A great number of the stories that were submitted demonstrated skill and craftsmanship, and originality, and many had a surprise twist at the end that left a smile on my face because I got so caught up in the story, I didn’t see it coming.

“I’m next” was great surprise ending to The a.r.t of Uncle Gus by Michael Stang   ( www.awordwithyoupress.com/2011/02/27/the-cider-house-fools-our-contest-continues/)

I greatly appreciated the writerly efforts of George Verongas in his mis-titled The a.r.t. of Stain Management (www.awordwithyoupress.com/2011/03/11/george-verongos-is-amongus-on-the-wrongbus/)  He concludes his story in a very professional way that ties the whole piece together.

I continually admire the efforts of Tisha Deutsch, who continually denies that she is writer.  Her piece is one that waxes philosophically, and of course, we all appreciate a well-waxed piece of writing. (www.awordwithyoupress.com/2011/02/22/7818/)

Bic Mac Eagan, and now two little Macs, Sam and Mari, continually contend for best offerings, as does Claire Gilliam.  There are half a dozen others that come to mind, but I don’t want to get diverted,and I want to tell you why I choose the winner as I did.

In a word: Risk.

L.S. Parkson created a scene and a character that begged intervention from the reader, and she did it by becoming vulnerable, or more accurately, sharing her vulnerability with her readers. (We don’t even know if “She” is really “She.”  L.S. does not hint at gender.) A description of items found in the  riffling through the wicker basket hints at all the reasons for her despair.  A voice of concern from the other side of the locked door only amplifies the sense of alienation.

Did this scene really happen? Or only in her mind?  Does not really matter for the reader.  We feel her despair, her vulnerability, her sense of not fitting in and having given up on trying to fit in, and left to explore alternatives.  She shares an intimate, highly personal moment, and that is the risk.

The literary risk is that the piece may fall flat, and not suspend our disbelief, not rise above self-prescribed therapy through exorcism.  Not discover the alchemy to turn the lead of our own suffering into the gold or artistic creation.  This piece may totter a bit on the high wire, but it remains aloft, art. Don’t all of us who write try to convert pain into art?  How about the Bob Dylan line “Behind every beautiful thing, there ‘s been some kind of pain?”

L.L. Parkson has demonstrated the art on funambulism–the art or walking on a high wire.

Congratulations on a well balance piece that leaves us both afraid for you and confident about your future as a writer.

Don't let the sun catch you cryin'.