Earlier this week, a fellow writer shared that a couple of writer organizations were asking for book contest judges. Was I interested? No, because I knew what I would be getting into.
Years back, I was a judge for best novel contests by the Mystery Writers of America and International Thriller Writers. I did so in the spirit that I was serving the writing community. My intention was that after I received each entry, I would give to it the same attention as did the author and publisher, aware of the hopes and earnest work each book represented. At first the books trickled into my home, welcome as lost children. Then more and more arrived, to be stacked in ever taller piles all over my house. The torrent of books didn't stop. I felt like the Sorcerer's Apprentice.
Then the hard part...reading all those novels. I empathized with literary agents and editors who must slog through a daily flood of manuscripts. There was no physical way I could read every book within the allotted time. To get through the stacks of entries I had to rely on the dictum: "You have to grab me in the first five pages."
Certainly, each book had been lovingly written and professionally edited. The story lines tight. The characters interesting. The world-building well done. And yet, whether I continued past the opening scene and the inciting incident was purely subjective. You either had me or you didn't.
The contest rules prohibited us judges from communicating about our assignments until the end when we compared our top ten lists. Interestingly, from our picks of the finalists, every one of us had five of the same titles. So as subjective as the process was, it worked in selecting what we all considered as the best novels.
***
For the last decade, besides penning my own stories, I've worked as a ghost writer. The gig has partnered me with a lot of great people and their wonderful stories.
One of my favorite projects was John Mattia's memoir, Always Forward, his account of growing up in a corrupt and violent Detroit and the enduring painful memories that experience had imprinted upon his life. As a young teenager, he was banished from home in the middle of a blizzard, forced to take care of himself and his younger sister. He dealt drugs and carried a gun for protection, surviving as a street hustler. Living fast and loose until he realized that this career path would land him in prison or an early grave. He decided that the rigorous discipline as a Marine infantryman would deliver the kind of sustaining challenge he needed. Because of his expert marksmanship, he was selected for Scout Sniper training. His deployments with the Fleet Marine Force included a tour in Somalia and this was where he first used his sniper skills. He and his team buddy were given a Mission Impossible-style dossier on the target, a Mogadishu warlord with deep ties in the international black market. Much of the intel came from vengeful locals eager to settle scores. Mattia and his teammate set up their Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle in an abandoned bakery and waited for the warlord and his entourage to arrive at a neighborhood barbershop. When the warlord stepped back out after getting his haircut, Mattia dropped him. I told Mattia, "Shooting a man leaving a barbershop, that sounded like a mob hit." Mattia replied, "It was. A mob hit for Uncle Sam."
