Every summer, I make a promise to myself: this year I will jump into the ocean from the Malaspina Galleries.

            And every summer, I spend 15 heart-palpitating, soul-searching minutes standing at the edge of that cliff, before I turn away in discouragement.

            Sometimes, you just need a push.

            When a short-story contest was announced to coincide with Gabriola’s poetry festival, I momentarily imagined that I had entered and actually won. I could already feel the heat of success in my cheeks.

I had forgotten about the contest, in the most Freudian sense, until Bruce Mason, one of the organizers, called for advice on contest rules.

            “They want it to go 24 hours, and I told them that they were crazy, no one would enter. I think that 12 hours would be max. What do you think?”

            I was also surprised to learn that laptops were going to be forbidden. There was concern that writers might show up with a story already completed. Frankly, I found it a sad commentary that anyone thought writers might stoop so low, but I suggested a way around this.

            “Everyone should be given a set of components that must be included in the story. You know, Bruce, Colonel Mustard with a candle stick in the library.”

            “That’s a great idea, Kerry. You are going to enter, aren’t you?”

            And there it was, the moment at the edge of the cliff. Only this time I was getting the push. “Of course,” I responded in a tone perkier than I felt.

            What had I done? I spent the week praying that no one else would enter and that I would be the only good sport to take up the challenge. I began to feel the beginnings of pneumonia; I have never had pneumonia, but I was sure the vice-gripping pain in my chest must be this illness, which would keep me in bed for a month.

 But the evening before the contest, I found out that there were nine other entries and the promised pneumonia had not materialized. I was going to have to go through with this.

            At 8:30 the next morning, the time the contest was to start, I was still trying to get the mildew off my shower tiles with a toothbrush. My husband, Jordan, finally pushed me out the door at 9:00.

              Butterflies, the size of eagles, threatened to keep me from entering Artworks, where the contest was being held. But the ever-effusive owner, Kathy, gave me a hug, “This is going to be fun!  You’ll do great!” Sure, she wasn’t writing, she was just making the coffee and providing snacks.

            I made a big production of finding just the right spot to set up, and finally settled on a long table between two other women. Also at our table was a young boy, madly scribbling away on his pad of paper. I swear, he was even using pencil!

            I plugged in my computer and opened my envelope:

                        Location-Recycling Depot

                        Character-B.C. liquor store employee

                        Topic-Ferry schedule

                        Expression-Happy as a clam.

                                 At this moment, the one thing I was furthest from being was “happy as a clam.” I was suddenly transported back to my grade 13 English final. There was only one question, worth 100% of our mark:

            “Discuss, using detailed examples from Hamlet, Shakespeare’s use of foreshadowing.”

            And I had studied Macbeth.

            It got worse. Garth Labelle, writer and stand-up comedian, had arrived late, made a lot of noise getting settled, and in an hour, he was finished. The young fellow at our table also left about the same time. I had written exactly one line and was in the grips of a paralysing anxiety attack.

            About to withdraw, while I still had a smidgeon of dignity, the very elegant looking woman next to me with the to-die-for silver pageboy, quite unexpectedly exclaimed, “F--k!”

            The other woman at our table, who had been frantically scratching out line after line of her story, looked at me and we broke out laughing. 

            I began to just write whatever came into my head on my writing pad, and if it made no sense, I turned to a new page and started again. I worked to the ending, and back to the start, and back to the end and back to the start. I went back and forth several times, before I finally had a story that incorporated the four requirements, made sense, was entertaining, and that I liked.

            Our table was next to the coffee station, and soon other writers began to come out of their hidden dens for refreshments and to talk. It was comforting to learn that everyone had gone through the same self-doubts at the start, but as each of their stories had evolved, they began to enjoy the process. At this point, we all appeared relaxed and happy with our efforts.

            By 2:30, Jordan began to hang around and wonder when I was going to be done. I had reached the point where I was tired of rereading my story. I would normally walk away from my writing at this point, go clean the bathroom or take a long walk, but of course I couldn’t. I knew that I should do more editing, but I was beginning to make major changes in the storyline and felt that I had better leave it alone.

The next morning, when I finally let Jordan read my entry, he pointed out that somewhere between “cut” and “paste,” my protagonist had adopted two names: G-a-i-l and G-a-l-e.

            Perhaps the judges will think that this is some scathingly brilliant literary ploy.

            But, you know, it really doesn’t matter. The fact is, I am so pleased with myself for going through with this.

            I wonder, do you think that next summer, I could possibly jump off the Galleries?         

            Sometime we just need that push.