The Rules are the Selur
Does anyone else obsess over contest rules? I read and re-read and read yet again. I create a bullet point document with submission requirements. I check the FAQ in case there’s a question I haven’t thought of but others have and it’s really important. I mull over questions maybe the contest hasn’t thought of—everyone asks you to remove identifying information; this contest doesn’t; did they perhaps overlook that requirement? Finally, cringing, I hit the Submit button, certain I’ve missed something.
My phobia might be related to actual deficiencies. I don’t do logistics well. I find directions near-bought impossible to follow—assumptions seem to lurk between the actual numbered directions, assumptions everyone else understands but not me. Even recipes give me the heebie-jeebies: does “slice the apple” mean slice the apple lengthwise or across the middle? Who knows!
Maybe due to these proclivities or maybe just because, my life has been full of failure to follow the rules. Not, I assure you, because I’m a rebel. I’m full-on trying to pay attention and get it right when I’m gob-smacked by doing it wrong. Standing on stage in the fifth grade, my red plastic flute poised, finally having mastered playing “Good King Wenceslas” to the point of joining the try-outs, I almost wept when the teacher asked what I was doing on stage—the try-outs had closed the day before. How did I miss that?
It doesn’t help that contest managers use words that conjure frowning eyebrows: DO NOT. NOT ALLOWED. READ RULES CAREFULLY. SUBMISSIONS THAT FAIL TO FOLLOW THE RULES WILL BE REJECTED. FAIL, FAIL, FAIL.
Okay, I made that last one up. But sometimes that’s how it feels: we are making these rules as detailed and arbitrary and confusing as possible because . . . why? I don’t know. Ultimately, I must conclude the problem is mine: I’m not any good at this. So to compensate I read and re-read and read yet again. And, if I fail, I hope for kind administrators who—like the 5th grade teacher who grudgingly allowed me to play my plastic flute, fingers flying, during the Christmas play—forgive my errors.
here’s to creative synthesis . . .