Circumstances of writers who entered the 29th Annual International 3-Day Novel Contest, compiled from responses to a random survey of entrants.

You’re certainly not doing it for the money: that becomes clear when you imagine the weight of two quarters in your palm

A question of some concern among my friends when we were growing up in the fifties and sixties was how old you had to be to go to war.

Only loved ones remember what an Alzheimer’s patient has lost. Yoshikazu Ehara is my grandfather. Eight years ago, when he was eighty, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Daily life has become a struggle for Yoshikazu and his family as the disease has slowly erased his memories and abilities.

There I sat suspended in time looking into time my love that stood there speaking in silent whispers melting every crude emotion, every mortal sin, every regret away with her flesh of heaven of endless time of infinity and I loved her eyes of rainbows...

“There will be no elephants in this relationship,” my lover declared. I laughed and kissed him on his misguided lips. Decided not to tell him about the small herd I keep in my garage.

When your gran was twenty—wouldn’t you know—I had two fellows on the go. I lived in a small town in them days. Every Tom, Dick and Henry knew which old gals were still blessed with the curse and which old buggers could get ’er up.

How I remember it: Me, haircut weeks overdue, a jean jacket borrowed from your dead brother’s closet, sleeves too long, grains of sand in the folds, itchy collar, the way it hung like someone else’s skin.