Today, one of my savvy colleagues told me about the Paris Literary Prize, a novella contest run by the renowned Paris bookstore, Shakespeare and Company (”Shakespeare and Company” is actually French for “the place where dreams are born,” in case you didn’t know). First prize is ten thousand British pounds, a weekend trip to Paris, and a chance to give a reading at the bookstore.
I hesitated when I saw the hefty entry fee–fifty pounds–but nevertheless, I’m tempted. Paris, books, a reading, fifteen minutes of literary fame, a concrete reason to start (and finish) a new project, and a cash prize? The remotest possibility of any of it coming true is enough to send me typing furiously on my laptop.