April Winchell

I need your help.

A few days ago, I entered a contest on MySpace.

This contest was put together by 4 very talented published authors who call themselves The Memoirists Collective.

The prize for winning this thing is an opportunity to have your memoirs evaluated by a top-notch publishing house, and possibly published. That's a really good prize.

I never really enter contests, but this is an amazing shot. I have tried to get my stuff in front of publishers in the past, and never got very far. And as you know by looking at my career, I don't have a lot of good people in my corner, trying to open doors for me.

To enter this contest, I had to write an 800 word piece, break it into three parts, and post it into the comments section of the Memoirists page. This enables all of MySpace to view these entries, and anyone interested could vote.

My first thought was to enter a chapter from Dummy Dearest, which is the story of growing up with an abusive, drug addicted, bi-polar ventriloquist father. But you know, who hasn't grown up with one?

Instead, I submitted a piece from something I've been writing for a while called "American Midol". Basically, it's a collection of near-misses in life and in show business that have left me permanently premenstrual.

Part of what makes me bitter, is that I am a little too much of an insider to really be an outsider. But I'm also too outside to be inside. People have always told me that I am unique, funny and entertaining, but so unlike other people in this business that they "didn't know what to do" with me.

And that's kind of my curse, I think. People in my business love a new idea, as long as someone has already done it. I am kind of a new idea in some ways, and I'm still waiting for someone to give me a shot.

So here I am.

In any case, I would love to get into the finals on this contest, and see if I can finally catch a break. if I get into the final 5, I'll have an oppoortunity to submit another 2,000 words, and then it will all be on me. But right now, I need you. I needyou to help me get that far.

At the moment, I'm in second place. A woman named Tiff is kicking my ass hard, but I've got a little more time to turn this around.

That's where you come in.

I am asking you to please read my piece. It's a humiliating story about doing a play with Kevin Spacey in 1978 in the San Fernando Valley, and how we used to smoke cigarettes and make out and think we were actors.

If you like it, I'd really appreciate your vote.

To vote, click on this link. It will take you to a page that looks like this (only a lot bigger):

Scroll down to the July 17th entries, and you'll find my name with a voting button above it.

Well, it's not exactly name. They spelled it wrong. Which I think is perfect.

I really appreciate your help and support.

And now, here's the story: