Paid Writing Contests Novels & Stories

“God forbid I help you with your class work and research. I’d rather pluck out my eyeballs.” He smiled. “Etta Publications contacted me today.” My attention snapped to him. “Remember the political commentary competition we entered last month?” he said. “We made the shortlist.” I stared at him. “You’re lying.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a white envelope. The Etta logo stared back at me. My chest tightened. “Final round interview,” he said. “The winner gets fifty thousand dollars and a one-year contract.” Fifty thousand dollars. That amount could cover my tuition, feeding and rent for a year.

“They expect us to give them special consideration?” When the secretary nodded, Maia tore apart the page containing the special participants. The secretary was stunned. “Ms. Maia….” “A contest is a contest. We can’t allow this, okay? Tell the sponsors they can always withdraw from the show as long as they pay the penalty for breach of contract.” “Okay, Ms. Maia. ” The secretary now realized why Aiken always looked at Maia her admiringly—she was awesome! … Upon release, The Quest and its participants’ self-introduction videos of the participants became the top ten trending topics on Twitter.

There was no category in this year's competition but each school presented its best three for the writing event. The writing event has more sponsors than the whole game combined. Many oil firms and companies placed huge amounts on the essay competition and the judges are external judges from the different universities of the nation as selected by the competition organizers. The conference hall was filled up at 7:00 pm, 20 minutes before the debate and essay competition. Schools were seated in different areas of the hall, each very expectant and ready to support their students when the competition started properly. “There wouldn't be fear in me had it been we have Shola with us, just that he

"Take a look and see if you want to participate in it. Your short story is only about a few thousand words long anyway." Caroline's eyes lit up, and she said, "I can take part in it?" "Of course. There are no regulations regarding the participants for this contest. You can take part in it as long as you can write. To be honest, the organizers just want to make money off Marietta's fame," said Betty. Sean felt embarrassed when he heard that.

My fingers feel numb as I pick it up, unfolding it slowly. The handwriting is Hayden's. “Get Eden Clarke to give it up before prom night. Proof required (photo or video). Winner gets $10,000 from each participant. If I lose, I pay double.” Below it are three signatures. Two of which I don’t recognize. And then there’s Hayden's. My knees buckle. I sink to the floor, the photos scattered around me. The water in the bathroom shuts off. I still don't move. No, I can't.

“You seem to forget who signs your paycheck. Your loyalty should be to me, not my mother.” “I know that, but..." He couldn't hear the rest of her words because his name was mentioned, so he turned to pay attention to the MC. The MC was saying that Stefan will present the contest's overall winner's award as the one that made the most impact on their school for that year. On hearing that, Stefan's lips spread in a smile that was their way of saying his company made the highest monetary donation. The MC mentioned other guests that will present to the two runners-up. Jessica already knew what was responsible for Anna's dampened expression as she came back to take her seat, her eyes darting aroun

“But everyone has a breaking point. Keep going.” After a few more exchanges, she wrote back: I don’t remember entering any contest. This seems weird. I clenched my jaw, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. “She’s not making this easy.” “Patience,” Marco murmured. The next response included a link to the website and instructions for verifying her win. We even had a fake confirmation email ready to send if she clicked the link. For hours, there was silence. Then, finally: Okay. I’ll come, but only to check it out. This better not be a scam.

"September fourteenth." One day after the contest deadline. She noted this with the part of her mind that catalogued things before deciding what to do with them. The timing was not coincidence—Cornelius's lawyers would have known the contest, known the deadline, known that September thirteenth was the date by which she needed to have uploaded one hundred and fifty thousand words to a serialized fiction platform to compete for a prize that was, to them, irrelevant. They had set the hearing for the day after on purpose, a small, calculating additional pressure. It was the kind of move that was not illegal and not dramatic, communicating in its sheer precision that they had been paying very clo

"Nancy, my laptop broke, and I need one for the competition. Please help me. Otherwise, I won't be able to compete, and then I won't be able to pay everyone's tuition." I looked at her coldly. "You don't need to pay my tuition, so why should I help you? There are plenty of people in this class. I'm sure one of them would be happy to lend you one." Someone pulled Wendy over. "Wendy, I'll lend you mine. Don't beg someone so cold and heartless." I just smiled and walked out of the classroom. To be safe, I called my dad. Our company was one of the sponsors of the university's creative writing competition, so I asked him to speak to the organizers and change it to an on-site format with randomly

Subject: URGENT – PRIVATE PROJECT The email was short and straight to the point. We have reviewed your work. A client would like you to ghostwrite his story. Payment: $50,000 upon completion. Amara blinked. Once. Then again. Her eyes remained fixed on the screen as if the words might suddenly rearrange themselves into something more reasonable. But they didn’t. Fifty thousand dollars? Her heart began to pound, slow at first, then faster, louder—until she could feel it in her chest, in her throat, even in her fingertips resting on the edge of her laptop.