Writing Contests are a Lot Like Dating
Entering writing contests is a lot like dating. You try this, you try that, without much success. You invest time, emotional energy, and money hoping for results, even while you’re pretty sure the prize (winning the contest or finding a forever-partner) are likely not going to happen this round.
Your gut just knows it. Whether your gut knows because this has been the regular outcome, or because your gut has psychic abilities, is unclear.
They say it’s a numbers game (both about dating and about entering contests), but I happen to know several folks who only dated one person. I know several more folks who only dated a handful of people before finding their forever partner.
It’s a numbers game for most, and then there are the lucky bastards who everyone holds up as the beacons of success. It’s probably best not to mention we unfollowed their beacon on Instagram yesterday.
“Just do what they did!” They say. They are the same people who have never written a book, nor pursued publication. Nor have they entered a writing contest. And they’ve dated exactly one person and have been married one day.
I do not listen to advice from people like this.
Back to dating—and writing contests—eventually you’ve put yourself out there so many times, you begin to wonder if this game is worth it. After all, you’re throwing your heart into a feeding frenzy of thousands of people. You will—inevitably—emerge with scratches on your arms, tattered clothes, and pain in places you didn’t know could feel pain. Then you dust yourself off and you do it again.
Why this insanity?
Well, I can only answer for myself, why I play this game that sometimes seems very cruel. I keep “putting myself out there” for the simple reason that there is more to be achieved than an ultimate prize. Dating is an opportunity to get to know myself, get to know someone else, and grow a little in the process.
For contests (or any submission of the kind), it’s a chance to get to know myself, get to know my characters, and grow a little in the process.
And, gosh, dare I say there’s also a small amount of hope present? Hope that this time my gut will be wrong. This time I will be surprised? Tomorrow, I’ll receive a phone call from a long-forgotten fistful of spaghetti thrown at the wall and discover a single noodle decided to stick.
Where would we be without this hope? There’s a resolve present, an ever-so-slight resolve, that tells us there’s something on the other side of this hope. Even if whatever that something is does not at all look like what we want or dream or plan for. Something, someday, will stick to that proverbial wall.
Alas, I’m writing this because I’m pep-talking myself into texting an old fling while simultaneously preparing to enter one of my novels into a contest. I have a feeling one of these tasks will be completed by the time I hit “publish” on this post.
Then I’ll do a little dance around the apartment and try to forget I just entered an arena where death is almost certain—but for a little hope.