I entered a writing contest recently. I was not chasing prestige. I was not trying to prove anything. I already won an award years ago with my debut novel, which is still wild to me considering it had enough formatting issues to make an editor burst into tears.
This time I was mostly in it for the prize money. I am an indie author with bills, after all. If my work could give me a financial high five, I was not going to turn it down.
When the results came out, my most recent novel did not place at all. Not a finalist. Not a runner up. Not even a small, polite nod. Which is disappointing, but the part that truly stings is this:
Contest rules say you cannot ask why.
You get the no without the explanation.
It’s like a breakup text from someone who swore they cared.
As writers, we live for context. We thrive on feedback. We ask questions for sport. But in contests, there is no room for clarification. You cannot write them a thoughtful twelve paragraph inquiry about the judging criteria. You cannot request a breakdown of the scoring. You cannot ask how a book with depth, polish, and emotional weight was overlooked while an early work filled with rookie mistakes received applause years ago.
You accept the no, shrug at the silence, and try to avoid spiraling into the imaginary scenario where a judge spilled coffee on your file and quietly moved on.
It is baffling. My later books are better. Objectively better. The craft improved. The characters evolved. The sentences sharpened. So how did the newest one get ignored?
The uncomfortable truth is that contests are subjective. Entirely. Judges are people with preferences, moods, and possibly a deep affection for the exact opposite of whatever you wrote. Maybe they wanted something lighter. Maybe they wanted something more dramatic. Maybe they were tired that day. Maybe your book simply did not match the personal style of whoever had it in their stack.
It has nothing to do with your worth as a writer.
It also has nothing to do with your growth, your skill, or the years you spent refining your voice.
Sometimes the thing you are most proud of slips past someone else without landing at all.
And yes, I entered partly for the potential financial reward. That does not mean I felt entitled to win. It means I am a human being who likes groceries and electricity. There is nothing shameful about hoping your hard work might help cover a bill. Writing requires time, energy, and patience, and those things cost money. Hoping for a little return is not arrogance. It is practical adulthood.
Losing without an explanation is annoying, but it is also a reminder. Awards are not a measure of talent. They are not a measure of improvement. They are not a measure of the story’s impact. They are simply the opinion of a small group of strangers on a particular day, and their decision does not rewrite the truth of your work.
So what now?
I keep writing.
I keep growing.
I keep submitting stories that matter to me.
And I keep my sense of humor intact, because honestly, what else can you do?
If you are a writer who has ever received a silent no, take heart. You are not alone. Your work is still valuable. Your stories still matter. Your best book may not have placed this time, but that does not make it any less your best. Keep going. Keep refining your voice. Keep showing up to the page with honesty and grit.
Contests are moments.
Writing is the journey.
And the journey is where the real story lives.
xo Ametra.
