I make people feel things!

A few weeks ago, I opened my laptop, leg bouncing in anticipation. The feedback from my most recent short story competition had just been posted; and while I already knew I didn’t place, this was the first time I’d be seeing the judge’s comments. I’d also learn how many rounds I got through, each instance of feedback corresponding to one round of judging.

I love getting feedback, good or bad. I love hearing how my art lands with people. I cherish the feeling of putting my art out into the world and seeing what comes back. I was full of nerves, but it was the good kind of nerves.

So, I clicked into my email, logged into the submission platform, and opened the webpage to find a single block of feedback:

“I am really struggling to find something to critique in this piece - I think it really resonated with me, and I thought it was exceptionally strong. It met the theme perfectly, and all of the prompts were handled deftly. The prose was lush and tonally appropriate, the imagery beautiful and devastating by turn, and the character compelling and tragic.”

I admit: I had some mixed feelings.

On the one hand, this sort of feedback deeply reinforces my desire to be a writer. Look! I’m good at it! I make people feel things! My imagery is beautiful, my characters compelling!

On the other hand — wait, one instance of feedback?

…I didn’t make it past the first round?

That’s the thing about art, you know: “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” The only way that could have happened is if the other judge (whose comments I didn’t get to see) didn’t think my story was any good.

It’s a funny feeling, you know: grappling with deep frustration, knowing all the while that you’re experiencing a life lesson in real time.

I’m competitive. I’ve written about this before, so I won’t bore you with more personal reflections on why that is and how it manifests for me. But I will reinforce that — while my competitive spirit certainly has its upsides — it is frequently something that robs me of joy. I end up overlooking accomplishments because they weren’t enough of an accomplishment. I focus too much on the growth that lies ahead of me, rather than appreciating how far I’ve come. I agonize over what the “winners” have done that I did not.

But let’s face it: trying to win at art is laughable. Sure, there are ways to improve my craft, and I definitely still have a long way to go — but there is no singular objective perfection in art. That story I submitted? I wrote it for lovers of Madeline Miller and Olivie Blake, and there are people out there who simply don’t like those authors. (Which is absolutely bonkers to me, but that only further illustrates my point). At the end of the day, if I’m embracing a writing style that just doesn’t jive with the judges, craft excellence isn’t enough. Improvement and skill is only part of the equation. After all, even the finest wine will seem terrible to someone who doesn’t have a taste for it.

All of that to say: I would like to win one of these writing competitions — really, I would. But that can’t be the point. It won’t be the point. I participate in these because they pose me with interesting creative challenges. They help me to write stories I never would have written. They reinforce the fact that I. AM. A. WRITER. I make art, and it makes people feel things!

Even if my fiery little heart disagrees.

If you’d like to read the short story referenced in this post, you can read that here: Aeneas, Hero of Troy