Unpopular Opinions

"You only fail if you stop writing." -Ray Bradbury

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"Listen, it's not about you. Thousands of stories are entered on a daily basis, just because you didn't win doesn't mean you're not a great author."

"I wasn't even one of the finalists," I replied, shutting my laptop forcefully. "And you're not even a writer, so stop pretending you know what it feels like because you don't."

"I'm not pretending. I'm just saying that not winning a writing contest does not personally affect your stories, or make them worth any less." Mario sighs, leaning back in his chair.

"It does personally affect my stories thank you very much", I snapped at him. "And you sitting here trying to make me feel better doesn't help me out."

"Would you let me read your entry?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. I power on my computer and shove it over to him without a word. I decide to focus on the snow that is steadily falling from the grey November sky out the window.

We sit for several minutes in silence, while he scrolls through my story which has consumed countless hours of precious time in my week.

I had thought it was spectacular, a real winner this time. I had thought my twist on the prompt was creative, bold, clever even. But imagine my surprise when I logged onto my account before light had even appeared in the sky, expecting the name Natalie Wittenberg to be victorious. But no. My heart had sunk in my chest as I read the actual winner's story. It was a tale that had been elegantly woven together, crafted into a masterpiece. No wonder the judges had picked it. I had a faint glimmer of hope in my heart though, maybe I had gotten at least an honorable mention. At least possibly my creativity might have been called out, and I might be distinguished from the other hundreds of writers who had submitted their work. But I was wrong. My work was lost in an endless sea of stories down at the bottom of the list where nowone ever has the patience to scroll.

Mario had found me fuming at the dining room table, glaring at the computer screen.

"I just finished reading", he says, interrupting my thoughts. "What was the prompt that you chose to answer?"

"It says at the top of the screen", I snort rudely. Mario doesn't seem affected by my comment though.

"My apologies. I see it now", he nods. "I think you chose the hardest one."

"Well I wanted to be ambitious, to stand out. But it didn't even matter in the end anyways."

"Do you want to hear what I think?" He asks, calmly. "Or no?"

"I guess so, but don't just say 'it's good' because I know it isn't", I sigh, rolling my eyes.

"I think you did a nice job with the dialogue. The character development between Anna and Maria is also quite well done. But, you didn't really answer the prompt, and your story title is a little misleading", Mario says bluntly.

"What do you mean? I answered the prompt! And my title is exciting!" I blurt, my anger starting to erupt.

"The prompt was: write about someone who finds a strange object in their bedroom, and although you do start your first paragraph with Anna finding the music box, you don't touch on it again for the rest of your story. I think the judges were looking for the whole story to cover that prompt", Mario explained to me. But I'm not really listening to him.

"Well what do they expect? The whole story can't just be about her holding the stupid music box, who would find that entertaining? These judges are so single-minded!"

"Well, you could have chosen a different prompt. A lot of the other ones are more open ended, the prompts cater to the styles of many different writers", he points out. "Did you read any of the other entries for this prompt?"

"No", I answer bitterly, "I don't need to be reminded of how much better everyone else did than me."

"If you want to improve I suggest taking a look, let's do it now."

"Fine."

Mario clicks on an entry that has gotten an honorable mention with the same prompt as mine. He reads it out loud to me and my thoughts are filled with jealousy. How did this person even come up with this idea? Why couldn't I come up with ideas like this? My entry makes me look like an immature, silly, amateur, writer.

"See how she wrote the whole story about the character Gerald finding the locket in his room? She kept the main focus on that one event and expanded with great detail on it. Her title, Great Misgivings, fits her plot and is intriguing", Mario says, pointing to the screen.

"Well if you like it so much, go find her and read her stuff!" I shout, standing up and pushing my chair back.

"This isn't about me liking it. It's about you seeing how you could improve."

"My story was good! The judges just don't like it because it didn't fit their unrealistic crazy standards!" I say defensively.

"A writer takes advice," Mario states, "you have to be willing to listen."

"I do listen! These prompts are supposed to let you express your writing style, not dampen it!"

"You want to win this contest, no?" Mario asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes of course I do, I literally just-"

"Then listen to what I'm saying."

"Okay", I grumble, sliding back into my chair.

"Your writing is good," he explains, "but there are things that you need to work on. This author didn't win first prize either, she's probably been writing for a while." He clicks on her profile, and sure enough he's right. She's written 380 stories based on different prompts for different contests, and Great Misgivings is the only story she got an honorable mention for.

"You see? She's kept writing even though she didn't get any recognition for her last 379 entries. It takes time to get to this point", he says. "And it's not like her other stories are necessarily bad, they just weren't what the judges were looking for."

"I guess so", I begrudgingly admit.“You should keep writing, Natalie.” He pats me on the shoulder. “I’ve got to run to work now, but I'll see you later.”

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I spend my days furiously typing away on my computer, reading past winner’s entries, and spell checking practically every sentence I write. As the week goes on I spend hours writing and editing my new story. When I finally feel confident, I submit my writing to be judged. The prize for this contest is $250 dollars, and of course a virtual trophy next to the chosen entry. “I did it”, I croak groggily. I’m pretty spent from thinking so hard all week. 

“Good job, I think this is a really promising entry.” Mario says, “but even if you don’t win I hope you're proud of it.”

“I am,” I tell him honestly. “I worked really hard on it.”

“Yeah you did, even if it doesn't win you should show it to the world.”

“Maybe”, I contemplate. 

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I practically fall down the stairs as I rush down to the kitchen. It’s Friday, the day that the winner for the contest is announced. I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer of hope as I open my laptop, and pull up my email. My heart beats fast as I scroll, and my heart drops when I see the name next to the trophy emoji.

 Gerald Marinsky for his short story “Stone paths”.

 Not Natalie Wittenberg for her short story “Lighted Lanterns”. 

I scroll down to the honorable mentions. 

Lee Anne Frilin, Georgio Scille, and Alexis Bordue. 

“So, what’s the results?” Mario asks, coming down the stairs with a cup of coffee in his hand. 

“I didn’t win”, I say deflated. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks, cautiously. 

“Disappointed, but not crushed. I really did try with this one so I’m okay.”

“Yes you did, just keep writing and you’ll continue to improve.” 

“You're right, hopefully Gerald Marinsky is enjoying his $250”, I say with a pouting face. Mario chuckles. 

“I’m sure he is. I was reading his profile and he’s actually written a couple award winning short stories for young adults. What are you doing?”

“I’m working on something else that’s going to be a show stopper,” I say with a gleam in my eye. “A novel.”