So I haven’t updated in weeks, I’ve written even less in that time, and now I’m back with a less than thrilling addition.
But we’re here, so.
A day ago I got the results from my very last ever Scholastic Art and Writing Competition submissions, in which I sent three short stories and a poetry collection. And I was satisfied with all of them.
Turns out I got an Honourable Mention. One of the shorts claimed the title.
For the many of whoever’s actually reading this, the tiers of awards in this such competition go Honourable Mention, Silver Key, Gold Key and if you strike a Gold Key: Silver and Gold Medals.
Last year, my poetry earned me a Silver Key.
Was that the reason for this feeling of failure I had as I looked at my screen yesterday, and saw the award I got with such excitement four years ago was the exact same in this present moment?
Maybe. And maybe wording it like that, or thinking about it like that, would allow me to make some poetic parallel about how that particular chapter and journey of my life has opened and closed with the same accomplishment.
But I don’t want to be that positive, because I felt none of the childlike glee that made me burst into tears four years ago.
I simply saw the result, downloaded the certificate, and closed out of the window. I nodded, had other things to do, moved on. Not disappointed, but not much anything else, either.
But I was thinking about it today, and I realized that I was so scared to submit the poetry I did this year, and I felt like I’d failed (upon not being validated by people I’ve never met).
I had the thought, “If I haven’t gotten any better in the past four years, what am I doing? If I am stagnant in my art, what is it all for?
Isn’t the purpose of our lives to be constantly bettering ourselves?
Learning and growing and blooming and shit?
So what have I been doing?
It’s all the doubt and icky feelings that come crawling back in that made me feel like I hadn’t done good enough. This competition has been the biggest part of my adolescent writing life and now it’s over, and I had to let it go with no progress to show for it?
Last night I forced the feeling away as I tried to sleep with the picture of how excited I was four years ago. I was shaking as I told the news to my parents.
Today I submitted my poetry into a magazine. My hands didn’t shake as I filled out the forms.
I don’t know if I’ll hear back. I don’t know if I’ll be good enough, or if they’ll let me down. But I did what I didn’t want to, and I made myself be brave. It’s something I’m trying hard to be better at.
So for that I don’t think I’ve shown no growth.
I think I’m just still in the process of becoming.
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