Earlier this year I entered my current work in progress in the Pacific Northwest Writer's Conference (PNWA) writing contest.  The conference is in Seattle the last weekend of July.  Top eight selections in each category were to be notified and attend the conference where the winners would be announced.

I received no such notification.  Thinking that no news was good news, or just because I was afraid to know, I delayed checking their website.  I went on their website today and discovered I didn't make the cut.

I had no illusions about my chances for this contest, not after I re-read my entry after sending it off and discovering a couple of typos I had missed, and definitely not after taking a couple of writing classes and realizing other--bigger--errors in judgment.  It was no surprise I didn't final.  I wasn't even that disappointed.  I took my shot.  It missed.  This time.

My husband, the good man that he is, tried to console me.  I kept telling him I wasn't upset, and I wasn't bummed.  I hadn't gotten my hopes up, and I hadn't delluded myself about my chances.  Nerve-wracking as it was, entering the contest pushed me out of my protective shell.  It forced me to expand.  I needed that experience to prove to myself that yes, I am an author, and yes, this is what I have to do to be published: I have to put myself out there, put my work out there, and be judged.  In a broad sense, even though this attempt failed, it succeeded in other aspects because I entered a contest, I broke my shell.  At that point, success or failure doesn't matter.  Others, not just my test readers and critique partners, have seen my work.  Total strangers.  So it didn't win.  They saw it anyway.  Cat's outa the bag now.

This attempt has reinforced my resolve.  I didn't make the cut this time because I made rookie mistakes.  I won't make those mistakes next time.  And yes, there will be a next time.  Many next times.