I wanted to win.  I'd entered a contest for authors who had published books independently.  I thought I had a really good chance. I'd hired a talented editor to tighten all the loose spots, and the designer who crafted the cover is a gifted artist.  I'd had a lot of positive responses to the book, so mailed out the finished product with high hopes.  When the winners were announced, though, I hadn't even placed. In the past I'd entered other contests and not won. I didn't really think much about it, actually.  I always told myself that simply entering contests was noteworthy--that I hadn't stopped trying--that was success in and of itself.  But I was struggling this time around. I wanted external validation, not merely the internal affirmation that I could provide myself.  As I grappled with the feelings of disappointment, I was able to bring myself back to my foundation--words--and the artistry of piecing them together.

I love words.  Who can resist the beauty of "flecked" or "convivial" or "infeasible?" I never tire of finding new ways to describe the sky. "I wanted to fly into that blue portal."  When I see clothing in a store window, I think about how one of the characters in my novel might like to wear the vintage hat or the red coat.  These are the foundational delights that drive my motivation to write--not winning contests.  

Who doesn't love good writing?  When I find an author I like, their newest book is buried treasure. "Oh, how I wish I could write like that!"  I exclaim when I read the last sentence.  There is no end to the pleasure of a good book.

And so I press on--appreciating the art in a sentence and writing to win--whether hidden or heard.