Why do we writers enter writing competitions? Do we feel the need to compete as if writing was a physical sport? Do we have to prove the merit of our mental prowess? Do we want to win prizes, collect credentials, impress our peers? Are we seeking professional advice or validation as a writer?

Writing contests can be fun and a great boost in our journey to being a published author. They can bolster our self esteem and if we’re lucky, add to our resumes. In some cases, they may even be the start of new friendships as my first entry was. One of my judges strongly pursued my friendship, even phoning me from Pennsylvania, and was instrumental in my decision to join CRW and RWA.

Writing contests certainly aren’t cheap. A contest can deplete a writer’s personal funds by twenty-five to fifty dollars or more, depending on the contest requirements. And, they are time consuming. The first contests I entered, I simply chose my favorite scene or chapter, printed and mailed to any contest that was looking for the particular genre I was writing. I found out the hard way, it isn’t enough to write well, I had to be able to read the minds of the contest coordinators, judges and editors or agents that might request a partial of the winning entry. Then I had to take my favorite scene or chapter and re-write it to fit my expectations of their expectations.

I knew of a woman who entered the same chapter in thirteen consecutive contests, tweaking it each time to fit the guidelines and suggestions of the judges until it became a winner. Then she continued to enter it in several more contests, placing or winning. She knew what she was after and she went hell-bent for leather getting it. More power to her, but at that time, she was still unpublished in spite of her impressive wins. I wonder if all her energy might not have been better spent in queries and submissions.

Whatever our reasons for competing, we certainly have no lack of contests to enter. They’re available in a never-ending supply, creating the dilemma: Which ones should we enter? What are the prizes? A plaque? A certificate? Twenty-five dollars and a gold-plated pin? A feather boa? (Which I fully intend to have, one day—even bought the shoes to match.) And what do these prizes bring with them? A peek at our work by editors/agents seeking new authors in our genre? A full critique of the entry? A promise of publication?

In most cases, we receive our entries back in our self-addressed envelope, covered with enough stamps to make a car payment. Uh-oh. They sent it back. Must be we didn’t win. Now we have to open that envelope and actually read why we didn’t win. I don’t know about you, but when I’m faced with that envelope, I’m certain my entry was unworthy and inferior to every person who placed in or won the contest. I go on line and seek out the winning entries, hoping I can gain insight by their titles alone as to why their entries were better than mine.

It takes a while for me to remember writing is subjective. What one editor or judge may like, another may find boring or distasteful. I tell myself, the loss of a competition doesn’t mean my work is bad. It simply didn’t work for those who had the chance to read a portion of it. I usually take a day or two before I open that envelope and read the judges comments. I have to say, I have never been disappointed. I have received constructive criticism, sound advice and strong encouragement in every contest I’ve entered. I’ve even won a few. And each time, dashing aside the pain of losing and accepting the remarks I invited by entering, becomes a little easier.

I’ve been writing for years and I continue to enter writing competitions, but I am much more selective than I used to be. A few well-known contests with agent/editor readings are all I feel compelled to enter. I think I’ve reached the point where it’s more prudent to spend my time and money querying instead of entering.