I submitted my short story collection to the 2018 New American Fiction Prize last summer. I was apprehensive because it was my first contest and I had paid to submit.

I was notified in late November that I had made it to the final round of judging. I was excited and worried. Deep down in the dark, a war waged between my inadequacies and my need to win.

I found out on Monday from a very nice and personal rejection email that I had not won but that I was definitely a finalist.

It hurt.

Hurts.

It took me a while to realize that a group of people found my work worthy of consideration. The person who won has been published in many well known journals and has won several prizes. I can’t really be upset with that as I have not won anything and have only been published in a couple of sorta well known journals.

The only thing I can do now is try to keep getting published and to keep writing.