I won the first writing contest that I ever entered. And that win almost permanently stalled my writing journey. The fantasy adventure story I wrote qualified me as a finalist. Never mind that the work was derivative, including elements such as the flaming bull from the animated movie The Last Unicorn, folks praised my debut writing submission, and I basked in my family’s pride.
We few who advanced to the finals were taken to a classroom, provided with a pen and paper, and given an hour to draft a new story. Deciding the best strategy was to stick with a winning formula, I took the Hollywood route by writing a sequel to the original submission. Stealing more inspiration than an open-source large language model, I penned another high-concept fantasy adventure, earning myself first place and an airplane ride.
It felt like manifest destiny. Writing was what I was meant to do. Winning was inevitable. Like Rumpelstiltskin, my pen could not help but spin pure gold, and the world was taking notice. I could already taste my successful authorial debut. Step aside, C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien; a new master of fantasy was on the rise.
My success drew the attention of a local celebrity author. And when I attended her creative writing workshop, her evaluation of my work only confirmed what I already suspected: I was a genius. A writing prodigy. In her class, I wrote a high-concept science fiction adventure, even more derivative than my fantasy stories, if only to prove that I could be the master of multiple genres.
She liked it so much (of course she did) that our author-in-residence took my story to her publisher, believing there was a good chance that it was exactly the sort of story they were looking for (of course it was). I braced myself for the inevitable good news, confident that my unblemished track record described my destiny.
And that’s why I was emotionally not at all prepared for the letter of rejection that followed. It had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t succeed. And rejection was not something I had experienced before. Certainly not when it came to my creative endeavours. Devastated is an understatement.
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. My story was shit. It was a cobbled-together conglomeration of Star Wars meets Krull that no one in their right mind would be interested in reading.
The failure took the wind out of my sails. I didn’t stop writing, but I did stop submitting. I was ten years old. I wouldn’t submit another speculative fiction story for forty years. Yes, for four decades, the sting of that first rejection taught me to keep my words to myself.
You see, early success is not always a good thing. Sometimes it creates false expectations. Like success is supposed to be easy. It isn’t. Not for anyone.
In contrast to my early win in writing, when I started judo at eight years old, I was terrible. Got beaten up every practice by the eight-year-old girls. Sure, over time, I progressed. But no one ever mistook me for anything better than competent. Even today, forty-six years later, my judo would be described as decent. Sure, if you are new to judo, my skills may seem amazing. I have been at it for long enough, after all, but you will find plenty of black belts as good or better than me in most dojos around the world. No one ever pegged me as a champ.
Same with CrossFit. I was weak and out of shape when I started. Girls half my size lifted more weight, faster than I could. But starting out at the bottom in sport, there was nowhere to go but up. There were no expectations of winning, or even of being good. I just focussed on showing up and putting in the work. And do you know what happens when you do that consistently over time?
Yes, you eventually develop some confidence and competence. No, I’m not going to win any CrossFit competitions anytime soon, but I’m not going to embarrass myself either. And though it took me a while to get there, there’s a few skills I’m actually quite good at.
It is the hard work I’ve put in to develop a basic competency as an athlete through judo and CrossFit that taught me the grit and perseverance required to succeed at most endeavours in life. Including business, because let me tell you, building a successful CrossFit gym was no cakewalk either.
The long road to success helped build my tolerance for failure. Until I felt emotionally capable of facing my writing dream again. I had some early success in 2023 when my flash fiction Raccoons was accepted for publication in an anthology by Wingless Dreamer. But this time, I didn’t let early success fool me into believing the path would be easy.
My next two short stories would not be picked up until 2026. There have been a lot of rejections along the way. And there’s a bunch more waiting up ahead for me. But I’m not ten years old anymore and my skin’s thickened by decades of failure in the gym, in the dojo and in business. Failure, I’ve learned, is par for the course. Success is just (insert random number here) failures away.
Over the weekend, I received three consecutive rejections over three consecutive days. Leave It All on the Field was rejected Friday, Spirits of Innovation on Saturday, and Backcountry Adventures on Sunday. Three for three is a new rejection record for me. What does it mean? It means I’m in the game. Yay, me!
This is the writer’s journey. No easy accolades. I’m no longer a ten-year-old expecting to be showered in praise by my parents, teachers, and peers. I’m a fifty-something gym owner working to break into a new industry filled with people who have dedicated their lives and education to this. The losses are going to outnumber the wins. By a wide margin. That’s okay, because I’ve learned how to lose and still keep forging ahead.
Here is my favorite anthem, courtesy of Garfunkel and Oates:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_JI5cqakIU
Today I’ll submit another story and wait to hear back.
Meanwhile, here is my Substack story of the week: https://brainsoupfic.substack.com/p/thug-life-34a