Beginner’s Luck
By Jill Davis

       Writing contest jitters consumed me as I sat at the awards banquet. I surveyed my table, one mystery writer, one poet, one children’s writer, one short story author. I was the beginner. The New York Times reviewed author welcomed me as if I was new blood for the starship.
       “I know the deed has been done, but tell me what you submitted, dear, so I can hope for you.”
       “Just the five best pieces that I’ve ever written,” I told her. I returned her sportsmanship by asking what she had entered.
       “A poem. It’s sort of expected,” she said with a sweet laugh.
       The children’s writer whispered in my ear, “She’s the poet laureate.”
       As the humor winners were announced I drifted back in time. Finishing my entry had coincided with a visit from a depressed friend. I read it to her and she laughed in all the right places. Her brain squirted so much serotonin that she was cured. My name was not called as one of the funniest authors. Too bad she wasn’t one of the judges.
       True Stories was the next category. My piece was about my handicapped son and a goofy therapist. Again, my name was not called, but a friend who was a family counselor had read the final draft and her ahs, tears, and laughter fell like remembered manna at my feet.
       I listened for my name as the religious poem category was announced. No certificate came my way. My heart floated to when grief had taken me a thousand miles from home, to pen the poem and lay it at the memorial wall at ground zero. I knelt and wrote my tribute in magic marker on a poster board. Flashes and clicks distracted me. I looked up to see that people were taking pictures of me, writing my poem.
       Next, the inspirational awards were announced. I was really crossing my fingers on this one, but again I didn’t win anything. I had written rationalizing why I would not shave my head and be bald with one of my friends who had eventually overcome cancer. I wanted to frame the composition and certificate together and surprise her with it. Later I told her of my intentions and read “For Tara” to her. She opened a bottle of champagne and asked what color the mat should be.
Poetry awards came next and I was sure that I would see the Poet Laureate take first prize. She did rise from her seat, although sooner than expected as she took third place. I knew I was not qualified to vacuum her eraser crumbs. The judges agreed.
       I never rose from my seat to walk past all the tables. I drove home without a single award; I was fully prepared to pull over and cry, but I didn’t feel the dejection that I thought I would. Instead I was thrilled to be a beginner. Laughter, tears, ahs, pictures, champagne, these are more than rewards; they are Pulitzers to me. Sure, a check, a certificate, a plaque would be validating. But what keeps me feeling like a winner? Those who are gracious enough to let down their guard and receive my gift. Writers who generously invest themselves in my promise and possibility. After a full sweep loss, is there anywhere to go but up? Will I try again for next year’s writing contest? You bet.
       Recently, I went to the Post Office to mail another entry. The postal worker was running for city council for the first time. I told her about the rejection to success ratio I had learned at the writer’s workshop and that Lincoln lost eight elections before becoming president. After she lost the election, I told her how proud I was of her. As Roosevelt said, it is best to fail “while daring greatly, so that your place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.” I reminded her I was the happiest loser she ever met and invited her into my loser’s circle.