Living on the Shortlist

It's a glass of strong tea with a slice of lemon—more sweet than bitter, easy to drink, but always bites you at the end. I'm not talking about what's in my mug; I'm talking about the shortlist.

Today, I received what I thought was a rejection from a prestigious writing retreat. This is, much like my daily cup of tea, something I crave. The only writing retreat I've allowed myself since I entered the work world was a four-day excursion just before Lockdown II launched in the UK. That gaunt silence that covered the streets in late autumn, the piercing sunsets, and the wary pittance of human contact were perfect conditions for me to make significant headway in my novel. I turned off all social media notifications and lived in an undisturbed reverie. I tasted freedom, and what joy an uninhibited writing retreat can provide. Then, every time I purchased a meal or new filter for my face mask, I was reminded why I could retreat: I had the funds to do so.

Enter writing retreat fellowships. They are advertised alongside prestigious journal submissions and promise many of the benefits of a vacation: disengagement from responsibility, seeing a new city or playing with nuzzling cats in a barn, meeting new people, having time to just be yourself and sort out your thoughts. The added benefit of a retreat is the mentorship opportunity, as many offer a staff of experienced writers and tutors ready to help you focus on your "craft". So you get a vacation, a workshop, and a course all in one. And, if you win, you usually don't have to pay the $500+ to go.

Personally, I don't submit to retreats often. Part of it could be free time's intimidating promise: what do I do with myself when there is no job to do, nothing to clean or cook? Another large part of it is the sad coincidence that I only seriously committed to my writing once the world had shut down.

But in 2023, there was a fellowship opportunity at an established writer's cottage to work on a novel in the serene American countryside. The only time constraint was you had to spend your week at the cottage before the end of December 2024. After much hesitation and recovery from burnout, I submitted.

And now, the result. This wasn't a "you've been shortlisted! Watch this inbox for the final announcement!" email. This was a rejection email with a hint of lemon buried in its second paragraph: "your piece was one of our five finalists."

Somehow, that result carried me through the literary agent rejection and memoir contest rejection that also popped by today. Somehow, being acknowledged, being shortlisted, is enough recognition to keep me going. I can't feature this fellowship in my portfolio, but I can mention it in my bio for other submissions: I was shortlisted for xyz. I was top 5. For the first time in a while, I believed the judges seriously considered my work.

Perhaps this betrays just how desperate I am. But we all need that little boost to persevere, even while the world around us implodes.

In the words of Matt Beringer, "serve me the sky with a big slice of lemon."