When Not Winning Still Matters

 

A small moment of recognition from Alberta Views and why it feels like a step forward.

The Day I Didn’t Win — And Why It Still Matters

Yesterday I opened my mail and found something I wasn’t expecting: a letter from Alberta Views about the short story contest I entered with The Quiet Things That Hold Me Together. I already knew I hadn’t won — no dramatic phone call, no email with confetti — but holding that letter in my hands still landed with a kind of weight. Not disappointment, exactly. More like recognition.

They thanked me for entering. They told me the stories were judged anonymously. They told me the winner — Camille Pavlenko — earned the prize with The Cure for Breathlessness, a story described as quirky, well‑paced, charming, and ending with a “breathtaking” final image. And honestly, good for her. Anyone who can pull off a story that hits all those notes deserves the spotlight.

But here’s the thing I keep coming back to:

I didn’t win, but I showed up.

And showing up matters.

Why This Letter Still Feels Like a Win

Writing is strange. You pour yourself into something, send it out into the world, and then wait — sometimes months — for someone to tell you whether it resonated. Most of the time, the world answers quietly. Sometimes it answers with a form letter. And once in a while, it answers with a reminder that your work was read, considered, weighed, and taken seriously.

That’s what this letter was.

It wasn’t a trophy, but it was acknowledgment.

It wasn’t a publication, but it was connection.

It wasn’t the win — but it was part of the path.

The Cure for Breathlessness Won — And That’s Okay

Camille Pavlenko’s story took the prize this year, and I’m genuinely glad to see another Alberta writer shine. The contest isn’t just about competition; it’s about community. It’s about seeing what other writers are doing, how they’re stretching the craft, how they’re telling stories that breathe differently than yours.

Her win doesn’t diminish my work. It doesn’t erase the mornings I wrote through fog, the walks with my dog that turned into paragraphs, the memories that shaped the tone of my story. If anything, it reminds me that the literary world is big enough for all of us — winners, runners‑up, and everyone still finding their voice.

What This Means for Me Going Forward

The letter ended with a simple note: the next contest deadline is June 30, 2027.

That line stuck with me.

Not as pressure. Not as a challenge. But as an invitation.

Writing isn’t a one‑shot deal. It’s a cycle — like the moon I keep noticing lately. Full, empty, full again. Some stories land. Some stories miss. Some stories need another year, another draft, another version of me to tell them properly.

I’m not done. Not even close.

So Here’s My Takeaway

I didn’t win the contest.

But I wrote something honest. I submitted it. It was read. It mattered enough for someone to send a letter back.

And that’s a kind of breathlessness too — the good kind. The kind that comes from knowing you’re on the right path, even if the milestone you wanted wasn’t the one you reached today.

Congrats to Camille. Congrats to everyone who entered. And congrats to the version of me who keeps writing, keeps submitting, keeps showing up.

Onward to 2027.

The Quiet things that hold me together

Is a dog walking blog short story that goes down a vista of thought in life.  Below is my short story that and this put together all for the best 

didn't win the contest for alberta views but i did get a response from them.  the cure for breathlessness won out in the writing contest all the best

a bit of properness to say all the best twice 

Google Docs to my short story The quiet things that hold me together