I entered my ‘first novel’ into a competition last month, The Lucy Cavendish Fiction Prize. Except it’s not really my first novel. It’s one of nine which live on my hard drive in various states of completion. But I haven’t had a whole novel published yet, therefore it still fits the criteria of a first novel submission.

First novel competitions are meant to be encouraging. They exist to discover new voices, to say come in, we’re listening. And yet the closer you get to them the more slippery they become. Not because anyone is doing anything wrong, but because the advice around them rarely lines up.

Submit the opening chapters, because that’s what matters.
Submit the strongest section, even if it’s not the beginning.
Submit the part that best represents the whole.
Submit the start or it’s not honest.
Don’t submit the start if it’s not where the book truly ignites.

I could tie myself in knots so dastardly it may not be worth submitting at all.

My book isn’t badly structured, but it’s not a firework in chapter one either. It begins by unsettling the reader, giving them a structure and letting them place a bet where they think it might go, gambling on if they’re right or wrong. The build-up is clear,  but it isn’t fashionable anymore. That raises the uncomfortable question of whether competitions reward patience or speed. And whether choosing a later section feels like cheating, or simply like understanding your own work.

The competition I entered has now gone quiet. The date of the next ‘event’ in this timeline is so distant there’s no tension any more, just waiting.

I find myself wondering how many people entered. A hundred. A thousand. Five thousand. I’m not looking for reassurance exactly, more a way of understanding the odds so I can make sense of the silence. If the odds are brutal then the silence is neutral. If the odds are kind then the silence might mean something. I don’t think it can this time. I think the long list will be announced and that will be that, rather than a thanks but no thanks. These are the strange maths of hope. Someone in how-to-write-a-novel circles said that it’s the writers ninth novel which on average is the first they have published.  Well here I am, this is number nine. Does this increase my chances? How can the magical statistics account for this phenomena, if it’s even true.
Stephen King writes of tacking his rejection letters to the wall. Now in the 21st century they’re emails and I leave them to fester on Query Tracker but I don’t delete them. This is my wall. Whilst I wait for the agent submissions and the competition entries.

This is the part no one really prepares you for. The gap between submission and outcome. The time where the work is out of my hands. Now I have reminders pinging up to remind me of the next first novel competition, this time the Crime Writer’s Association  – Emerging Author Dagger. Shall I? Shan’t I? The Black Book is a psychological thriller, it fits the criteria…. doesn’t it?

And alongside those, new shiny competitions appear but I have to wonder is this a genuine opportunity, or a money spinner for a new organisation. Or is it simply the first year of something that might one day matter, because everything that matters has a first year.

None of this makes me cynical exactly. More aware of how much faith is required at this stage, and how little information you are given in return. Entering competitions is not just about belief in your work. It is about tolerance for ambiguity.

I’m still undecided about some of them. Including the CWA. Not because I don’t care, but because choosing where to place your energy is part of the work too. Submitting costs money, time, emotional bandwidth. Saying yes to one thing is saying no to another, even if that no is temporary.

So this is where I am. A competition entered, a silent wait. One or two reminders blinking at me until I make a decision.

Curiously, life runs in parallel process, there are other things held in suspense. Thrilling possibilities, dynamic collaborations with an outstanding contributor. More strange maths.

If you’re in the same place, wondering whether your book fits, suspended in that interminable wait or any other, join me in lighting a candle for patience.