I am not the sweep of sand or the sky overhead. I am not the cape thrusting out toward the ocean. No, not even the seastack standing off the cape. I am the tiny bump, barely visible beyond.

The Director of a writing event responded the other day to my application for a Fellowship. I thought I was a good fit when I sent it off. Connection to the West was essential, a writer without major accomplishments, no book out nor a book deal in the making. I have been writing for decades now and still no book. I am not new to writing, and so the Director wonders if “perhaps your depth of experience and accomplishments may make you overqualified for the … program.” He is kind, he offered options, he urges me to make my case. The response is well-intentioned—actually generous. This begs the troubling question: So why don’t I have a book already?

I ask myself that question too often already. 

Have I missed the window for growth, improvement, a book publication? Am I under-skilled? Overqualified? Most always I am overqualified, to be fair to myself. I taught in a public high school while trailing an academic history of multiple degrees from the University of Washington, cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa, and an MFA in writing from Pacific University.

Writing is hard. I have worked many relatively “easy” jobs that were not easy at all in retail, fast food, a bakery, and direct mail. I sold tacos and quilting fabric and fancy pastries I made myself. I designed logos and promotional materials and packaging as a freelance graphic designer. My work was exhibited in galleries and juried into museum shows. I designed and drew plans for entire houses, and for a time I worked for an architect. For 3 years I taught art in a girls prep school, and for 25 years I taught English and Illustration and yearbook in a small rural high school. I was overqualified for most of those jobs, perhaps all of them. And none of this was easy; none helps just now. 

Being overqualified has mostly meant that I was determined and inventive in doing the job. Or perhaps that is just my way of approaching work, meaning always doing the best I can.

And here, again, the fear that my best will never be enough. I set that aside, that little confidence-killer. Where I am is the result of doing what so many writers must do for years and years: maintain a life and a family and work that pays the bills, and writing at four o’clock in the morning before I get up out of bed to do those other things that I must do. 

I don’t like thinking I have missed my window. Eight publications and 114 rejections this year, 56 of those rejections from agents. Lack of a book contract is not from lack of trying. 

Next year, I will not reapply for that Fellowship, no, of course I will not. I appreciate the Director’s kindness in contacting me and explaining his position, as well as his willingness to reconsider. But I completely understand his point. Moving on now . . .

Nevertheless.

My writing life does not carry an expiration date. I am certain I will face many rejections again next year, far more rejections than acceptances, but that I am qualified to claim my prize as an experienced writer who usually knows her mind, and who will not stop writing in the face of rejection. I will whine and squiggle and hide under the bed when they arrive, but then I will come back out and write some more. There is still so much I want. I want acceptance. I want readers. I want more stories and essays and words on the page.

I still want that book contract.