Seven Pieces

I wrote this essay a while ago, when I was feeling especially down after losing the NYT essay contest. Some of you might recognise this from Lockdown Diary entry five, but this one is the slightly more refined and polished version. However, I tried my best to make it as honest and raw as possible, to convey the complex emotions I felt. Hope you enjoy!

I didn't know what to think.

My eyes skimmed the dense black letters that condemned me to my fate. Many names of strangers, all lined up neatly on the site. With every new name, my heart sank an inch.

I couldn’t find mine.

This had to be a mistake. This wasn’t happening.

"I know that this is only the beginning of a very promising journey for you." I could almost hear the words being spoken in the voice of my English teacher, Ms Jansen, in the tone a doctor would use to tell patients that their days were numbered.

But I refused to accept it.

Dejection, denial, and disbelief coursed through me, a violent tsunami that threatened my passion for writing. I’d used all of my time, my energy, practically poured my entire soul into that piece, but it wasn't good enough.

I wasn't good enough.

Failure is like the Chinese game Seven Pieces. You toss little beanbags between your hands, and with every beanbag added to the palm of your hand, the stakes get higher. One moment you’re going strong, with seven pieces in your hand, and then in a flash, everything is gone.

You dropped all your seven pieces.

Being a finalist in a contest means nothing if you aren’t crowned winner. In Seven Pieces, the winner takes all. You either win, or you don’t. The difference between six and seven beanbags is the difference between failure and success.

It took a while, but I finally dared to pick up my pen. It was ironic how the only thing that could cure the heart-ache caused by writing, was more writing. I started small, with projects like stories, songs, and posts for my blog. I wrote without placing expectations on myself, without the pressure to perform.

Too scared to juggle with all seven pieces, I practised with one.

The hardest obstacle was writing about the contest. The memory was too fresh, a wound that hadn't completely healed. But it was too soon to give up.

Wallowing in self-pity led me to reflect on why I joined the contest in the first place. If I was crowned winner, would I feel completely content? Was the fame and validation my end goal?

No, I didn’t write for the recognition.

So if not to win, then why do I even write?

I write for myself. For my friends and family. For the people I care about.

I write to empower, to give people a voice.

I write to inspire, motivate, and encourage.

I write to bring happiness to the people around me.

After I realised this, I felt free.

“Even if we can’t win, let’s play anyway. Living our way is winning. Who cares what others say?” This quote from the TV show, Fight For My Way, resonated with me, reshaping my perspective on failure.

There are no losers in life. There are only winners and doubters.

Just by picking up my pen and paper, I was already a winner.

I reread the email from Ms Jansen for the millionth time, but this time, a sentence popped out. “I look forward to reading more of your great work in the future!”

Ms Jansen knew I wouldn’t give up. Losing one contest was painful, but even that fades away, dulled by the joy that writing brings. The contest was just the tip of the iceberg, the start of a bright future.

I might have dropped all of the beanbags, but it wasn’t the end.

It was a fresh beginning.

Because when you drop all seven pieces, you pick them up, one by one.