What Entering Poetry Contests Taught Me About Finishing Poems

By Eleanor Whitby

I spent years talking about poetry contests before I ever entered one myself. I helped patrons at the reference desk search for them, printed out guidelines, and explained deadlines with a calm confidence that did not match my own behavior. When someone asked if I had ever submitted, I usually smiled and said something vague about being busy. That was true, but not the full truth. I was careful in ways that felt responsible on the surface. Underneath, I was avoiding risk.

Working in a public library teaches you how to be useful without being visible. My job is to point, suggest, locate, and step back. I am good at it. I know where the opportunities are and how to explain them clearly. Recommending writing opportunities came naturally. Entering them felt like crossing an invisible line. I told myself I was being supportive. I told myself my role was to help others. Looking back, I can see how easy it was to hide behind that idea.

The thing that finally pushed me to submit was not confidence. It was exhaustion. I had a folder full of poems that kept getting revised but never finished. I would open one, change a word, change it back, adjust a line break, and then close the document feeling no closer to done. There was always something else to fix. There was always a better version somewhere in my head. Entering poetry contests gave me something I did not have before, which was an endpoint.

A deadline does something strange and helpful to doubt. It does not erase it, but it gives it a boundary. When I had to choose which poem to submit, I could not keep all of them in motion at once. I had to decide. That decision felt uncomfortable at first. It felt like I was giving up control. Over time, it started to feel like relief. I was no longer polishing for an imaginary future. I was finishing something in the present.

The first rejection surprised me because it did not hurt as much as I expected. I read the email at the desk between questions about printer jams and research databases. Nothing changed around me. The lights stayed the same. Someone asked where the restrooms were. I felt disappointed, yes, but also steady. The poem was already finished. It existed outside of me now. That mattered more than the result.

Submitting also made me braver in quieter ways. I tried formats I would have avoided before. I wrote pieces that felt slightly off balance or less safe. I stopped asking whether a poem represented me perfectly and started asking whether it felt honest enough to let go. That shift changed how I wrote even when I was not entering anything. Writing became less about protecting myself and more about seeing what happened when I showed up anyway.

Over time, winning stopped being the main reason I entered. It was nice when it happened, and I learned to accept that without guilt. What mattered more was the rhythm it gave my writing life. I noticed how good it felt to meet a deadline I chose. I noticed how finishing made room for new work instead of endlessly circling the same pages. I began to trust that another poem would come, even if this one did not place.

I also met people I would never have met otherwise. Some were names I recognized from results lists. Some were voices I came to know through shared submissions and quiet encouragement. Writing stopped feeling like something I did alone in the margins of my day. It became part of a larger, imperfect, generous exchange. That surprised me most of all.

I still help patrons find contests every week. The difference now is that I speak from experience instead of distance. I know how it feels to hesitate and how it feels to click submit anyway. I know that finishing a poem does not mean you stop caring about it. It means you trust yourself enough to let it go. That trust took time. I am still learning it. But I am writing more now than I ever did before, and that feels like a kind of quiet success.

I used to think finishing meant closing a door. Once a poem was done, I imagined it would stop being mine in some quiet but permanent way. That idea kept me circling drafts far longer than I needed to. At the library, everything is about access. Books move from hand to hand. Information is meant to travel. I encouraged that all day long, yet my own writing stayed tucked away, protected and untouched, like something that might break if I handled it too roughly.

What surprised me most about entering was how ordinary it became. The first submission felt enormous. I reread the guidelines again and again. I worried about margins, fonts, file names, whether I had misunderstood something obvious. I probably did. But nothing terrible happened. The next submission took less time. Not because I cared less, but because I understood the process better. It stopped feeling like a test and started feeling like a habit. Something you do, not something you build up courage for over weeks.

Deadlines changed how I wrote in ways I did not expect. Before, I wrote in a way that kept everything open. I avoided strong endings. I hesitated to commit to a final image or a firm last line. It felt safer to leave room for improvement. Deadlines pushed against that instinct. They forced me to decide what the poem was actually about. That question can feel uncomfortable, but it is also clarifying. Once I answered it honestly, the rest of the poem often fell into place.

There were weeks when I did not submit anything. I want to be clear about that. Life still happened. Work became hectic. Some evenings I was too tired to read my own words with any care. The difference was how I talked to myself about it. Missing a deadline no longer became proof that I was not serious or capable. It was just a missed opportunity. That small shift mattered more than I expected. It made writing feel sustainable instead of fragile.

Helping patrons while being part of the same world changed how I listened to them. When someone hesitated at the desk, unsure if their work was good enough, I recognized the pause. I knew what it felt like to hover over the submit button. I could speak honestly instead of offering vague encouragement. I did not promise outcomes. I talked about finishing. About learning what happens after you let something go.

Rejections became easier to carry once I stopped treating them as verdicts. They were responses, not judgments. Most of the time they were brief and impersonal. Sometimes they arrived on days when I was already tired or distracted. I learned to read them, feel whatever reaction came up, and then move on. The poem had already done its work for me. It had gotten me to the end. That counted.

Winning surprised me in a different way. I expected it to feel validating in a dramatic sense. Instead, it felt quiet. Nice, but quiet. I realized I liked myself more for having submitted consistently than for any single result. Meeting deadlines felt steady. Finishing felt reliable. I trusted my own follow through more than I trusted any outcome.

Over time, writing stopped feeling like something I squeezed in around other responsibilities. It became part of the rhythm of my weeks. I noticed ideas arriving more freely. I noticed less panic around whether something was worth writing. I trusted that another poem would come if I finished this one. That belief changed everything.

I also began to notice how varied the work was. Different voices, different risks, different ways of using language. Seeing that variety loosened my grip on perfection. There was no single correct way to write. There was only the work in front of you and the choice to finish it.

I still doubt myself. I still hesitate sometimes. But I no longer wait for certainty before I act. Writing taught me that certainty rarely arrives first. You move, then you learn. Finishing taught me that.

There is a specific kind of quiet that settles over the reference desk in the late afternoon. The morning rush has passed. Students drift in and out. Printers hum. I used to think that quiet was when doubt got loudest. Now it feels more like a pause. A place where I can think without rushing myself. Writing found a place there too, tucked into the edges of the day instead of waiting for a perfect block of time that never really arrived.

I began carrying a small notebook again, not to capture full poems, but to hold lines that arrived unexpectedly. A phrase overheard. A sentence that felt unfinished in a good way. I stopped judging those fragments right away. I let them sit. Some never turned into anything. Others became the center of a piece I would eventually submit. Letting ideas exist without pressure made writing feel lighter, even when I knew a deadline was coming.

Before, I thought motivation had to come first. I waited to feel ready. Entering regularly reversed that order. Action came first. Motivation followed. That was uncomfortable at the start. It went against how I believed creativity was supposed to work. I learned that showing up imperfectly was more useful than waiting for clarity. Clarity arrived later, often in revision, sometimes only after the poem was already sent.

I noticed how much time I had spent trying to protect my work from judgment. That instinct made sense. Writing can feel personal in a way few other things do. What changed was realizing that judgment was not the same as harm. Someone not choosing my work did not undo the care I put into it. It did not erase the hours spent shaping lines or the small satisfaction of finding the right word. Those things remained mine regardless of outcome.

At work, I often help people break large tasks into manageable steps. Research projects. Applications. Long forms that feel overwhelming at first glance. I had never done that with my own writing life. Submitting gave me a structure I could lean on. Read the guidelines. Choose a piece. Revise with intention. Send it. Move on. That sequence became grounding. It replaced endless rumination with motion.

There were moments of frustration. Results lists I checked too often. Weeks where nothing seemed to land. I am not immune to comparison. Seeing names repeat made me wonder what I was missing. Over time, that comparison softened. I recognized some of those names from conversations, from shared experiences, from people who had been submitting longer than I had. Their consistency was not a threat. It was a reminder of what staying engaged looked like.

One unexpected benefit was how writing improved when I stopped trying to make every poem represent me fully. I allowed pieces to be narrow. Specific. Even a little strange. Not everything needed to carry my entire voice. Some poems could just explore a moment, a thought, a feeling, and then end. That permission made writing feel more playful. It made experimentation less risky.

I also learned to let go of work more easily after it was finished. I stopped rereading submissions once they were sent. I did not keep tweaking lines in my head. The poem had done what it needed to do. That mental space freed up energy for new work. I wrote more because I was not stuck guarding what already existed.

Talking with other writers shifted too. Conversations felt less abstract. Instead of discussing writing in theory, we talked about process, about timing, about how it felt to keep going. Those exchanges were grounding. They reminded me that doubt was not a personal flaw. It was part of the work. Seeing that in others made it easier to accept in myself.

I still work quietly. I still question myself. But I no longer confuse caution with care. Care shows up in revision, in attention, in honesty. Caution only keeps things unfinished. Learning the difference took time. Submitting helped me see it clearly.

One thing I did not expect was how much finishing affected my confidence outside of writing. It showed up in small ways. I spoke up more easily in meetings. I trusted my judgment when helping patrons instead of second guessing myself. There is something steadying about keeping promises to yourself, even quiet ones no one else sees. Submitting work made those promises real.

I began to notice how often I had confused improvement with delay. I thought waiting made things better. In reality, waiting often made things heavier. Poems collected expectations as they sat. Once I let them move on, they became lighter. They were no longer carrying every possible future version. They were just what they were, and that was enough.

The library shelves hold so many finished things. Books that were once drafts. Stories that someone decided were ready, even if they were not perfect. Being surrounded by that every day while refusing to finish my own work started to feel strange. Submitting aligned my actions with the environment I worked in. It made me part of the same cycle of creation and release.

I stopped thinking of deadlines as pressure and started seeing them as boundaries. They protected my time. Instead of endlessly revisiting the same piece, I worked with intention for a set period and then let it go. That boundary reduced anxiety rather than increasing it. I knew what I was doing and when it would be done.

Some poems surprised me by being stronger than I thought once I committed to them. Others revealed their weaknesses clearly. Both outcomes were useful. A poem that did not hold together taught me what to watch for next time. Failure became informative instead of discouraging. That shift took repetition. It did not happen all at once.

I also learned to pace myself. Early on, I wanted to submit everything at once, to make up for lost time. That urgency faded. Writing became more sustainable when I allowed space between submissions. I listened more carefully to what I was actually excited to work on instead of chasing every possible opportunity.

The habit of finishing spilled into other areas of my life. I completed small projects I had been putting off. I made decisions faster. I accepted that done was better than endlessly adjusted. That mindset was not about lowering standards. It was about respecting my own energy and attention.

There were moments when doubt resurfaced sharply. A long stretch without positive news. It made me feel discouraged about entering poetry contests and writing in general. Mainly because of a poem I believed in that went nowhere. I let myself feel disappointed without dramatizing it. Disappointment passed more quickly when I did not argue with it. Writing continued because it was no longer dependent on external reassurance.

I began to trust process more than outcome. That trust did not make rejection pleasant, but it made it manageable. I knew what I was doing and why. That clarity mattered more than any single response.

Looking back, the biggest change was how writing fit into my life. It stopped being something I postponed until I felt ready. It became something I practiced regularly, imperfectly, and honestly. Finishing taught me that readiness is something you build by acting, not something you wait for.

I think part of what held me back before was the belief that writing had to feel important all the time. I treated every poem like it carried the weight of proving something. That pressure made starting harder and finishing almost impossible. Submitting regularly loosened that grip. Not every poem needed to justify my interest in writing. Some could simply exist because I wanted to explore an idea and see where it went.

There were days when writing felt awkward again, like I had forgotten how to do it. I learned not to panic when that happened. Awkward days passed more quickly when I did not label them as failure. I showed up, wrote something clumsy, and trusted that tomorrow might be different. Often it was. Consistency mattered more than inspiration.

I also became more honest about my own limits. Some weeks I had energy to revise carefully. Other weeks I barely managed a rough pass. Instead of judging that unevenness, I adjusted expectations. Writing fit into my life instead of competing with it. That balance made it easier to keep going over time.

One afternoon, a patron asked me how I stayed motivated. The question caught me off guard. I realized I no longer thought about motivation the way I used to. I thought about habits. About finishing small things often. About trusting that effort added up even when results were invisible. That answer felt truer than anything I could have offered before.

Submitting also changed how I read other peoples work. I paid closer attention to endings. I noticed how much courage it takes to stop a poem at the right moment. Reading became more generous. I understood how much decision making lived beneath the surface of a finished piece.

I began to recognize my own patterns. The lines I tended to overwork. The images I returned to when I was unsure. Seeing those habits clearly helped me decide when to lean into them and when to push past them. Finishing revealed patterns that endless revision had kept hidden.

There were still moments when I wanted to retreat, to keep writing private again. Those moments usually arrived when I cared deeply about a piece. Instead of listening to that instinct, I paused and asked myself what I was protecting. Often it was not the poem. It was my comfort. Recognizing that made the choice clearer.

I learned that bravery does not always feel loud. Sometimes it feels like clicking submit on a quiet afternoon and then returning to your workday. Sometimes it feels like letting disappointment exist without letting it define you. Those small acts added up.

Writing became less about proving I belonged and more about participating. I did not need to earn permission to be there. Showing up was enough. That realization took longer than I expected, but it stayed once it arrived.

The habit of finishing reshaped my relationship with writing in ways I am still discovering. It gave structure without rigidity and freedom without avoidance. It allowed me to care deeply without getting stuck. That balance is something I hold onto now.

As time went on, I noticed how my fear of judgment had been louder than the judgment itself ever was. Most responses were brief. Some were kind. Many were neutral. None of them knew me the way I imagined they did. That realization shrank the power I had given to anonymous readers. My work was being read, not evaluated as a measure of my worth.

I also stopped treating every submission as a referendum on my ability. Some poems felt stronger than others. Some were risks that did not land. I learned to accept that unevenness as part of a real writing life. Consistency did not mean uniform quality. It meant showing up even when I suspected the result might be mixed.

At the library, I see people return books unfinished all the time. They are not ashamed. They simply move on to the next thing. Watching that helped me soften my grip on individual outcomes. One poem not working did not cancel the next one. The flow continued whether I resisted it or not.

I began to enjoy the middle stage of writing more. The part where things are unclear but moving. Before, I rushed through that discomfort, trying to resolve it quickly. Now I let it linger. I trusted that clarity would arrive through revision or through the act of finishing itself. That patience changed the tone of my work.

Submitting also taught me to respect my own time. Endless revision can feel productive, but often it is avoidance in disguise. Setting a clear endpoint honored the hours I put in. It acknowledged that effort mattered even if the outcome was uncertain.

I noticed how my internal language shifted. Instead of asking whether a poem was good enough, I asked whether it was ready to leave my hands. That question felt gentler and more practical. Readiness became about honesty rather than perfection.

There were moments when I felt proud in unexpected ways. Not because of recognition, but because I had followed through on something that once felt impossible. Those moments were quiet, private, and deeply satisfying. They reinforced the habit more effectively than any external praise could.

I stopped saving my best ideas for later. There was no later version of myself who would handle them better. Writing now, with the tools and awareness I had, became enough. That shift removed a subtle pressure I had carried for years.

Over time, I realized I was no longer asking whether I should keep writing. The question had resolved itself through action. I was writing because it was part of my life now, not because I was waiting for permission or proof.

Finishing taught me that growth does not announce itself. It accumulates quietly through repetition. Through small choices made consistently. Through letting go again and again. That is the kind of progress I trust now.

I sometimes think about the version of myself who first started recommending opportunities to others. She believed deeply in access and possibility, but she kept herself just outside the frame. That distance felt safe. What I did not realize then was how much energy it took to maintain it. Stepping into participation did not add pressure. It removed it.

There was a learning curve I did not talk about much. Figuring out which pieces felt right to send. Understanding that not every poem needed to be entered everywhere. Learning to listen to my own sense of timing. Those decisions came slowly and through trial. I made choices I would not make again. That was part of it.

I also learned to separate feedback from identity. Silence did not mean failure. Not winning a poetry contest did not mean I lacked skill. Most of the time, it meant my work did not align with a particular moment or preference. Accepting that reality took repetition. Each submission made the lesson steadier.

Writing began to feel more spacious once I stopped clinging to outcomes. I enjoyed drafting again. I enjoyed revision as a process rather than a delay tactic. I could sense when a poem was finished because I felt ready to stop working on it, not because it had reached some imagined standard.

There were weeks when I submitted work I felt unsure about. That uncertainty no longer stopped me. Sometimes those pieces surprised me by resonating more than the ones I trusted most. Other times they did not. Both outcomes were informative. They reminded me that my perspective was only one part of the equation.

I noticed how much kinder I had become toward myself as a writer. I no longer spoke in absolutes. I did not declare a piece good or bad. I described it more accurately. Finished. Sent. Done. That language mattered. It reflected a healthier relationship with my own work.

The habit of finishing also reshaped how I thought about time. Writing was no longer something postponed until conditions were ideal. It fit into ordinary days. A half hour here. A few notes there. Progress happened through accumulation rather than intensity.

I stopped waiting for confidence to appear before acting. Confidence grew after action, not before it. That lesson extended beyond writing. It made decisions easier. It reduced hesitation. It gave me a steadier sense of direction. I continued to enter poetry contests even though I didn't have the confidence that I could win. I knew I definately would not win if I didn't enter!

What I value most now is not recognition, but continuity. The ability to keep writing without making it a referendum on my worth. Finishing allows that continuity to exist. It keeps the work moving forward.

I am still learning. I still adjust. But I no longer stand on the sidelines. Participation changed everything. It made writing something I lived instead of something I talked about.

I began to notice how my sense of time shifted once writing had clear endpoints. Instead of feeling like something always hanging over me, it became something with edges. I knew when I was working and when I was done. That separation mattered. It allowed rest to feel earned instead of guilty. I was no longer carrying unfinished work in my head at all hours.

There is a quiet satisfaction in closing a document and knowing you are not going back to it. Not because it is flawless, but because you have done what you set out to do. That feeling is subtle but steady. It does not spike or fade quickly. It stays with you and makes the next piece feel less intimidating.

I started to see how much I had relied on uncertainty as a form of protection. If something was never finished, it could never be rejected. Letting go meant accepting risk. What surprised me was how manageable that risk became with repetition. Fear shrank when it was no longer hypothetical.

Watching other writers submit regularly helped normalize the process. Their openness about doubt and disappointment made my own reactions feel less personal. We were all navigating the same uneven ground. Knowing that made persistence feel communal instead of lonely.

I also became more aware of my preferences as a writer. Certain themes surfaced repeatedly. Certain images stayed with me longer. Finishing allowed those patterns to emerge clearly. They gave my work coherence over time without forcing it into a mold.

At the reference desk, I often remind patrons that research is iterative. You start somewhere, learn something, adjust, and continue. Writing followed the same logic once I allowed it to. Each finished piece informed the next. Progress was cumulative, not sudden.

There were moments when I questioned whether submitting was still worth the energy. Those moments usually coincided with fatigue, not loss of interest. I learned to rest without quitting. That distinction kept me from abandoning habits that were still serving me.

I found myself returning to writing even when nothing was on the calendar. That was new. Deadlines had trained me to finish, but they also taught me to trust my own momentum. Writing no longer depended on external structure alone.

Finishing became a form of self respect. It acknowledged that my time and attention mattered. That the work deserved to exist outside of endless preparation. That belief strengthened with every piece I completed.

Looking ahead, I no longer worry about whether I will keep writing. The habit is established. It lives alongside my work, not in competition with it. That balance feels sustainable, and that is something I value deeply.

Something else shifted as I kept finishing work. I stopped treating my writing time as fragile. Before, I guarded it so tightly that it barely existed. If conditions were not just right, I postponed. Once finishing became normal, I trusted that writing could survive interruptions, imperfect moods, and short sessions. It did not need protection. It needed practice.

I learned to recognize when hesitation was actually avoidance. It felt similar on the surface, but the difference showed up in my body. Avoidance came with tension. Hesitation came with curiosity. Paying attention to that difference helped me move forward more often than not.

I also noticed how much energy I had spent imagining future regret. What if I sent the wrong poem. What if I embarrassed myself. What if I looked back and wished I had waited. None of those fears carried the weight I expected once I acted. Regret lost its power when decisions were made with care instead of fear.

Finishing made revision more honest. I stopped polishing endlessly and started revising with purpose. I asked clearer questions. What is this piece actually doing. Where does it lose focus. What needs to be said and what can be removed. Those questions were easier to answer once I accepted that the poem was going somewhere.

Over time, entering poetry contests became less about chasing outcomes and more about staying engaged with the work itself. The act of submitting gave structure to my writing life without demanding that every piece prove its worth. That balance made it easier to keep going.

I found myself recommending opportunities differently at work. Not with excitement or pressure, but with calm realism. I talked about finishing and letting go. About learning through repetition. Patrons responded to that honesty. It felt grounded rather than aspirational.

There were moments when I realized I was enjoying writing again in a way I had not for years. Not because it was easy, but because it was active. The work moved. I moved with it. That sense of motion mattered more than any single outcome.

I also became more patient with myself during slow periods. Not every phase of writing is productive in the same way. Some phases gather material. Others release it. Finishing helped me trust that both phases were necessary.

I no longer measured progress by how polished a piece felt. I measured it by whether I showed up and completed something. That metric was kinder and more accurate. It reflected effort instead of fantasy.

What remains now is a simple practice. Write. Revise with care. Finish. Let go. Repeat. It is not glamorous. It does not promise anything beyond the work itself. But it is enough, and it has given me back a relationship with writing that feels honest and alive.

I used to think the point of entering was to reach some external finish line. Over time, that idea faded. What stayed was the way deadlines helped me notice when a poem had reached its own stopping point. Not every piece needed more attention. Some needed release. Learning that difference felt like learning a new skill, one that had nothing to do with talent and everything to do with trust.

Trust showed up in small ways. I trusted myself to choose a piece without second guessing every line. I trusted the work I had already done. I trusted that letting go would not erase what I had learned while writing it. That trust made the process steadier. It also made writing feel less lonely.

At the library, I watch people navigate all kinds of submissions. Job applications. Grant proposals. School essays. The common thread is always hesitation. People want to know if they are ready. I see now how rarely readiness arrives on its own. Most of the time, it follows action. Writing works the same way.

When I talk with other writers now, we rarely start with winning. We talk about finishing. About meeting deadlines we set ourselves. About what it feels like to see your work listed somewhere, even briefly, and know you took part. Those conversations feel grounded. They make the work feel shared instead of solitary.

There is a page I return to more often than I admit, usually on afternoons when the library feels especially busy and my own writing feels far away. I first started recommending it to patrons because it was easy to explain. Nothing flashy. No exaggerated promises. Just clear information laid out in a way that respects peoples time. Over the years, I noticed how relieved some writers looked when they saw it. Like they could finally stop guessing and start deciding.

I recommend it because it lowers the temperature around submitting. It makes the process feel doable instead of intimidating. When someone is nervous, especially a first time writer, I want them to see options without feeling judged or rushed. I want them to feel invited, not tested. Pages like this help with that. They shift the focus away from perfection and toward participation, which is where most writers actually grow.

On days when I need that same reminder myself, I find comfort in returning to resources like poetry contests. Not because they guarantee anything, but because they make the work feel grounded. Seeing opportunities listed plainly brings me back to the reason I started submitting at all. Finish something. Let it go. Trust that showing up counts.

Recommending that page to others and returning to it myself has become a quiet loop in my workdays. I point someone toward it in the morning. I revisit it later when I am doubting my own momentum. It reminds me that writing does not need drama to matter. It needs care, follow through, and a place to land when you are ready to release it.

Seeing opportunities laid out plainly helps quiet the part of my mind that wants to complicate things. It brings the focus back to the work. Choose something. Finish it. Send it. Let the response be whatever it will be. That clarity is something I value deeply now.

I no longer tell myself that I will submit once I feel confident enough. Confidence turned out to be a side effect, not a prerequisite. It arrived slowly, through repetition, through showing up even when I was unsure. That kind of confidence feels durable. It does not disappear when a result disappoints.

Entering also gave me a better sense of community than I expected. I recognized names. I learned which voices resonated with me. I felt part of an ongoing conversation about craft and care. That sense of belonging did not depend on outcomes. It came from participation itself.

I still work at the reference desk. I still help others search, decide, and hesitate. The difference is that I understand those moments from the inside now. I know what it means to move past them. That understanding shapes how I listen and how I encourage.

What I carry forward is simple. Writing thrives when it has boundaries. Finishing is not an ending, but a continuation. Each completed piece clears space for the next one. That cycle keeps me engaged, curious, and honest about why I write at all.

I do not know where any particular submission will lead. I am comfortable with that uncertainty now. What matters is that I keep finishing. That I keep participating. That I remain connected to the work instead of standing safely beside it. That choice has changed my writing life, and it continues to shape how I show up every day.