Waitlist kid

Forever on the cusp

“Thank you for applying to Stove Works’ second open call. Unfortunately, you were not selected for next season’s roster of Residents. However, it was a close call, and we would like to keep you on our waiting list in case anyone withdraws from the program.”

I’m on the waitlist for the Stove Works artist residency. The residency is fully funded, it’s intended for emerging artists in all fields, and it’s the only residency I’ve applied to.

I was also waitlisted a year ago, the first time I applied. Back then, making it onto the waitlist felt like a mini victory—barely into my writing career, it seemed encouraging that I was not rejected outright.

This year, I was more confident about getting in. Sure, I know you’re supposed to apply to a ton of residencies because the odds are against being accepted at any particular one, especially without name recognition. And sure, it’s not like my writing career has skyrocketed over the past twelve months.

But I had momentum. My application felt alive. Somehow, I dared to hope that this could be my time.

“It was an incredibly competitive review. We received over 450 applicants for this round and accepted just over 50. We filled our schedule based on the jury scoring first. When we are unable to place people in their ideal months or they just slightly missed the cut, we placed them on the waiting list.”

Drat. It’s particularly rough to hear that you’re up there, somewhere, just not high enough.

It reminds me of my adolescence and early adulthood, wondering if I’d get into certain universities. I remember being on the waitlist at Harvard Law School, a place I wasn’t sure I would even want to attend except that its reputation looms impossibly large in the legal field. I remember being invited for an interview while on the waitlist, something my more knowledgeable peers and admissions chatroom threads told me meant I was going to be accepted.

Well, I did the interview. And I did not get into the school.

“Sorry, all the spots are full. Feel free to try again next summer.” Kodiak, AK, on film. May 2023.

Why does this matter?

Receiving a “dream” opportunity of any kind becomes the permission I need to change my life. It means my desire is sanctioned. Like being swept off my feet by a proverbial prince and brought to the castle, I’m invited by someone special to enter a privileged and rarified space.

Getting into Harvard would have shown that I was truly supposed to be a lawyer. And getting into Stove Works, a residency that accepts perhaps five writers a year alongside artists in other fields, would be proof that I have something unique and valuable to contribute.

Without those external markers, I’m left down here, in the mud, with the responsibility of defining my self-worth. How awful, how tedious, how humiliating even, is that.

They say it’s only when you stop looking for something that it appears. Unfortunately that hasn’t yet happened with my favorite piece of jewelry. No. What I’m thinking of is love—the adage that, once you love yourself and stop seeking external validation, your ideal companion will be revealed.

It seems the same is true for other aspects of life. I’ve heard it over and over again that you don’t get your “big break” until you’ve already decided that you have something valuable to offer.

Perhaps I’m not there yet. My work is not there yet. My conviction in what I have to share and the value it brings to others is not there yet.

What I said in my residency application was that it would be a dream to spend a month devoted to writing. In particular, to spend a month writing the novel that keeps wriggling out of my grasp.

Candidly, I’m not sure that what my (as yet unrealized) novel needs in order to be written is for me to relocate across the country, use up my work leave, and plop myself into a vibrant and probably distracting, in a good way, group of artists for a month.

Although that does sound like a dream, I have a feeling that once I’m ready to write the novel, I’ll simply sit down and do it. Just as I’ve found time to write this newsletter, to write stories, and to write articles outside of work hours, I’ll find time for the novel, too.

The residency would have been a blast, no doubt. And I hope there is many a writing residency in my future. I’m just not there yet. My work is not yet there.

“We will try to contact you about openings with as much notice as possible, but some situations may be as soon as a month before the residency begins.”

A writer recently posted a note on Substack about how he’s a competitive person and is frustrated by the fact that writing isn’t competitive. That you can’t “win” at it.

Can’t you, though? Substack has a literal leaderboard—a ranked list of writers by popularity and reach. Prestigious journals accept only a handful of pieces each year. And book deals, especially ones with good terms, seem equally impossible to acquire.

It’s hard to stay confident when others around you get chosen and you don’t. It’s hard to stay confident when writing does feel competitive, even if I know what that person means when he said that it’s not.

Deep down, I agree that writing isn’t competitive, just like deep down, I know that many of the smartest people in my life never set foot in an Ivy League school. But it still hurts to not get in.

“Don’t hesitate to reach out with any questions or concerns. Regardless of how this year pans out, we do hope to see you among next year’s applicants.” 

There’s a relief in having to accept my place for the moment. There’s a relief in no longer waiting for an email that would potentially dictate my work and non-work schedules for the next year.

I now see that putting my projects on hold while I waited to hear from the residency was part of the problem. If the paradox of finding love is that it comes when you no longer need it, the same applies to professional gains.

In order to have any hope of forward progress, I need to believe that what I’m doing has value for me and for the people who already invest in it. Defining myself as a waitlist kid places the power on the outside and me as a victim—the one who wasn’t chosen.

My favorite lesson from a successful artist friend is that she only got to where she is by applying to everything she ever wanted: every school, every fellowship, and every residency. What that means is, she’s gotten rejected, and I’ll bet waitlisted, a lot.

Those rejections are clearly not what defines her career. Instead, it’s her wins: the places where she was accepted, and the people who value her singular vision and honor and reward her for it.

I can remember that lesson and still, over and over again, fail to apply it to myself. After all, doing so would relieve me of my doubt and self-criticism. And without those impediments, well, perhaps I’d actually find time to write a novel. Just imagine how much space that would open up.

Truthfully, it’s been a long time since I’ve thought about that law school interview. I suppose I’ll never know otherwise, but not getting off the waitlist doesn’t seem to have measurably impacted my career. I have a feeling this latest rejection won’t impede my writing projects either.

It also feels good to wallow a bit. And it feels good to share my understandable disappointment of being told I can’t do a thing that I thought sounded great.

Apparently I’ve always had a hard time hearing the word “no.” When I was difficult as a child, my parents used to ask me: “What does Mick Jagger say?”

The answer, folks:

With that, see you next time.

-Julia

P.S. I realize I’ve been posting more than usual this week and am curious how it lands. You can always respond to this or any other vessels email with feedback. I’d love to hear your thoughts.