Weeks ago, an Instagram ad sprung from the depths of the algorithm’s abyss splashed an invitation across my mobile screen, one for a writing competition. No theme, no holds barred, it urged its writers to be creative. It was a welcome change from all the underwear ads I had been receiving. The competition had a registration fee. I checked if it was authentic, if my money was going to vacuum into nothingness. It seemed genuine.

I was going through a dry spell creatively. I had applied myself to the competition but I was struggling to apply myself. I had been documenting my life in my journal but nothing emerged warranting the transformation of an inward reflection into an outward essay. I spent a few days reading my old pieces that I had written for this blog. All I could find were faults. Some of them had comments encouraging my writing. I was not convinced. I settled on three pieces, edited to fit the competition guidelines. There was a possibility to rank in 13 places (Top 3 and 10 Bonus awards). I ranked nowhere.

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