Not on the List

They posted the longlist this morning.

I scrolled past each name slowly, like one might flip through a yearbook looking for a crush. A little hopeful. A little terrified. My name wasn’t there. Again.

I didn’t throw my phone across the room.

I didn’t swear or cry.

I just locked the screen and set it down beside my sketchbook, face-down like a silent declaration: Fine.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, though. It was just there, like a familiar coat. A little tight in the shoulders now, but well-worn. Rejection’s never fun, but it’s not unfamiliar either.

This was my third time entering the Folio Society illustration competition.

The first year, I told myself I’d do it just for the challenge — “no expectations.”

The second year, I started to believe I had a shot.

This year, I gave it more than time. I gave it heart. And I thought maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

It wasn’t.

Or maybe it was — just not for them.

I’d chosen to illustrate Rapunzel, not the Disney version, but the darker, Grimm one.

My piece showed her mid-haircut — scissors caught mid-air, strands floating like vines untethered. Her face was defiant, eyes fixed on the tower door. She wasn’t just trapped. She was planning her own escape.

That version of her felt like me. Or maybe who I wanted to be.

When I submitted it, I had that fleeting, dangerous thought: This might actually stand out.

But it didn’t. Or it did — and still wasn’t enough.

The worst part of rejection isn't the silence.

It’s the echo.

The questions that come back louder than the “no” itself:

Was it the style?

Too experimental?

Not enough technique?

Too much technique and not enough soul?

Was the composition weak?

Was the concept overdone?

Was it me?

That last one’s the hardest to shake.

Because when you make art, you are the medium. Every brushstroke carries your voice, whether you meant it to or not.

I went for a walk after the list went live.

Past the laundromat with the flickering “Open” sign.

Past the bakery that always smells like warm vanilla and old hope.

I ended up at the river, sketchbook in hand, not really planning to use it.

A little girl was throwing pebbles off the dock. She turned to me and asked if I was an artist.

I hesitated.

Then nodded.

Not “trying to be” or “sort of.”

Just: “Yeah.”

She smiled like that was the coolest thing in the world.

And for a moment, it was.

I came home and looked at the piece again.

Really looked.

Not as a competition entry. Not as a “failure.”

Just as a drawing. A story in graphite and ink.

And it was still mine.

Still honest.

Still brave in the way I needed it to be.

Maybe it didn’t need a prize. Maybe it was the prize.

Rejection has a way of sharpening your vision.

Not toward others — but inward.

It asks, over and over:

Why do you keep doing this?

And sometimes the answer is simple:

Because I have to.

Because something in me is only fluent in shapes, shadows, and soft lines.

Because there are versions of me I can’t speak aloud — but I can draw them.

And maybe that’s reason enough.

I opened a blank page in my sketchbook tonight.

Not for a contest. Not for a client.

Just for me.

The pencil moved slower this time, like it had to remember the weight of unhurried joy.

No deadline. No judging panel.

Just light, shape, and breath.

I may not be on their list.

But I’m still on my own.

And for now — that’s enough.