Dear Me

Letter sent to the future me regarding all the possibilities in writing I can experience.

Dear Me,

          If you're reading this, congratulations! You've survived another year of caffeine-fueled all-nighters, sideways glances at the "Drafts" folder, and that one time you tried to draft a poem about toast and accidentally broke your keyboard. (Let's call it Art. Or a cry for help.) But more importantly, if you're reading this in 2027, you've made progress. You've done things. And I, your slightly less bearded past self, want to check in and say: Keep going. You're closer than you think.

Goal One: Finish the Book. Then Do It All Over Again.

          Let's start with the big one--the book. The one that's been lurking in your documents like a shy ghost, half-written and half-terrifying. By 2027, you need to have that manuscript done. Not "finished pretending to work on it," but done. Beta readers hired (or browbeaten into service), feedback incorporated, and a final draft so polished it could blind someone. If it's still "good enough," submit it for publishing by, say, September 2026. (Yes, specific date. We're done with "somedays.")

Why? Because publishing isn't magic. It's not about waiting for the "perfect" idea--there is no perfect idea. It's about showing up, getting messy, and then showing up again to clean up the mess. This book is proof that you dare to create something bigger than your fear of criticism. And if it gets rejected? So what? Rejection is just the universe saying, "Closer..." like an ex who's definitely not still into you but wants you to keep trying.

How? Use your network. Beg your online friends (yes, even that guy who only comments "?" on your posts) to be beta readers. Pay someone if you have to--$25.00 for a "basic grammar check" is better than another round of "But is it deep enough?" spirals. Set deadlines for yourself:

April 2026:          First draft complete.
June 2026:          Beta readers finish round one.
September 2026: Round two feedback.
December 2026: Final edits.

          And if you're still stressing? Remember: J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter was rejected 12 times. Twelve. So if yours gets rejected only once, you're already outperforming her. (Kidding! Don't quit now. She eventually got a "yes," and so will you.)

Goal Two: Spam Wdc Contests Like a Man Possessed.

          Now that you've got your big project in motion, it's time to focus on the little ones. By the end of 2026, you need to have submitted 50 short stories or essays to contests on Wdc (or any platform that takes them). That averages to roughly one submission per week. Not too shabby for someone who still thinks "outlining" is a type of cheese.

Why? Because contests are your writing gym. They force you to stretch, pivot, and occasionally write about things you don't care about (looking at you, "robot cow" prompt in February 2025). Plus, winning or even placing will build your confidence--and your author bio. Future You, if you're reading this from a penthouse in Storyville, N.J., remember: these submissions are the bricks in your wall of "Yup, I've done this before."

How? Set a strict routine. Pick one weekend day (maybe the one when Tiff isn't hosting a QVC marathon) to polish a piece. Use the "weekly contest calendar" on Wdc like it's a dating app--swipe left on the ones that don't excite you, right on the ones that make your soul shrivel. And if you're stuck, steal ideas from your dreams. (Yes, steal. Dreams don't sue for copyright infringement.)

Pro Tip: Keep a spreadsheet. Track what you submit, when, and the results. Not only does it feel adult but imagine the satisfaction of crossing off #42 like a wizard who's actually sorted.

Goal Three: Find Five New Contests. Or a Time Machine.

          Okay, but Wdc isn't the only pond to throw your stone. By the end of 2026, you need to have submitted stories to five entirely different contests or publications. Think of local magazines, niche blogs, or that weird poetry magazine your third cousin's roommate edits from a submarine. (You never know!)

Why? Diversifying your outlets is like eating your veggies--it's gross now, but your future self will thank you. Plus, different platforms attract different audiences. A flash fiction piece might tank on Wdc but blow up on a "Draft2Digital" website. Variety, my friend, is the spice of... well, not life, but definitely a sustainable writing career.

How? Do the least glamorous thing known to humankind: Google it. Search "literary contests 2026" and sob quietly as you realize that yes, some people actually read your work. Also, ask around! If you've built that group of writer friends (see Goal Four), beg them for recommendations. For example:

Contest: Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest:(deadline: March 2026).
Contest: Inkitt (deadline: Varies).
Contest: The Prose (deadline: July 2025). And hey, they run contests year-round.

Goal Four: Be Less of a Robot. Find Friends.

         This one's uncomfortable to write, and probably even more uncomfortable to read. Future Me, if you're still hiding in the "Anonymous" corner of Wdc, avoiding feedback like it's a disease, I need to slap you... with a dolphin. (That's a metaphor. Dolphins are not legal in this state.)

         By 2027, you need to have joined at least one writer's group--online or IRL. Comment on three of your peers' stories a week. Ask questions. Offer help beta-reading someone else's story about sentient spaghetti. Yes, it's terrifying. But imagine this: You're not a lone coder in a basement; you're part of a weird, formidable tribe of people who also think semicolons are worth crying over.

Why? Because confidence isn't built in a vacuum. It's built by saying, "Hey, what do you think of this?" and not dying of shame when someone says, "It's good, but..." And for the record: "But" isn't the end of the world. It's just the universe saying, "Here's where the magic could be."

How? Start small. On Wdc, reply to one post a day. Ask a question. If you're too shy to speak up, volunteer to help someone format their submission. (Formatting is the gift that keeps on giving. No one's ever been rejected for poor formatting... probably.) And if you're really stuck, consider paid communities or workshops. A little investment goes a long way toward healing that "I'm a fraud" voice in your head.

Epilogue: You've Got This!

          Future Me, I know you're reading this while eating cereal for dinner, again. And maybe your manuscript is still in the "Chapter 1 of 20" stage, and that Wdc contest spreadsheet looks like a toddler's coloring page. But here's the secret: You're already better than you were when you wrote this letter. Every story you've submitted, every awkward comment you've left, every time you forced yourself to write when your brain screamed NO, that was progress.

          So, if 2026 has taught you anything, let it be this: Life isn't about the perfect first draft. It's about the second, third, and "I can't believe I'm still editing this at 2 a.m." drafts. Keep going. Keep being weird. And for the love of all that is Holy, check the spelling of 'beta reader' before you send that manuscript.

I know we can do this!

John R.

Word Count: 1,205
Dear Me: Official WDC Contest