I’ve spent years teaching students how to write stories, and one truth has always stood out: the best way to learn is to actually write for an audience. Exercises are helpful, but nothing shapes a writer like the experience of finishing a piece and submitting it where others will read it. That’s why I so often encourage writers of all ages to consider writing contests. A contest gives you more than a prize to chase. It gives you structure, deadlines, and a chance to see your words in conversation with others.
A story is one of the oldest ways we share meaning. Long before classrooms or novels, people told stories around fires. They used them to explain the world, to pass down lessons, and to create connection. That tradition is still alive every time we sit down to write. But in today’s world, it can feel intimidating to begin. Where do you start? How do you know if your story works?
This is where contests prove useful. A writing contest is not just a competition—it’s a classroom in disguise. Each entry forces you to make choices about characters, point of view, structure, and theme. Each deadline forces you to finish, and each round of feedback forces you to reflect. Even if you never win a ribbon, you walk away with the most valuable prize of all: growth as a writer.
In this guide, I’d like to share the same lessons I’ve given my students over the years about how to write a story. We’ll look at point of view, beginnings, middles, and endings, and we’ll see how contests can help sharpen those skills. By the end, I hope you’ll not only feel more confident about storytelling but also feel encouraged to test yourself in a real contest setting. If you’ve never tried one before, I recommend exploring opportunities on writing contests. You may find that the experience is exactly what you need to take your writing more seriously.
Stories are the backbone of human communication. Before we had books or classrooms, people told stories to explain the world, to preserve memory, and to pass along wisdom. Even today, the stories we read and write help us connect with one another in ways no other form can. That’s why learning how to tell a story is such an essential skill—not just for writers, but for anyone who wants to be understood.
When I teach storytelling, I always remind my students that writing is not just an academic exercise. It is a living practice. A story that works on the page can stay in a reader’s mind long after the last line. The question is, how do we craft stories that do that? Where do we begin?
Writing contests give us a practical answer. A contest takes abstract lessons and makes them real. Instead of just hearing about beginnings, middles, and endings, you must actually write them. Instead of vaguely considering character or theme, you must choose and commit. The deadline becomes your motivator, and the feedback becomes your classroom. Even if you don’t place, you have written, finished, and shared something—and those three actions matter more than any prize.
This guide is not about making you an instant winner. It’s about giving you the tools to practice, improve, and discover your own voice through stories. We will look at the parts of storytelling one by one—point of view, structure, character, pacing, theme, and revision. Along the way, I’ll show you how contests give you a safe but serious space to test those skills.
So consider this both a lecture and an invitation. If you’re reading this as someone who has never entered a contest before, let me encourage you: try one. If you’ve already entered but felt discouraged, let me reassure you: each attempt teaches something valuable. And if you’ve been writing for years but never shared your work, this is your moment to take a step. There are opportunities waiting, and you can begin with something as simple as writing contests.
Point of View: Choosing the Lens of Your Story
Every story is told through a lens. In writing, we call this the point of view, or POV. It determines not just what the reader sees, but how they experience the world you create. Understanding point of view is one of the first challenges my students face, and it’s one of the areas where writing contests provide excellent practice.
First person is perhaps the most immediate and intimate. When a story begins with “I,” the reader is invited directly into the narrator’s mind. They feel the world as that character feels it. In contests, first person is powerful because it creates instant closeness, but it comes with limits. The narrator can only share what they know or see, which means the writer must work carefully to build tension and reveal information naturally.
Third person limited gives you more flexibility. The story is still anchored in one character’s perspective, but the writer can zoom out just slightly—offering descriptions or insights the character themselves might not notice. This is a popular choice in contests because it balances intimacy with scope. The reader feels close to the character while still having a broader sense of the world.
Third person omniscient is a wider lens still. Here, the writer can step into any character’s thoughts, travel across time and place, and comment freely on events. Omniscient narration has fallen out of favor in modern contests, but when done well, it gives a story a sweeping, classic feel. The challenge is that it can distance the reader if the voice is not strong and consistent.
Then there’s the second person, the rarest of the group. “You step into the room. You feel the weight of silence.” Few writers use it, but contests sometimes reward this bold choice. It can make a story unforgettable, but it can also alienate readers if it feels forced.
In every contest I’ve judged or studied, strong use of point of view has been a deciding factor. Stories that falter often do so because the perspective drifts—slipping out of one voice into another, or revealing things the narrator couldn’t possibly know. On the other hand, when a writer commits to a point of view and uses it consistently, the story feels grounded.
My advice to students, and to anyone considering contests, is to experiment. Enter one contest in first person, another in third. Try the same story idea in different points of view and see which version feels strongest. Contests give you the perfect laboratory for this kind of practice. Even if you don’t win, you will walk away knowing more about how you want your stories to sound.
The Beginning: How to Hook a Reader
The beginning of a story is both a door and a promise. It’s the door the reader walks through, and it’s the promise that what waits inside will be worth their time. In contests, where judges may read dozens of entries in one sitting, beginnings matter more than most writers realize. A weak opening can sink a strong story; a sharp, engaging opening can carry even a modest piece much further.
When I teach beginnings, I remind students that readers are making decisions quickly. Within the first page—sometimes within the first few lines—they are forming an impression of your story. That doesn’t mean you need explosions or shocking twists, but it does mean you must make intentional choices.
Some stories open with action, dropping the reader into a moment of movement or tension. This approach works well in contests because it creates immediate momentum. A chase through a crowded street, a character slamming a door, even something as small as a ringing phone—all can signal that something important is happening.
Other stories open with character, inviting the reader into someone’s thoughts, habits, or emotions. A contest piece might begin with a nervous student waiting for a test, or a grandmother flipping through old photographs. These quiet openings work if they establish a voice or mood that makes the reader want to know more.
A third option is to open with setting or atmosphere. Descriptions of place can anchor a story, giving the reader a clear sense of where they are before the action begins. But in contests, this must be done with care. Too much description at the start can feel heavy. The trick is to reveal the setting in a way that also hints at the conflict to come—a storm rolling in, a room too quiet, a house that feels too empty.
Above all, a beginning must create curiosity. Whether it’s action, character, or setting, the first lines should raise questions in the reader’s mind. Who is this person? Why are they here? What will happen next? Curiosity is what keeps the judge turning the page.
In contests, I often see openings that stumble because they try too hard. Writers sometimes start with pages of backstory, or long explanations of world history. They believe the reader needs every detail before the plot can begin. But contests reward economy. The best entries find ways to weave backstory in naturally after the hook has been set.
Another common misstep is to begin with a cliché—waking up from a dream, looking in a mirror, starting the day with an alarm clock. These openings feel familiar, and not in a good way. Contest judges read them often, and they rarely stand out. If you want your story to rise above the crowd, think carefully about how to avoid the obvious.
When you sit down to write your next story, ask yourself: if this were my contest entry, would the opening pull the judge in? Would it make them want to keep reading even if they were tired, distracted, or facing a stack of submissions? That’s the test of a strong beginning.
The good news is that beginnings can be practiced. Try writing three different openings for the same story idea. One focused on action, one on character, one on setting. Share them with others, or even enter them into different contests. You may be surprised which version resonates most. Every contest is an opportunity to refine that opening move.
The Middle: Building Conflict and Tension
If the beginning is the door and the promise, then the middle is the journey itself. It’s where your characters face obstacles, where choices are made, and where the story earns its momentum. For many writers, the middle is also the hardest part. Students often start strong and know where they want to end, but they stall somewhere in the middle, unsure how to connect those points. Writing contests expose this weakness quickly. Judges can tell when a story runs out of steam halfway through, and it’s often the difference between an average entry and a standout one.
The middle of a story has one central job: to create and develop conflict. Conflict doesn’t always mean fighting or loud arguments. At its core, conflict is tension—the friction between what a character wants and what stands in their way. A student trying to pass an exam, a detective following a clue, a child struggling to make a friend—all of these situations have conflict if handled carefully. Without it, the middle becomes little more than description or filler.
Another lesson I stress is escalation. The middle should not be flat. Each page should raise the stakes, either by deepening the problem or by complicating the character’s choices. Think of it like climbing a hill. If the slope never changes, the reader loses interest. But if the path grows steeper, with twists and surprises, the climb feels rewarding. In contests, stories that show this sense of rising intensity often stand out.
Dialogue plays an important role here as well. Conversations between characters are not just chatter—they should push the story forward. When dialogue reveals secrets, creates misunderstandings, or forces decisions, it adds fuel to the conflict. Weak dialogue, on the other hand, slows the middle down. In contests, judges often note when dialogue feels like “filler.”
Pacing is another factor that can make or break the middle. Too much detail, and the story drags. Too little, and the reader feels rushed. The best contest entries find balance—moments of action balanced with quieter reflections, bursts of tension followed by space to breathe. This rhythm keeps the reader engaged without exhausting them.
I tell my students to think of the middle as the heart of the story. It pumps energy into every other part. Without a strong middle, even a brilliant opening and a clever ending will feel hollow. When entering contests, writers should always reread their drafts with a question in mind: is the middle alive? Does it beat with tension, stakes, and purpose?
One strategy I often recommend is outlining the middle not as a single stretch, but as a series of smaller turns. Each scene should push the character closer to a decision, each moment should bring them face-to-face with the challenge that defines the story. This not only makes the writing easier but also keeps the reader on edge, wondering what comes next.
Remember: a contest judge doesn’t want to feel like they’re reading filler. They want to feel pulled along by the pulse of the story. If your middle holds conflict, escalation, dialogue that matters, and pacing that flows, you’ll give your story the strength it needs to stand out among dozens of entries.
The Ending: Resolution and Reader Satisfaction
If the beginning is the invitation and the middle is the journey, then the ending is the farewell. It’s the moment where the story leaves the reader with an impression that will linger long after the last sentence. In writing contests, endings often determine whether a piece is remembered or forgotten. I’ve read countless contest entries with promising openings and solid middles that simply collapsed at the finish line. A rushed or confusing ending can undo the power of everything that came before.
So what makes an ending work? The first requirement is resolution. Readers, and contest judges in particular, want to feel that the story has reached a conclusion. That doesn’t mean every question must be answered, but it does mean the main conflict needs some kind of closure. If a character has been struggling with a decision, we must see them make it. If a mystery has been teased, we need at least a glimpse of the truth. An unresolved central thread leaves readers unsatisfied, as if they’ve been denied the answer to a question they were promised.
At the same time, not all endings have to be neat or happy. Some of the most memorable contest stories I’ve seen ended with ambiguity or even sadness. A character may fail to achieve what they wanted, but in that failure the story can still feel complete. The key is that the ending must feel intentional. Judges can tell when a writer simply ran out of ideas versus when a writer chose to leave space for interpretation.
Another lesson I emphasize is emotional impact. Endings don’t just tie up plot—they deliver feeling. Whether it’s joy, sorrow, wonder, or surprise, the final lines should strike a chord. Think of the last note of a song: it lingers in the air even after the music stops. In contests, stories that land that final emotional note are the ones that rise to the top.
Writers must also be careful with pacing. Some endings arrive too abruptly, as if the writer suddenly remembered the word limit and cut everything short. Others drag on, explaining long after the point has been made. A strong ending finds balance. It arrives naturally, giving the reader just enough to feel satisfied before gently letting them go.
One practical exercise I assign is to write three different endings for the same story: one happy, one tragic, and one open-ended. The goal is not to confuse yourself but to see how each choice changes the impact. Then, decide which version best serves the heart of the story. Contests provide a perfect arena for testing these different approaches. Judges often reward writers who are brave enough to surprise them but skilled enough to make that surprise feel earned.
Above all, remember this: the ending should echo the beginning. A story feels whole when its conclusion connects in some way to its opening promise. It doesn’t need to mirror it exactly, but the threads should tie together. The first line raises a question, the final line answers it—or at least responds to it. That sense of unity is what makes readers lean back and say, “Yes, that was complete.”
In contests, endings are where judges put down their pens, take a breath, and decide how the story stays with them. If your ending resonates—clear, intentional, emotional, and unified—you will not only satisfy the reader but also set yourself apart in the competition.
Characters and Dialogue: Giving Your Story a Beating Heart
When students ask me what matters most in a story, I always give the same answer: characters. Plot is important, structure is important, but without characters who feel real, nothing else will land. Characters are the beating heart of your story. They are the reason readers care about the journey, and in writing contests, they are often the element that separates a forgettable entry from one that lingers in a judge’s mind.
A strong character is not just a collection of traits. They need desires, fears, contradictions, and choices. Think about real people you know. No one is entirely consistent; we are all a mix of strengths and flaws. A character who is only brave or only kind will feel flat. But a character who wants to be brave yet struggles with fear—that is someone readers can connect with. In writing contests, this kind of layered character is often what makes a judge take notice.
Another way to make characters vivid is through specific detail. Saying “she was nervous” is fine, but showing her tapping her pen against the desk until the ink smudges tells us far more. Contest judges reward writers who can make characters come alive in just a few lines. Remember, you don’t always have hundreds of pages—sometimes you only have a few thousand words. That’s why writing contests are such useful practice grounds. They force you to create depth quickly and efficiently.
Dialogue is equally crucial. I often remind my students that dialogue is not a transcript of real conversation. In real life, people say “um” and wander in circles. In stories, dialogue must feel natural but also purposeful. Every exchange should do at least one of three things: reveal character, move the plot forward, or increase tension. If it doesn’t, it risks becoming filler. Contest judges, who read many entries quickly, can spot wasted dialogue right away.
One of the most common issues I see in contest entries is dialogue that sounds stiff, like characters are reading from a script. The trick to avoiding this is to hear it aloud. Read your dialogue to yourself, or even better, have someone else read it. Does it sound like something a real person might say? Or does it feel forced? If it’s the latter, trim and adjust until the words flow naturally.
Another common mistake is using dialogue to dump information. Writers sometimes load conversations with backstory: “As you know, Mary, since our father passed three years ago and we moved to the city, things have been difficult.” No one talks like that, and judges notice. Instead, let backstory slip out in smaller, more believable ways. A sigh, a half-spoken reference, a detail in how someone avoids a subject—these all suggest history without spelling it out.
In writing contests, memorable dialogue often carries subtext. Characters don’t always say exactly what they mean. A mother asking her son if he has eaten may really be asking if he’s okay. A friend saying “you look tired” may really mean “I’m worried about you.” Judges appreciate dialogue that works on multiple levels because it reflects the way real communication happens.
Finally, remember that characters and dialogue work best together. A character’s voice should be distinct, shaped by who they are and what they’ve experienced. If you cover up the speaker tags in your dialogue and can still tell who is speaking, you’ve succeeded. That level of distinction is rare in writing contests, but when it appears, it shines.
When you’re preparing a story for a contest, give your characters the care they deserve. Let them breathe, let them contradict themselves, let them reveal their desires through what they say and what they leave unsaid. Judges may forget the fine details of your plot, but if they remember your characters—if they feel they’ve met real people in your story—you have done your job well. And in the world of writing contests, that can make all the difference.
Theme and Message: Why Your Story Matters
Every strong story has two levels. The first is the surface—the plot, the characters, the action we see. The second runs underneath: the theme, the message, the meaning that lingers after the last line. In my classes, I often tell students that theme is not an optional extra. It is the heartbeat of a story, even when it’s subtle.
Sometimes, theme is clear and direct. A story might explore forgiveness, the price of ambition, or the strength of friendship. Other times, theme is quieter, revealed only through the choices characters make and the consequences they face. Both approaches can work, but in writing contests, stories with a sense of theme almost always rise above those without one. Judges may not consciously say, “This story had a strong theme,” but they will feel it. They’ll remember the piece not only for what happened, but for why it mattered.
The trick is not to force a theme but to allow it to grow naturally from the story. A beginning writer may decide ahead of time, “My theme will be courage,” and then hammer every line into that shape. The result often feels heavy-handed. Instead, think about your characters’ struggles. What are they fighting for? What choices are they making? The theme emerges from the answers. If a character chooses honesty over deception, perhaps the theme is truth. If they sacrifice for others, the theme may be love or selflessness.
Contests are an excellent place to practice this balance. Because entries are usually short, you don’t have pages of space to explain your message. You must trust the reader to see it in the actions and outcomes of the story. This is why writing contests sharpen a writer’s sense of theme—they push you to say more with less.
One exercise I recommend is to finish your draft, then ask yourself: what does this story really say? Don’t settle for the first answer. Dig deeper. Maybe you thought you were writing about winning a race, but really you were writing about resilience. Maybe your detective story isn’t only about solving a crime, but about the loneliness of obsession. The richer your theme, the more likely your story will stay with the judge after the contest ends.
Another important point is universality. Contest judges come from many backgrounds, so a story that taps into universal themes—love, loss, hope, fear—will connect more widely. That doesn’t mean your story has to be vague. Quite the opposite. The more specific the details, the more universal the theme feels. A single candle burning on a windowsill can communicate hope more powerfully than a page of abstract statements about hope itself.
I’ve watched many contest entries succeed because they struck this balance: a plot that kept the reader turning the page and a theme that gave the whole piece meaning. That combination is what makes a judge lean back after reading and think, “This one deserves a second look.”
In the end, theme is about giving your story weight. A good theme transforms a story from entertainment into experience. And in the setting of writing contests, where dozens of stories compete for attention, the one with a resonant theme is the one that lasts.
Pacing and Structure: The Rhythm of Storytelling
Every story moves at a certain rhythm. Some are fast and urgent, others slow and thoughtful. Pacing is the way a writer controls that rhythm, while structure is the framework that holds it together. Together, they determine how a reader experiences your story moment by moment. In writing contests, pacing and structure often separate the entries that feel polished from those that feel unfinished. A judge might not always be able to explain why a story “dragged” or “felt rushed,” but pacing is usually the reason.
A common mistake new writers make is to think of pacing only in terms of speed. They worry that if nothing exciting happens on every page, the story is too slow. But pacing is not about being fast; it’s about balance. A story that races through events without pause leaves the reader breathless but unsatisfied. A story that lingers too long on details risks losing the reader’s attention. The best contest entries find a rhythm that alternates between tension and release—action followed by reflection, conflict balanced with calm.
Structure plays a key role here. The classic structure of beginning, middle, and end is not an arbitrary rule. It’s a pattern humans instinctively recognize. The beginning introduces characters and situations, the middle develops conflict, and the ending provides resolution. Deviating from this structure can work, but only if the writer is intentional. In contests, where judges may read dozens of stories back-to-back, a clear structure is often an advantage. It gives them confidence that the writer is in control of the story.
One exercise I often assign is to map out a story as a series of peaks and valleys. The peaks are moments of conflict or tension, the valleys are quieter moments of reflection or description. If the map looks flat, the pacing will feel flat to the reader. If it looks like a jagged mountain range with no rest, the story may feel overwhelming. The goal is a pattern that keeps the reader engaged without exhausting them.
Writing contests are the perfect place to test pacing and structure because the constraints are real. Word limits force writers to think carefully about how much time to spend on each section. A 1,500-word story cannot devote 1,000 words to setup and leave only 500 for conflict and resolution. Judges can feel when a story is lopsided, and they often comment on it in their feedback.
Another area where pacing matters is description. Description is necessary—it builds setting, mood, and tone—but too much slows the story. The trick is to choose details that do double duty: details that not only paint a picture but also suggest conflict or theme. A cracked teacup on a table is not just description; it may signal neglect, poverty, or loss. In contests, writers who learn to embed meaning in details tend to stand out.
Dialogue can also affect pacing. Quick, back-and-forth exchanges speed up the rhythm, while long monologues slow it down. Both can be effective, but they must serve the story. Judges notice when dialogue is used clumsily, either dragging on without purpose or rushing through important moments.
When preparing a story for a contest, ask yourself: does the pacing fit the story’s purpose? A thriller should pulse with urgency, while a reflective story may need more space to breathe. Structure and pacing are not one-size-fits-all, but they must be consistent. A mismatched rhythm pulls the reader out, while a well-matched rhythm keeps them immersed.
At its best, pacing is invisible. The reader should feel carried along effortlessly, unaware of the writer’s careful choices. When a contest judge reaches the last line without realizing how quickly they got there, you’ve done your job. And when your structure holds firm from start to finish, your story will feel whole, leaving the reader with the sense that they’ve experienced something complete.
Editing and Revision: Sharpening the Story
When students finish a draft, many believe the hard part is over. They’ve written the beginning, middle, and end. The story exists, so surely it’s done. But the truth is, a first draft is rarely the story at its best. Writing is rewriting. Editing and revision are where a story transforms from rough clay into something shaped and polished. And in contests, that polish often makes the difference between an honorable mention and a winning entry.
Revision begins with distance. After writing a draft, put it aside, even if only for a day or two. Returning to it with fresh eyes allows you to see what works and what doesn’t. Students often groan when I suggest this, but once they try it, they understand. The lines that felt brilliant in the heat of drafting may suddenly look clumsy. The scenes that seemed essential may prove unnecessary. That distance gives you honesty.
The next step is clarity. Ask yourself: is the story easy to follow? Do characters’ motivations make sense? Does each scene lead logically to the next? Judges in contests don’t have time to puzzle through confusing timelines or vague character decisions. They want to feel carried along. Clear, coherent storytelling earns trust.
Then there’s concision. Many stories suffer not because they lack ideas, but because they contain too many. Writers often explain when they should imply, repeat when they should move forward. In revision, look for places where a single strong line can replace three weaker ones. Contests often impose word limits, and learning to say more with less is a skill that pays off every time.
I also encourage students to read their work aloud. Hearing the words reveals rhythm in a way silent reading cannot. Awkward sentences, stiff dialogue, and clumsy transitions all become obvious when spoken. Contest judges, whether they realize it or not, are sensitive to rhythm. A story that flows smoothly stands out.
Feedback is another critical part of revision. Sharing your draft with trusted readers exposes blind spots. You may think a scene is clear, but someone else may find it confusing. In contests, feedback can come from peers before submission, or from judges afterward. Either way, learning to listen without defensiveness is essential. Not every suggestion will be right, but every piece of feedback is a chance to see your story from a new angle.
Finally, remember that revision is not about sanding away everything unusual. It’s about sharpening what matters. Too often, students revise until their story feels bland, fearing that anything risky will be judged harshly. In reality, contests often reward boldness—if it’s executed with care. Revision should make your unique voice clearer, not quieter.
When I prepare students for writing contests, I remind them that revision is their secret weapon. Most entrants will rush, submitting their first or second draft. But those who take the time to revise—who step back, cut, clarify, and polish—will rise above the crowd. The difference may be invisible to casual readers, but judges notice. They always notice.
Feedback and Growth: Learning from Every Attempt
If drafting and revising are the tools that shape a story, then feedback is the mirror that shows you what’s really there. Writers can only see so much of their own work. We know what we meant to say, but readers only see what’s on the page. The gap between intention and effect is where growth happens. That’s why feedback is one of the most powerful parts of storytelling, and why writing contests can become such effective classrooms.
When I assign students workshop sessions, I notice the same pattern. At first, they’re nervous. They brace themselves, certain the feedback will be harsh. But once they hear thoughtful comments, they begin to relax. They discover that even critical notes are not meant to tear down but to build up. “This section confused me,” one reader might say. Or, “I loved this image, but I wanted more.” These comments are not insults. They are gifts. They shine a light on places where the story can be stronger.
Writing contests provide feedback in two ways. Some contests include direct comments from judges. Others provide the subtler feedback of results. Even without written notes, not placing can be its own kind of lesson. Did your piece feel unfinished? Did you choose a structure that didn’t serve the story? Reflection on these questions teaches as much as formal feedback.
One of the most important lessons is learning how to filter feedback. Not every suggestion will fit your vision, and that’s okay. Some judges may prefer one style over another. Some readers may ask for clarity when mystery was your intention. The skill is in listening carefully, considering each point, and then deciding what strengthens your story without losing your voice.
I remind students that growth rarely comes from winning alone. It comes from the cycle of writing, revising, receiving feedback, and trying again. Entering multiple contests makes this cycle a habit. Each time, you learn something new—not just about craft, but about resilience. A writer who can face feedback without fear is a writer who will improve steadily over time.
Feedback also builds empathy. When you hear how others experience your story, you begin to see writing not as a solitary act but as communication. You realize your words live differently in each reader’s mind. That awareness deepens your craft. It helps you write not only for yourself but for the audience you hope to reach.
In contests, I’ve seen writers return year after year, each time stronger. Their early work may have been rough, but because they embraced feedback, they grew. Judges notice that progress. A writer who once struggled with clarity may later impress with precision. Another who overwrote may learn to trim. Growth is visible, and it’s often rewarded.
So if you are considering entering writing contests, don’t think only of prizes. Think of feedback as the real reward. Every comment, every critique, every result is another step forward. Over time, those steps add up to something greater than any single story: they add up to a writer who knows how to learn, adapt, and keep going.
Conclusion: Bringing It All Together
Writing a story is never just about stringing words together. It’s about choices—point of view, beginnings, middles, endings, characters, pacing, and theme. It’s about revising until those choices feel clear and intentional. And it’s about being brave enough to share your work, to invite feedback, and to grow from every attempt.
For students and writers alike, I believe writing contests provide one of the best classrooms available. They push you to finish. They remind you that deadlines matter. They expose your work to new readers. And they give you opportunities to test your skills in a setting that is both challenging and encouraging.
If you’ve never entered before, I encourage you to try. Start small. Write a story with a beginning, middle, and end. Revise it until it feels true to your voice. Then share it with confidence. The results may surprise you—not just in what others say, but in how much you learn about yourself.
Frequently Asked Questions
Do I need to be an experienced writer to enter contests?
Not at all. In fact, contests are one of the best ways for beginners to grow. They provide focus and feedback that you may not get otherwise.
How long should a contest story be?
Most contests set their own limits, but a common range is 1,000–5,000 words. The challenge is to make every word count.
What kind of stories win?
There is no single formula. Strong characters, clear conflict, and emotional impact tend to stand out. Judges remember stories that feel authentic.
Can I experiment with style or form?
Yes, and contests are a safe place to do so. Just make sure the experiment serves the story, not the other way around.
What if I don’t win?
You still win by finishing and learning. Each entry adds to your experience, and many writers improve most from the stories that didn’t place.
Do contests only reward one genre?
Not at all. I’ve seen winners in every style: fantasy, realistic fiction, mystery, even experimental forms. What matters most is execution.
Should I enter multiple contests?
If you can, yes. Each contest sharpens different skills and exposes you to new prompts, judges, and readers.
How do contests help with discipline?
Deadlines force you to finish. That habit carries into all your writing.
Can contests help me if I’m working on a larger book?
Absolutely. Think of contest entries as practice chapters. They allow you to experiment with structure and character in smaller, manageable pieces.
Where can I find reliable contests?
You can start here: enter a free writing contest. This site collects opportunities and makes it easy to get started.