The Real Win: What Applying for a Fellowship Taught Me About My Book

Last Monday, an email landed in my inbox with a subject line that made my heart skip a beat: a deadline for an extremely competitive writing fellowship. As I read the description, a surge of adrenaline hit me. This wasn’t just an opportunity; it felt like my opportunity. The fellowship was designed for a project like mine — a multi-generational story rooted in historical archives and personal legacy. I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that I had to apply, even if the odds were slim and the timeline was tight.

The process was an emotional whiplash, particularly because of how personal the subject matter is. First, came the pure, unadulterated energy surge. I allowed myself to daydream: winning would mean dedicated time to do these letters the justice they deserve. I envisioned deep research and focused writing. This vision was so compelling that even when multiple (supportive) people suggested I might want to wait a year to polish my application, I felt I couldn’t. The urgency I feel to tell this story now, in this specific moment in American history, wouldn’t let me pause. This wasn’t impatience; it was conviction.

But then, as the initial buzz faded, the insecurities crept in. The old, familiar voices whispered: “Who are you to write this?” I had to consciously, forcefully, tamp them down. My mantra became: My telling of this story does not preclude anyone else’s. I do not need to apologize for claiming this space.

Facing the high probability of rejection, I had to shift my goalposts. If “winning” was unlikely, then “winning” could not be the point. The act of applying itself became the reward (possibly the only reward but it’s not nothing!).

To even apply, I needed to assemble three letters of recommendation, a detailed research proposal, and a carefully culled CV. This checklist became an exercise in advocating for myself. I wasn’t just filling out forms; I was building a case for why my story matters. The whole week, as I edited and re-edited, I had to keep reminding myself of why I wanted to submit the best possible application I could muster.

And then, I took a breath – went back and checked everything one more time – took another breath, and I hit “submit.”

Shockingly, instead of confetti and fanfare, there was … silence. The adrenaline faded, leaving behind a hollow, depleted feeling. The application that had consumed me was suddenly out of my hands, and I didn’t know what to do next. All that waited for me on the other side of the submission was a long, uncertain wait.

Luckily, no application can be done alone, and a friend familiar with academic applications saw this coming. She pushed me to mark my accomplishment with her and we squeezed in a toast and some chips and guac before school pick up. It meant so much to me to acknowledge that I’d finished the application. It was a necessary ritual to close the chapter and remind myself that the effort itself was worth celebrating, regardless of the outcome.

After the let down, I realized the application had already given me three valuable gifts:

• Clarity: The application process forced me to refine my book’s pitch, better understand it’s potential structure, and identify areas where I need to do research. It also reinforced in me that I do not want to solely do a strictly interpreted academic history book.
• Resilience: Putting myself out there is a muscle that gets stronger with use and I am excited that I threw my hat in the ring.
• Investment: The hours spent writing and refining were a powerful declaration to myself: This work matters. The very act was an investment in my own creative faith.

This whole process — grappling with my voice and the value of my perspective — has changed how I see this blog. For years, it has been a quiet archive for my grandparents’ letters. But in writing my fellowship application, I argued for why I am the necessary bridge between their world and ours. I saw that the unique, connective tissue to the present runs directly through me.

So, moving forward, alongside their words, you will find more of mine. I’ll be sharing this journey — the challenges of writing a multi-generational memoir, the lessons in storytelling, and yes, the vulnerabilities of putting it all out there. Because, just as with the fellowship, I’ve learned that the magic isn’t just in the artifacts; it’s in the act of sharing the process.

It can sound like woo-woo drivel to simply say “reach for the stars.” But aiming high has immense concrete value. So I do encourage you to aim high, and push through hesitations that you may be clinging to out of comfort or fear.

*You may also notice that in this post, I refer to this project as a book. This is a purposeful shift after talking to people I really respect about my application. I can say with more certainty that this is a book I want to write and I need to embrace that mentality and goal.