The “Studdard Paradox”

Since winning the Writers of the Future contest’s 2026 Golden Pen Award, I’ve thought a lot about Ruben Studdard.

If you can’t remember the name “Ruben Studdard”, you can probably be forgiven. After all, his story largely took place over twenty years ago. In 2003, he was a contestant on the second season of American Idol. Throughout the season, he impressed judges with his soulful voice, staying neck-and-neck with his poppier-sounding rival, Clay Aiken.

I’ve never paid much attention to American Idol (save 2020, because the Pandemic did weird stuff to all of us). But my mom and sister were locked in. My sister was particularly drawn to Aiken, as many viewers were. He had movie star good looks, a voice and style with clear mainstream appeal. America, in general, seemed to love him. It looked like the season was his to lose.

Which was why it came as a shock when America made Studdard the winner, and Aiken the runner-up.

The pitch for American Idol was endlessly appealing to those who came from humble backgrounds and dreamed of stardom: a clear path for launching a successful career as a recording artist. And Studdard won it. Sure enough, he released his debut album later that year. And it did pretty well. But while Studdard had a modestly successful career, Aiken became a global sensation. His music, and his face, were everywhere. My sister loved his work. A lot of people did. And a few years later, Studdard had largely receded into the background, swallowed by the shadow of the man he’d beaten.

“First” is No Guarantee

I started thinking about Mr. Studdard and his journey in the weeks following my trip to Los Angeles. Writers of the Future has launched some truly remarkable careers in genre fiction. Brandon Sanderson, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Kevin J. Anderson, Nnedi Okorafor, just to name a few. But here’s the thing: none of the bestselling authors listed above actually won the coveted Golden Pen. Sanderson managed an honorable mention and was named a finalist once. KJA sits on a pile of honorable mentions from his time with the contest. Dr. Okorafor appeared as a “non-winning published finalist”.

It’s worth remembering that Ruben Studdard wasn’t a failure. He didn’t release one dud album and fade into the woodwork. But he wasn’t a household name once the American Idol afterglow had faded, either. And that’s what keeps me up at night.

From the moment I started this whole writing thing, I was in it to win it. I don’t just want to sell a few books. I want to sell lots of books. I want to win awards. Get movie options. I want people to know my name, if not my face (I am just an author, after all). On the night of the WOTF awards ceremony, and many times since, I’ve found myself looking at my fellow vol. 42 winners. Not one loser in the bunch. Nobody who’s unserious. Who looks at their contest results and thinks, “That’s enough. I’m good.”

And with the story of Ruben Studdard in the back of my mind, I wonder how many of them will pass me by on their way to literary fame.

But I’ve never been one to give in to nihilism, to embrace despair. So rather than thinking, “This is it: my one moment of glory”, I asked myself: why does it sometimes feel like being first is more a curse than a blessing?

The Curse of First

First thing I looked at, obviously, was the reality of coming in first.

So you won a huge contest. You beat out thousands of people to do it, and a group of industry professionals with nothing left to prove told you that you were the best.

Now what?

I’ve come to feel that the greatest enemy of a first-place winner is a sense of completion. Because you did it, right? You won the whole kit and kaboodle. It could be that a lot of winners look at their award and think, “This is it. This is enough for me.” And heck, it’s not like anybody can take that away from them. Win Writers of the Future and decide you’re done, and nobody’s gonna come to your house to reposess your trophy.

And I fear there’s also a sense of existential despair. I’m always saying that writing is a constant cycle of thinking, I’ll never write something this good again, then coming back a little while later and thinking, How did I ever think this was the best I could do? Well I’m here to tell you that, no many how many times you experience that first step, it never gets any easier to deal with. All the times I say that, and still I’ll finish a story and, at least for a moment, think, This is it. My best work. I just did it. All downhill from here.

Unfinished Business

And what about those guys who didn’t finish first? Well, I think for them there’s a lingering sense that there’s still more to do.

In retrospect, I’ve come to believe that placing in a contest, but not winning, is incredibly motivating. You’re left with validation, a sense of real accomplishment, but also the lingering feeling that you could’ve done better. That you still have more to prove.

So those also-rans redouble their efforts. They keep the hustle and learn lessons from both success and failure. I’ve always maintained that you learn more from success than failure. Perhaps they simply learn more. Maybe Mike Strickland is right when he says “Third place is the best place”. Heck, every time I look at that guy, it’s like he’s got “Bestselling Author” written all over him.

Never Write Your Best Story

So the key takeaway from all this brooding and thinking has been this: never let yourself think you’re done. Always look ahead to the next thing. The next publication. The next full request. The next story, the next book, the next series. And if you’re a Writers of the Future Vol. 43 first-place winner reading this, keep the following in mind:

Your win is impressive. It’s a singular achievement that no one can take away from you. But it doesn’t guarantee stardom, or even continued success. Much to their credit, nobody at Author Services will suggest that it does. They can’t give you an all-access ticket to literary greatness. What they can do is what they’re already doing: open the door.

Writers of the Future is meant to provide a launch pad for a genre fiction career. What you do after the launch, or even whether or not you truly make it off the ground, is up to you. If you let yourself believe this is the greatest thing you’ll ever do, more than likely that will be the case. But if you use this as a stepping stone to greater things, there’s no limit to what you can accomplish.

Over time, I’ve come to live by a simple motto: “My best story hasn’t been written yet.” So that’s my parting advice: never write your best story. Make each one better than the last, but always tell yourself the best is yet to come. – MK

Writers of the Future, Vol. 42 is now available, through Amazon and wherever fine literature is sold. It includes my winning story, “In Living Color’. It was the best story I’d ever written. But it won’t be my all-time best.