By Herman M. Lagon
The room always smells the same. A mix of fresh bond or pad paper, ballpen ink and nervous sweat. Someone taps a pencil. Another flips through the contest kit as if a miracle might be hiding between the pages. A student leans over and whispers, “Sir, what if I forget everything?” The timekeeper lifts a hand. The room stills. The clock starts its quiet, unforgiving walk. This is the real stage of the RSPC — and, for some, the NSPC. No cheering crowd. Just a chair, a pen and a young writer wrestling with words.
Many believe winners are simply more talented. They picture champions with brilliant vocabularies and natural drama in their veins. But judges like me, after years of scanning stacks of entries in warm, cramped rooms, notice a different pattern. The winning pieces are not the most dazzling. They are the most honest. Once, a panel paused over a plain editorial on jeepney fares. No grand ideas, just a clear stand and a closing line: “For some families, a fare hike means skipping lunch.” The line was simple. But it stayed.
Research confirms this pattern. Studies continue to show that clarity, structure and attention to the reader matter more than decorative language in effective writing (Graham et al., 2023). Honest, simple sentences often beat impressive-sounding ones. Contest writing rewards discipline more than drama. It rewards the writer who respects the reader’s time.
One of the most common mistakes in contests is ignoring the theme, the factsheet or the prompt. A student of mine once wrote a stunning feature about a fisherman’s life. It was rich with detail and emotion. The trouble was that the prompt focused on climate disasters in urban settings. The piece was good, but it belonged in another contest. Writing competitions are not just about talent. They are about relevance. Judges are not looking for a masterpiece that missed the point. They want a story that answers the prompt clearly.
Another frequent mistake is trying to say everything. Some editorials attempt to carry the entire country’s problems at once — inflation, corruption, education, climate, even personal struggles. The result reads like a jeepney with no brakes: crowded, noisy and going nowhere. Winning pieces, by contrast, usually focus on one clear angle. A single issue. A specific face. A defined problem. Good writing contests reward what old editors used to call a “tight story.” Not small-minded, just well-aimed.
Openings also decide fates more often than students realize. Judges go through stacks of papers in a single day. When the 20th piece starts with “nowadays” or “since time immemorial,” the line no longer sounds wise. It just sounds familiar and tired. A strong first line does not need fireworks. It just needs life. One regional winner began with: “At 6:00 in the morning, the line at the public school gate is longer than the classroom itself.” No metaphors, no sermon, just an image that felt real. The judges leaned forward. The rest of the piece had already earned a chance.
Students also forget that every story needs movement. Even in opinion writing, something must change. A character must decide. A community must respond. An idea must evolve. Satirical and darkly humorous novelist Kurt Vonnegut once said that every character should want something, even if it is just a glass of water. The same holds true for contest writing. A feature about a child vendor must show what that child hopes for. An editorial about internet addiction must end with a decision or a sense of where to go next. Otherwise, it feels like a photograph that stayed blank in the tray.
Too many words can also ruin a good piece. Students often stretch sentences, hoping to sound more impressive. Instead, their best ideas get lost. Once I circled a whole paragraph and wrote, “Too many decorations, not enough house.” The advice was simple: cut the excess, keep the bones. Research consistently shows that structured revision and concise expression improve clarity, coherence and overall writing quality (Graham, 2019). The best contest writers learn to trim without mercy.
There is also the matter of decisions. Many entries describe problems but refuse to take a stand. An editorial that tries to please everyone ends up convincing no one. Judges look for writers who are brave enough to choose a position, yet careful enough to support it with facts, while aware of “the other side.” It is not about being loud. It is about being clear. A student once wrote, “If we cannot protect the smallest voices in school, we cannot claim to teach values.” The line was calm but firm. It stayed with the panel long after the judging ended.
Endings, of course, are where medals are won or lost. A weak closing feels like a jeepney stopping three blocks before the terminal. Judges want to arrive somewhere. They are waiting for a closing thought that startles a little, then makes perfect sense. A winning feature on a student-athlete offered this final line: “He still runs every morning, not to escape poverty, but to chase the future, he refuses to surrender.” The room fell silent after that line. Sometimes the best endings do not shout. They simply stay.
Technical discipline also matters more than students like to admit. Clean handwriting, correct grammar and accurate facts often separate first place from second. Judges are human. When they struggle to read a messy script or stumble over careless errors, the piece loses energy. Writing contests are not only tests of creativity. They are tests of respect — for the craft, the reader and the truth. The Campus Journalism Act was meant to build ethical writers, not just flashy ones.
Of course, contests are not perfect versions of real journalism. Time pressure can reward speed more than depth. Real investigations take months. Contests give only hours. But they still offer something meaningful: The chance for a young writer to realize that their voice matters. Sometimes a ribbon is really a spark of confidence.
The road to the national level is long — school, district, division, regional, then national. Each step is less about losing and more about learning. Students sharpen their leads, verify facts and grow thicker skin. They learn that writing is honest labor.
And the quiet rule behind most winners is this: Write with conscience, and pay attention to the unheard. The best features notice the janitor, the fisher, the quiet honor student in the last row. The best editorials stand beside those who have no column, no platform, no microphone. The best sports stories are not just filled with perfect jargon; they remember that behind every medal is a tired body, a worried parent and years of unseen sacrifice. Judges notice when a writer cares about more than the prize.
The same is true across the other contests. News writing rewards accuracy and calm thinking. Photojournalism favors real human moments over forced drama. In copyreading and headlining, slow down and respect every word and comma. And in editorial cartooning, keep the idea simple and sharp. Different events, same secret: clarity, honesty and respect for the reader.
I once asked a student of mine, a national champion in editorial writing, what he did differently. He shrugged and said, “I just imagined my article being read by the person I was writing about,” adding giggly, “I also made sure that my handwriting was decent enough.” That was his secret. Not a special vocabulary. Not a hidden template. Just a quiet sense of responsibility and clarity. He wrote as if his subject were sitting across the table, reading every line.
So how does one win at the RSPC or NSPC? Not by chasing applause, but by chasing clarity. Not by trying to sound brilliant, but by trying to be understood. Not by copying last year’s champion, but by paying attention to the small truths that others overlook. The medals will always be limited. The champion will be just one, but the deeper triumph belongs to the student who wrote with purpose.
Years later, the certificates may fade, the trophies may gather dust, and medals may lose their shine. The habit of honest writing will stay. And that, more than any medal, is the real victory.
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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with./WDJ