I have long understood that I am not a competitive person. Not in the sense of besting others, striving to be better than, more than, ahead of. Somewhere along the way over the last 60 + years, what might have become a competitive drive morphed into something, to my mind, more benign. Self-betterment is not, in my opinion, competitive in the way most people apprehend the term.
That said, I like awards. I have favorites. It seems important to acknowledge quality, impact, set goals, and shine a spotlight on that which is most laudable (for the moment) in order to validate the work done. Recognition is meaningful.
So we went to the World Fantasy Convention last weekend to see friends and I found myself hoping for a win for my friend Nicola Griffith. Her novel, Spear, was up for a best novel award. I was there when it went to someone else.
Now, I’ve been through a similar experience. I was shortlisted long ago for the Philip K. Dick Award for Compass Reach. We spent the money, went to Seattle, attended the ceremony…and I didn’t win. It was a peculiar sensation, sitting there muffled in disappointment which I knew to be, in some broader context, pointless. Because really, Best is such a fickle, arbitrary thing. But it was recognition. And I very much wanted that.
Nicola has no shortage of recognition. She is amazing, she has just published a new novel that is receiving immense praise. In terms of any kind of competition, she’s doing well. I think I was more disappointed on her behalf than she was. Maybe not. It is true that the “just to be nominated” thing matters.
But it made me think about my own career and where I am. The whole weekend turned out to be a moment of reassessment. Not for the first time, I questioned what it was I was doing. I’ve reached a point of wondering if it’s worth the effort.
I do this from time to time. Partly, it’s impostor syndrome. But it’s also a consequence of trying to maintain a reasonable perspective. The way I look at it, I had a window, say between 1995 and 2005. Ten years in which to establish myself. All the possibilities were there. I was selling short stories fairly regularly, in 2000 I started publishing novels. And by 2005, the upward trajectory failed and I had missed the chance to get a major publishing contract and so the long slide into Also Ran status. A variety of factors, most of which were not in mt control, created this situation, and I was brought face to face with some of them last weekend. I’ve spent the last 18 years trying to come to terms with this while also writing with the intent of reversing the trend. I have a new novel out, in a new genre. I’ve continued publishing short fiction.
I wonder occasionally if my lack of a competitive drive has hurt me. Possibly. It was always the work that mattered. All the rest, as my dad used to say, was how one kept score.
Colleagues of a certain age acknowledged my presence. That felt good. But there’s a new generation on stage now and for all I know, none of them ever heard of me. I realized by the end of the weekend that I do not go to these things anymore for professional reasons, but to see friends, of whom I have more than a few, of those very good friends.
Except for that (I have been invited to and attended only one convention as Guest of Honor), I have no reason to attend anymore. (Yes, lightning may strike and next year everything will turn around, but that need for perspective prevents me from hoping, certainly from expecting.)
It was the conversations that made it worthwhile. More than worthwhile. I connected with a couple of new people, spent time in the bar, caught up with old acquaintances. That felt marvelous. That, it seems, is what matters more to me. An award or two would be nice, but it’s the afterparty stuff, sitting in a corner with a few folks laughing and drinking and eating and being in the moment. And for that, I am grateful. Lucky, in fact.
Thank you.
As you probably know, I have not yet read Spear, though I trust that it is very good (and I’ll get to it soon!) But I did have a rooting interest — in Saint Death’s Daughter, as Claire Cooney is a very close friend of mine. And I have to say that I was ecstatic when it won the award. As ecstatic as I’m sure you would have been had Spear won! (And I wouldn’t have been unhappy with Spear winning, mind you.)
I was lucky enough to win two Hugos for my role as part of the editorial team for Lightspeed, and winning those was a high point for me — accepting one of them on stage was glorious. Yet I feel those awards are primarily due to John Joseph Adams as the editor in chief. (Which doesn’t mean I’m not proud!) I do feel, occasionally, a wish for recognition for my own writing and editing …
As to the heart of a convention being the conversations, that is so true! And I had many wonderful conversations at World Fantasy. That is what keeps me going to conventions … not panels, not awards (if there are any), not even the dealers’ room. It’s the talking. And the community.
Friendship adds an edge, certainly. But also, I was sitting next to Nicola when she won the Nebula for Slow River, and I may have been hoping for a repeat. I’ll have to get a copy of Saint Death’s Daughter. Nicola smiled when it won and said to me “That’s a really good one. Well deserved.”
Late to the party on this, and know it is not the direct point BUT — You wrote: ” and so the long slide into Also Ran status…”
Sigh. OK. I understand why you say that. HOWEVER, it often reminds me of friends who decided to get into standup comedy in the late 1970s. Now, 40 to almost 50 years later, some are bitter, and that too is the basis of it – they didn’t make ‘the BIG time.’
I look at them, and say, “But you made it to the party. We worked across the street from each other in competing media outlets. YOU took a chance and MADE YOUR LIVING as a comedian for FOUR DECADES. I climbed the ladder, got the company sold out from under me, and climbed it again and again and again. You were on A&E’s Improv, with others on Showtime and HBO; people you met in big towns and small towns know you. They smile when they remember your jokes.”
BUT, you say…
Isn’t that the key? Yes, I get you were not the big dog. Yes, I know you, like me, got caught in corporate games – in your case, the end of the midlist that slighted a generation of authors and stunted the generations that followed. BUT WE KNOW YOUR NAME. We smile when we think of the situations and characters that you created and brought forward. You made it to the table.
For the rest of us in the cheap seats, realize we KNOW it cost you a LOT of effort and a lot of tough choices. And we all wish it had gone differently or better for you. [i]But do not diminish what you achieved. [/i]
You made your way in the world as a writer. More importantly, you left your mark in that crowded field that is ALWAYS beyond anyone’s control. You like my friends, picked a field that does not respond to the normal inputs – effort, time, talent, skill. All are required. But ART does not pay in proportion. It pays only as a lottery. There are MANY ‘also rans.’
YOUR skill took you to the table. Your drive got you to the party. You – and your friends that won or lost awards – got on the same shuttlecraft. But the next stage ticket was a popular lottery. And for the next step on the book deals – that too has far too much to do with the lottery that pays no attention to skill or talent. Your effort and theirs got you all to the table, and to the next platform. That alone is a HUGE win.
And you never know who YOU might have influenced or impressed. And that may be a legacy you will never know – but might make all the difference for the next person. I think of the countless names on the 25-cent paperback drug store spinner rack. Some continued on – and we know their names. Others – I never found many of them again – but I carry their stories in me. The impact is there.
Thank you.