THE HOUSE UPON MY SHELF

On June 25th of this year, a novella of mine, The Turtle Boy, won the Bram Stoker Award in the Long Fiction category. You'll note I didn't say that I won the award, and there's a simple reason for that--I didn't win it, the book did, and later I will tell you why the distinction is important.

In the days before the winners were announced, I had to try real hard to pretend I didn't care what the end result was going to be. The job was made a little easier by the ever-reliable naysayers and complainers, who, much like cicadas, can be counted on to show up at the same time every year, make a lot of noise, but in the end cause no real harm to anyone. Which is not to say these people are wrong in their eternal denouncement of supposed 'incestuous awards', but the point is rendered somewhat moot when you consider that awards voted on by the membership of an organization, and not the reading public, will by their nature come with a gray area wider than an African elephant's ass. So, while I may not agree with their methods or their delivery, I can understand why they feel so impassioned and incensed by the Horror Writers Association's choices year after year after year. Admittedly, I have found myself scratching my head over some of the works that have appeared on the Awards ballots, just as I was surprised as hell to see The Turtle Boy on there this year.

Did it deserve to be there?

Did it deserve to win?

How the hell should I know? The day I can stand at the podium and say with a straight face that my work is better than the work of my fellow nominees, or anyone who made the preliminary selections, or anyone who didn't make the list at all because--despite their talent and affability--they don't get out all that much and are quickly forgotten come award season, stampeded into the floor by everyone else's race to be considered for the accolade...well, that will be the day I'll throw my computer and myself under the cutesy-poo vintage tram at Columbus Zoo.

I can't tell you whether or not the award belongs on my shelf, but it's there and it's an attractive statue, and I'm proud to have it.

A far more important question though, a more significant bone to chew on for those who have that odd dislike for people who win awards they would rather had gone to someone they dislike less, is this, the question-du-jour of post-award ceremony interviews: "How does it feel to have won the award?" And, contrary to the answer I have given because I was expected to give it, here is the truthful answer. "I feel nothing."

But before you decide I'm an ingrate, let me clarify something.

Even the naysayers couldn't keep me from hitting that refresh button on my computer the night of the awards, couldn't keep me from getting excited, and nervous about the results. And when finally I heard that The Turtle Boy had won, I was shocked, delighted, stunned, disbelieving and...well, you get the idea. I promptly picked up the phone and called the folks back in Ireland, who were of course, over-the-moon.

But the elation quickly faded, not because I wasn't thrilled to have the award, but because I couldn't afford to dwell on it. And I still can't. To me, having The Turtle Boy win the award was like the slight smile you get from an attractive woman sitting across from you on the bus or train home to your wife and kids. It's certainly nice and it makes you feel pretty damn good about yourself for a while, but if you think about it too much, it can end in disaster. You have to stay the same old you, or risk losing everything.

I've seen countless online discussions/debates over whether or not having your book win an award can affect your career. Most often the verdict is that no, it doesn't, at least not in any substantial way. Examples are cited of past winners who have all but faded into obscurity. I think I understand that. Four years ago--hell, two years ago--I was under the impression that winning a Stoker, or a World Fantasy award, or a British Fantasy award, would vault me into the stratosphere. My name would be on everyone's lips and publishers would be clambering to get at me, to publish a book that--because it had won--had to be amazing! I quickly learned the truth about that and it is this: Just because a book wins an award doesn't mean its better than any other book out there. It doesn't mean your book is the absolute best of the best of the year. And in the real world no one really cares what your work has or hasn't won. What matters is the writing, and it's too easy to forget that sometimes. I'd rather write ten great books and increase my readership, than win an award for any of them.

So do I think The Turtle Boy's Stoker win will help my career? No. Sitting by the mailbox or the computer waiting for people to come running to me with offers will leave me floundering in that cold dark room where some of those past winners ended up, led by the sirens of ego into choppy waters. The Stoker can't mean anything significant to me if I ever hope to make a career for myself. If you estimate your own worth in terms of the number of your accolades, you're finished. Future dustjackets may proclaim you a BRAM STOKER AWARD WINNING AUTHOR, and if that moves some copies, fine, but if you start believing your worth as a person, or as a writer, had magically risen because some nice folks decided your book was good, then I can tell you it won't be long before you start hearing a strange hissing noise telling you your fuse is about to burn out.

I'm proud of that award, and glad it's there, but everything that ends up on the bookshelf in my office becomes a memory, all of them good, but all of them unimportant in the grand scheme of things, unimportant to my development as a writer. THE WORK is what's important--nothing else.

And in the end, that's what I'm here for, the learning experience, the betterment of my craft, and while I'll never get tired of those smiles from pretty women, they don't put food on the table.