Here’s something I had daydreamed might happen about ten or twenty years from now. Seriously, look at the list of authors who have won this thing in past years. I’ve dreamed of being in that company — of course I have, for most of my life — but it never occurred to me that the first book I saw go into print would get me on a list like, oh, this one. There you can find the ballots with each year’s finalists, back to 1971, with the winning works marked by asterisk. Mature works from major presses, almost all. (A little voice in my head points out that I started writing the Rugosa novellas in my late thirties, but that’s so early in my career as a professional writer of fiction that I’m not sure whether it counts as authorial maturity.) The idea that next year my name, with my little book title and my small press publisher, will appear on that list shocks me.
The Mythopoeic Society has not yet announced the 2015 ballot publicly, so I don’t know who the other finalists are. Looking at the history, I will be Very Surprised if I win, at least this year. You may have heard of the toast they raise every year at the Hugo Award Losers Party — It’s an honor just to be nominated. Yes, that. I wish I knew who had nominated me. I owe that person heartfelt thanks.
Now I have to figure out how I’m going to afford airfare to Colorado Springs for Mythcon, which is more academic conference and author/publishing industry professional retreat than fan convention. The event and its award are, by outside world and other-genre standards, obscure, but in my little corner of the cosmos, they’re A Very Big Deal, and I’d be a fool to miss them.
I guess it’s time to drum up some tutoring business. It’ll take a bunch of SAT prep gigs to buy that plane ticket.
Of all the problems I have today, here’s my favorite: What on earth do I wear to the award ceremony?
For a problem like that, the Gods be thanked.