The National Book Awards finalists are being announced today at noon (EST) and I wish I didn’t know about it. The truth is that I don’t want to care about the NBA or any of these other huge literary wards. I know– as you probably do too– that these awards do not necessarily reflect the best books of the year. And they don’t represent the most important books of the year, either. (I think “best” and “important” aren’t always the same thing.) But just to make things complicated, these committees sometimes get it right. But either way, I just don’t want to be invested in these decisions. It’s a recipe for heartbreak.
On the 60th anniversary of the National Book Awards, I was invited to blog about an award-wing book of fiction that was meaningful to me. I was shocked to learned than only in 1980 was an African-American woman chosen as a winner of this award. (It was rare tie- both Gloria Naylor and Alice Walker won the prize.) It was a really disheartening discovery.
Why why should I have been so bummed out? Not being on the list of winners didn’t mean that black women hadn’t written books that matter, that had changed people’s lives, and added to the national and international conversations. I should have been a little irritated by my discovery, but not all out blue.
But still I was.
Last year, when Jayne Anne Phillips didn’t win for Lark and Termite, I literally cried into my dinner plate. It was a very hard night. In addition to the fact that no women or people of color were honored that night, I was snubbed by a writer whom I admire and I was cornered in the bathroom by a woman who insisted that I give her tips on how to style her child’s hair. It was a pretty marginalizing affair.
Nevertheless, I will no doubt purchase a ticket to attend this year’s event. Why? Because I can’t quite let go of these events mean something, that a win for a book I admire matters. I mean, of course it matters in what it will do for the author’s career– but what I am talking is less quantifiable than that.
I know it’s foolhardy, but my relationship with these book prizes is like my relationship with a bad boyfriend that I just can’t quit. I know he’s trifling, but sometimes he’s nice, and I keep telling myself that his heart is good, and that he will change. Silly as it is, I keep holding out for happily ever after.