
I have returned from the Killer Nashville convention in Franklin, Tennessee. I was nominated, for the third year in a row, for a Claymore Award (given to an unpublished manuscript). For the third year I went down to defeat. Sigh.
But awards are unpredictable. Last year my comic novel, “The Return of Edsel Eddie,” lost to something called “The Queen of Granny Lit.” Huh? This year my YA novel, “Gloriana Rising,” about a 14-year-old farm girl who becomes the queen of her country on the border between medieval and renaissance times, was not chosen. Instead it was some magic boy Harry Potter clone that won. Sigh.
But awards, I repeat, are unpredictable. I have won one or two in my time (as you know, I often brag of my 2018 win in the Black Orchid Novella Award for Minerva’s first story), and I carry in my heart the comment by the judge of the award that my story was “head and shoulders above the rest.” Out of thousands of entries. I’m sure those that did not win that year would dispute that.
Awards are in the hands of the judges, and the judges are in the hands of God. Who knows why a book wins the Pulitzer? Who knows why an actor wins the Oscar? And who knows why “The Queen of Granny Lit” won last year’s Claymore. I did not read any of it, so for all I know, the book was so funny that the judges peed their pants, whereas “Edsel Eddie” is just another rock and roll book.
I’m not sure I’ll enter next year’s Claymore. I entered the Black Orchid many times before winning on the fourth try. But then, Minerva was a cut above everything I’d ever written before that. Witness that she has appeared four times in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, which is hard to crack.
So I am not upset or grouchy that my little queen did not win the Claymore. Indeed, I’m thinking that the fact she was nominated might open a door or two to get her published.
That’s me, my friends. No matter what life does to me, I’m always thinking tomorrow will be better.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow. You’re always a delusion away.