I was guardedly hopeful when I entered Licking the Spoon in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards.
I was ecstatic when I found out that it had been chosen to be a finalist in 2 different categories.
But I almost didn’t go to the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards ceremony last night.
What was that all about?
Monday: SOCIAL WORK
You know that feeling you get when you THINK your gut is telling you something, but you have a funny feeling that your weenie self is masquerading as your gut, but you’re not sure? That’s when Facebook comes in handy.
“I’m surprised at myself, but I’m feeling like not going to the NM-AZ Book Awards this Friday night, even though Licking the Spoon is up for 2 awards. Cons: what if the book doesn’t win, it’s in ABQ, we’d have to find child care, it would be stressful, I’d have a hard time sticking to ginger ale, I’d be surrounded by other nervous/disappointed/triumphant writers. Pros: it would feel good if the book won. I’d probably wish I went if the book did win, but I’m not really sure. What do you think? #thisisnotahumblebrag“
A couple of things: how many male authors have dithered about going to a book awards ceremony because of child care? My other issue, which I was too ashamed to mention: I didn’t feel like I deserved to go because I felt chubby, which made me not want to be visible. Another female brain-shackle. I am not blaming society, because I have all the tools to be more conscious about this kind of thing. I just wasn’t using them.
Thirty-two people urged me to “Go,” a handful of people shared thoughts that helped, but didn’t pressure me one way or the other. AND my friend Emily offered to watch the kids. My friend Vicki introduced me to the amazing bit of intel that a reasonable number (i.e. 2) of vodka tonics with a twist of lime don’t cause bloat or weight gain.
Tuesday: THERAPY
I brought it up at my therapy session and proceeded to blubber a bit. My brilliant therapist got me talking about what was behind my feelings. 1. I wish my parents were proud of me, but they don’t even know about the finalist status because my mother thinks my book is a character assassination of her and my father has never acknowledged it. Therefore, I didn’t think it would be productive to tell them about it. But isn’t it true that when we do something important, like publish a book or get a new job or become a parent, we want to show our parents, and we want them to be proud of us? I got this image of myself, 6 or 7 years old, in braids and a jumper, showing my mother a picture I drew, my face upturned as if a flower angling toward the sun.
I also remembered how angry and indignant my mother would get if I entered a contest and didn’t get first prize. Her heart was in the right place, but when she yelled after I told her I got honorable mention, it just didn’t feel good. I felt ashamed. I internalized those beliefs. If I didn’t even get 1st prize in a high school writing contest, how would I ever succeed in the great big world out there? The stakes were way too high. Better not to engage. My wife, Laura, helped me with my aversion to engaging by submitting the book for me. But apart from being my date, she couldn’t help me to avoid my feelings at this stage.
So, Lauren and I spent some time connecting with that 7-year-old, letting her know that it’s an honor to be recognized even if you don’t walk away with 1st prize. That you should enjoy being with other people who are also brave enough to put their words on the page and put their pages out into the world.
“I think your 7-year-old would like to feel like she could enjoy this awards ceremony. I think you should take her with you.”
I saw my 7-year-old’s eyes on me, hoping. I saw her face open up in a big, pre-braces, gap-toothed grin.
“I think she’d have fun,” I said.
Twelve hundred books were entered into the NM-AZ Book Awards, and only 200 were selected as finalists. That’s a big deal…but my baggage was obscuring that truth. Before my Facebook post, and before my therapy session, all I could think about was going down there, sitting in the room, and getting passed over. I didn’t want to feel shitty. I didn’t want my feelings to depend so much on factors that were completely out of my control. But as I re-educated my 7-year-old, I started to see how I could in fact enjoy it regardless–not just at the ceremony, but every time I thought about doing something creative. It wouldn’t have to mean risking utter failure. It could be less fraught.
And even if the food was terrible that night, as I imagined these awards dinners’ banquet offerings always were.
I said yes to Emily. I announced on Facebook that I was going to go. But what would I wear?
Thursday: THE OUTFIT
In the back of my mind, I thought that I could always wear the knockout red satin pleated sheath that I wore to a friends’ wedding in March. It would magically transform me into svelte-itude. Magically, because I was thinner in March, and I hadn’t just come back from a 10-day, hog wild gourmet vacation in Paris, which included the ingestion of copious amounts of Burgundy, Champagne, steak tartare, and butter-bathed escargot. Oh, and crusty, gossamer-stranded bread, of course. Because Paris.
The red satin dress was not dry-cleaned, as I thought it was. It was folded on a shelf in the closet. I put it on anyway. And noted that the diagonal pleats made me look like a steamed dumpling. A red, satin steamed dumpling. No to that. So, what? I didn’t have the time or money to go shopping for a dress. I felt like it would jinx me, too, to show up in a splurgy, last-minute, neurosis-influenced, not-the-size-I-want-to-remain-at schmatte. Isn’t that the slippery slope that dumps women off at red carpet worst-dressed roundups? It was time to go to work. I let it go for the moment.
Friday: AGAIN WITH THE OUTFIT
Friday morning, I had to make the kids’ lunch, and I had to be on the radio at 8:30am to talk about arts haps in New Mexico, and I had to do my makeup for the night’s event before I leave, as I’d be heading straight from work. I’m staring at my closet as if it’s a cavern of mean girls. I’m wondering why I still have the gunmetal satin ballroom skirt I wore at my cousin’s wedding in 2000. And then it hits me. I’ll wear my moderately jewel-encrusted yellow and green Indian tunic with leggings and boots. I like it.
I asked my wife what she thought. “Well…no.” And then I got all harpy on her. “Is it not your style, or does it not work in general?” “It’s not my style. I like more structured clothing.” “Well, I didn’t ask if it was your style, I’m asking if it works in general!” “It works in general.” I packed the dress, the freshen-up makeup bag, and stiletto boots, and left for the radio show. I only had about 10 minutes to prep, and ended up referring to the Santa Fe artist Jerry West as Jerry Hall, aka 1980s Texan wife of Mick Jagger. But Dianna and I got some on-air yuks out of it.
“Are you going to wear that?” Dianna asked, referring to my gray knit minidress over leggings. I wasn’t planning on it. It seemed too plain. But it was nightgown-comfy. Throughout the day people complimented me on the gray dress, told me it was a great choice for the award ceremony. So I decided, “The heck with it. I’ll wear this.”
Friday night: SHOWING UP
We pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel Albuquerque about 10 minutes before cocktail hour ended, a blessing, given my desire to not drown my feelings with fattening booze. In a large, light room that didn’t feel at all like a bleak catering hall, we sat at a table with two other authors and their dear ones: mystery writer Joseph Badal, and children’s book writer Anne Weaver and her illustrator, Matt Celeskey. Everyone was friendly, if on edge, and Badal was a congenial, avuncular ice-breaker. Laura got the two of us a round of Grey Goose vodka tonics with a twist of lime, and I was happy to see that the tumbler was a big ‘un.
I was also happy to see that I was dressed just right for the occasion. Men wore suits, but the women were in New Mexico dressy garb: denim, velvet, Navajo patterned vests and such. My red dress would have stood out like a carbuncle.
A decent starter salad was followed by a shockingly good meal. Pecan-crusted chicken thigh, mashed potatoes, and nicely steamed asparagus.
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It was delicious, although I was too nervous, and diet-minded, to clean my plate. I had two satisfying bites of the cheesecake dessert, and got us another two vodka tonics before the awards began.
Biography, my book’s first finalist category, came in early. I had pretty much resigned myself to not winning it, since my foodie memoir book was lumped in with historical biographies of notable New Mexicans like Millicent Rogers and Ernest L Blumenschein. I was right about that, but the GLBT prize was still in the offing. My new friend Joseph Badal won the mystery book prize, and I congratulated him.
My competition in the GLBT category was Michael Chavez. I thought he was a fine writer; I’d reviewed his book Creed positively for New Mexico Magazine. And this latest book, Haze, was about gay bullying, a hot topic. Also, he’d been a finalist last year, with Creed, so he was due a prize. I held my breath.
“And the winner of the GLBT Book is…” time slowed. Would his mouth open with the glottal C sound or would his lips press together to make an M? Or L, for my book’s first word?
“…Licking the Spoon, by Candace Walsh!”
I stood up, and one of the helpers walked over to hand me my frosted glass award with brass plate, my book’s name inscribed on it. I shook her hand, smiling, and sat back down. So very much better to get a prize when you don’t feel like the world will end if you don’t get it. So much gentler on the system.
Anne Weaver won a prize shortly after that, making our table 100% crestfallen-free.
Laura and I walked out towards the car, a rain falling with the kind of gentle pitter-pat that reminded me of e.e. cummings line, “nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.”
It reminded me of my 7-year-old, with me that night. In the way that I felt at peace, hoping to win, but knowing it wouldn’t derail my trajectory if I didn’t. In the way that I could enjoy being in such good company without feeling insecure or threatened.
I looked up the poem today, Viva [W]. A few more lines jumped out at me.
in your most frail gesture are things that enclose me
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility
Unchecked, my 7-year-old’s frail gestures could enclose me, and her fragility had the power to paralyze me. It almost had. But we were learning how to look at the world differently, together. It already felt easier to be alive.
And it felt safer to try.
Image may be NSFW.
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