WHYS OF THE PRIZE

by James Lincoln Warren

I love the Olympics. As a scion of an American family dating back to the 17th century, I confess to be pleased when Americans win—not that my heritage makes me any more American than, say, the sublimely gorgeous Nastia Liukin or my beautiful and brilliant wife Margaret, both of whom are daughters of Russian immigrants. In fact, the triumph of immigrants’ children just makes it sweeter, proof that for some people at least, the USA really is the land of opportunity.

But it doesn’t really matter to me all that much who actually wins most of the time. I root for all the contestants, being a human being first and an American second. I do not begrudge any winners their victories, no matter where they hail from, and I especially am pleased by the triumphs of athletes from poverty-stricken postage stamp countries. It is the display of heart and hope that most commands my admiration. (I also get a big kick out of watching what most Americans must consider very obscure sports on television.) No matter what your opinion of the propriety of the current games—and I note that the Dalai Lama himself approves of them—the skill and dedication of the athletes is inspiring.

The dream of every Olympian—and of every kid who ever dreamed of success in any sport—is a Gold Medal. This is by no means the rarest award in sports, since 1000 of them will be awarded this summer, but they are still the most prestigious. Some awards simply have a greater cachet than others.

Sports are competitive by definition, but prizes for “Best _______” are awarded for virtually every endeavor under the sun, even for things which are not fundamentally competitive at all. The most famous (and in my opinion, one of the most meaningless in terms of integrity, being virtually tied with the Grammy in this regard) is the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences’ little naked golden guy with a longsword, Oscar. But just because I’m more than a little cynical about Oscar doesn’t mean I think that all “artistic” awards are full of caca.

In the mystery fiction world, we have a plethora of them: Edgars, Anthonys, Agathas, Hammetts, Daggers, Derringers, Barrys, Macavitys, Shamuses, Dilyses, and I know I’m leaving out several more. We have a slew of winners represented here on CB: Rob Lopresti and John M. Floyd are both Derringer winners and Melodie was nominated for an Edgar. Leigh has won the Ellery Queen Readers’ Choice Award.

Each of these awards is decided by a different mechanism, and their prestige is mostly dependent on their age and tradition, led by the Edgars, which are selected by individual juries of professional crime fiction writers. An Anthony, determined by popular vote at our most important fan convention, is more coveted than a Dilys, which is voted on by indepen- dent mystery booksellers—although the Dilys is highly coveted indeed.

It’s unusual for a single short story to win more than one award, largely because of the variegated demographics of the people who choose them. Most of the awards have eligibility requirements, paring down the competitive pool. But the real competition faced by short story writers is in getting published. True, in selling a story a writer has more than one shot at the brass ring: it’s not at all unusual to have a story rejected by one market and accepted by another. But the simple fact of making a sale at all means the writer has beaten considerable odds. After that, a prize is gravy.

Then what is the value of writing awards?

In the case of a novelist, winning a major award has a direct benefit. It means that the book will receive much needed publicity and almost certainly go into extra printings. For us micro-wordsmiths, the value is less obvious—anthologies almost never have more than single printing, and EQMM or AHMM are not going to reprint a story just because it won. But there is nevertheless a tangible advantage to picking up a statuette at the lectern. It places the name of the author before the same public who pay attention to who won for Best Novel, i.e., the people who read and buy books. My only complaint is that it seems to me that a lot of short story awards are won by novelists briefly slumming in our neighborhood who benefit disproportionately from name recognition. (Of course, some of them, like the astounding Jeffery Deaver, keep a foot firmly in both camps.)

I don’t think I’ll ever win a major award, and that bothers me not at all—I think that the kind of story I generally write appeals to a smaller audience than the excellent stories that do win. I’ve chaired one Edgar committee and served on another, which seems to me a clear indication that my work is respected, which is really all one can ask. I think awards are a good thing, that anything that calls a mystery short story to the public’s attention and leads to more people reading it is worth doing. Thus awards benefit every one of us, readers and writers alike. One of the great things about the mystery writing community is the fact that we are so mutually supportive: “If you liked Steve’s award-winning story, you should also like Deborah’s nominated one.”

But wouldn’t it be way cool if we also gave out Silver and Bronze Medals?