“Some are born great,
some achieve greatness,
and some have greatness thrust
upon 'em.”
Malvolio, reading, from Shakespeare’s ‘Twelfth
Night’ (Act 2, scene 5)
‘Are you winning?’ is
a question an old boss used to ask. It was a colloquial form of ‘How are you?’
but, for him, was also about whether you were winning the battle against the
pile of planks to de-nail, the fenceline staying plumb, or the job being
finished before the weather packed it in.
Like my old boss, the
motivational experts tell us winning is about not giving up; it’s overcoming
obstables; it’s about picking yourself up when you’ve fallen. Which is all very
good to try to encourage you when you are finding life hard, there are problems
which seem to get in the way of success or when you fail.
But winning in the
true sense of the word, as in, first place, the best in your class, a prize
which cannot be earned just by showing up and doing the work, that’s a whole other
matter. Especially in a world that feeds off headlines or putting people into
catagories: first class, No. 1, champion, award winning...
I’ve written
previously about the pain of rejection; about the delight in acceptance; not
about how it is for me to win! I feel a
weight of responsibility with this win. And felt it leading up to the
announcement. It is as if the wairua/spirit of the story of the fight for land
for Ngāti Whātua and for all iwi stood behind me. My win or loss was going to
be part of the narrative.
This blog post is an
attempt at just that. To put into words how it felt to have my book Bastion
Point win its category in this year’s NZ Book Awards for Children and Young Adults.
Firstly, after the
immediate giddy delight, fumbling acceptance speech, tears, kisses, hugs, there
was still a shadow of disbelief: Seriously? Am I like, good? Better than just
good?
Secondly, there is
guilt – for the disappointment the other contestents will no doubt be feeling –
I have been there and that sort of gut punch is unpleasant and not wished upon
others I admire and respect. Whose books I loved (more than mine but that's because of the 'familiarity breeds contempt' syndrome) and who I was convinced were more worthy.
Finally, there is
fear mixed with relief: that that is ‘it’ – there is nothing more to strive
toward. I’ve made it. I’ve done it. I’ve managed to snag that elusive ‘best in
show’.
In talking with other
‘winners’ (past and present), it seems that we share this in common. There’s
also the surprise at onlookers’ surprise when we say ‘we didn’t expect to win’ –
as if we are being falsely modest. We’re not. See Juliette MacIver and Sarah Davies ruminate on who they expect might win their book’s category and then
watch their faces when they learn they won!
It’s a strange beast,
this writing lark: on the one hand, it’s all on us, the writer, to do the
business. Yet on the other hand, we just couldn’t do the work justice without
our Beta readers, our family, our cheer leaders, our agents, and our amazing
editors. To miss out on an award is to feel disappointment for ourselves but
also that we have let the team down; to win, like I did on Monday night, feels
like I have given the best compliment, the best return of invested time, energy
and talent to those who have continued to cheer me on. I’m sorry that in
doubting myself, I doubted you. William Shakespeare has the best advice for us all hidden in this observation of human nature:
Measure for Measure
