September
- October 2004
By Bruce Hale
The news arrived in a flurry of emails from writer friends. The Mystery Writers of America had nominated one of my books, The Malted Falcon, for an Edgar Allen Poe Award. My jaw hit the keyboard with a thud. This was the big time – and the first award recognition for any of my Chet Gecko series. The Edgar Award winners would be announced at a banquet on April 29th in publishing's glittering heart: New York City. "Dress to kill," said the invitation.
Would I go? How could I not?
My April 29th began with a school visit on Long Island, arranged by the Dolphin Bookshop. An enthusiastic crowd of fourth and fifth graders told me how much they loved my books. Right then, I thought: Never mind the Edgars; this is my true reward. And another thought followed: But I sure wouldn't mind winning.
Back at the store, I was autographing books when the owner, Robin, waltzed in with fancy French champagne and pastries. The staff toasted my good luck, praised my books, and fussed over me.
"Are you nervous about the awards ceremony?" they asked.
"Me? Nah," I said.
"Your series is a riot."
"Thanks," I said.
It was enough to give a lesser man a swelled head.
I left Long Island at 11 am with a light heart and a champagne buzz.
The whole morning felt surreal. If this is big-league publishing, I thought, bring it on. Lunch and an afternoon workout helped me return to Earth. A little after 5 pm, I started donning my tuxedo. (Unfamiliar territory, that – tennis shoes and aloha shirts are more my speed.) Fumbling the tie into a Windsor knot, I thanked God that I hadn't let the salesman talk me into a bowtie.
I checked my look in the mirror. Who was this guy in the fancy duds?
Bond, James Bond. (Yeah, right.)
At 5:35 pm, fashionably late, I headed out the door for the Edgar nominees' 5:30 pm reception. I reentered the room immediately. Small detail: I had no idea where to find the reception.
Nervous? Not me.
A helpful hotel operator steered me right. When I entered the gathering, a sound washed over me: the bright, brittle laughter of people pretending not to be nervous. I wasn't alone.
Snaring a champagne flute from a passing waiter, I mingled with the gowned women and tuxedoed men. "Good luck," they said. "Good luck," I replied. On one side of the room, a cluster of TV cameras surrounded a cocktail table.
"I didn't know we were being televised," I told Best Novel nominee Jackie Winspear.
"We're not," she said. "They're here for that Japanese woman."
Sure enough, the all-Japanese swarm of print and TV journalists was buzzing an elegant woman like the airplanes around King Kong. When I went to congratulate Best Novel nominee Natsuo Kirino in my broken Japanese, the reporters pounced on the moment as if I were Elmore Leonard. Camera flashes and television lights bombarded me. Talk about surreal. Nevertheless, Natsuo was gracious.
After collecting my nomination certificate (thoughtfully tucked into a cardboard tube), I spoke with fellow Best Juvenile nominee Wendelin Van Draanen. A vision in red, she was even more keyed up than I was. In fact, Wendelin instigated a cardboard-tube swordfight, which also involved Arthur Slade, another nominee in our category. If you can't beat ‘em, whack ‘em. Soon we migrated into the general reception area where I found my editor, Michael Stearns. The din was outrageous – hundreds of people gabbling at once. With all those black-clad men, the scene resembled nothing so much as feeding time in a penguin colony. At last the big doors opened and we poured into the vast banquet room to dine. The congenial group of editors, agents, and writers who shared our table asked, "Are you our nominee?" They adopted me instantly. Scanning the room, I spotted authors Michael Connelly and Joseph Wambaugh, journalist Dominick Dunne, and various bigwigs from HBO and ABC. I was in fast company, indeed.
Dinner proved to be standard-issue rubber chicken. But nobody had come for the food.
During dessert, actor William Windom (Murder, She Wrote) approached the podium and began the program. One by one, the categories went by, marked by polite applause from our table.
I'd like to say they saved the Best Juvenile Mystery category for last, as befitted its importance. I'd like to, but Ma Hale didn't raise no liars. Soon enough, they announced the nominees for my category. My name sparked cheers from the gang at our table.
My editor Michael crossed his fingers for luck.
"And the winner is..." the presenter said. I leaned forward; I could almost hear my name. "Phyllis Reynolds Naylor." That wasn't it.
The "awww" that arose from my tablemates brought a wry smile. In a flash, I knew how those Oscar nominees feel when someone else wins the prize. I applauded Phyllis like Alec Baldwin clapped for Sean Penn.
Ah, well. C'est la vie.
At that moment, I didn't feel it. But by the time I boarded the plane the next day, I could say it with champagne hangover sincerity – the refrain of the runner-up: "It's a pleasure just to be nominated."
And what do you know? It was.
