Surviving the Hugos

 It's around this time of year when publishers and bloggers put out their 'best of science fiction' lists for the year.  And it's also the time of year when I start scrolling past these posts.

This year the end of year awards fever was exacerbated by the Hugo Awards being awarded in December.  One of science fiction's most prestigious awards, these are awarded at each year's Worldcon, which is usually held in August or September.  But this year the con was postponed to December, so the awards joined the end of year hype.  This meant there were double the usual number of posts from joyful authors squeeing about winning this in that award.  

I thought it was only me who found this stuff difficult.  It's hard to read about others having their work enthusiastically praised when you've spent yet another year selling not a single damned story.

For many years I wouldn't acknowledge what I felt when I read those celebratory posts.  But then I discovered Brene Brown's books on shame, and had to face up to it.  What I was feeling was shame at my failure.

I was ashamed of my failure to get published, even though nobody ever pointed that out publically.  The shame arose from comparing myself to other authors who had sometimes been writing for a lot less time than me.  Some made only half a dozen submissions before getting stories accepted.  I've racked up over 100 short story submissions this year, and still haven't sold a dammed thing.

So Hugo times are always difficult for me, but I've been learning that they're just as difficult for published authors.  Some of them have tweeted this year about having to take time off social media at awards time because they never get nominated for anything.

The curious thing about this is that some of those authors are New York Times bestsellers, so it's not as if nobody is buying their books,  They do.  In their millions, in some cases.  But there's a mismatch between what readers buy and love and what gets nominated for awards.

Another variation of awards shame I came across recently was a writer who'd been nominated for a Hugo half a dozen times - and never won.  His tweets hinted at a feeling of shame at this very public failure.

So whatever stage you're at as a writer, awards season is hard to endure.  Even if you have sold millions of books, it must sting if none of your readers thinks you're worthy of any awards.

Next year I'm pulling back from submissions.  The covid crap has made me grumpy, and somewhere in the middle of the year I lost my joy.  Next year I aim to play, to write for myself, and when the Hugos come around I aim to be totally emotionally detached from them.