The Prize

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When I understood what kind of writing I was most interested in and best suited for, I had to accept that I was not going to win a Pulitzer Prize. In fact, I am probably not going to win any kind of prize at all. Not that what I write is less valuable than the kinds of books that win prizes; mine are just of a category for which no one has yet bothered to create an award.

When I wrote fiction, the idea of winning the Pulitzer or National Book Award or even the Washington State Book Award occasionally crossed my mind. Someone was going to win them, after all. Truthfully, I was more concerned with simply trying to get something published, but when the writing was going particularly well, when a couple scenes in a row seemed to really pop, I might begin to daydream about just how well that book could do.

These were mostly unsatisfying and unproductive daydreams. The best part of these fantasies was how calm and confident I felt in them. The struggle and doubt were over. Strange how I could always imagine a life without midnight worries, where I had nothing to prove, where there was only the question of what interesting thing I’d like to create next. That’s the life for me, I’d think. The problem was this lovely life was tied somehow to the award I’d won. That was my proof, the three-dimensional evidence to which I could point if some odious doubter questioned my stories’ worth.

Now, I write about how to create and live without struggle and doubt. Of course, I still worry and complain and even awaken at midnight now and then with some noose of despair around my throat. I am just most interested in describing and understanding those moments—of which there are many—where all that grief has lifted. That’s the prize after all, isn’t it? That’s peace when the war is done. I can think of no better practice than to face a blank page and ask it to remind me of what was always mine.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.