At the end of 2016, my last book won an award. When my publicist at the time called to inform me, I felt unstoppable, like I had climbed mount everest with nothing more than my hiking boots and some twine. The world was mine in that moment and not even king kong in a bad mood could get in my way.
But then I went to bed and awoke the next day.
I usually start every day through various writing exercises and try to flow before the day starts in earnest. Julian cameron taught me the morning pages exercise and I try to be consistent in the practice because I find that in letting the garbage in my mind out on the page, I can approach the needs of the day with fresh eyes and an open mind. But the day after I won the award, I couldn’t write.
It was as though I was finished. One time, my wife and I were discussing a particularly arrogant dude when she said, “he thinks he’s arrived” and I knew exactly what she meant: that he acted as though he was the king entering his kingdom and everyone should bow. In a lot of ways, I felt like I had arrived by winning an award for something I wrote. And in winning the award, I also felt finished, like I completed a mission and had no reason to continue writing.
When I was in high school, I had to read Bless me Ultima. I’ve thought about that book over the years in so many ways that it’s canonical to be being me. Among the things that struck me, however wasn’t the story or the words (the impact of which I can’t describe), it was that on the cover were the words: “winner of the premio Quinto Sol.” The Quinto Sol was a literary award intended to promote Chicano/a writers that was awarded between 1971 and 1975. Rudolpho Anaya won the second one, in 1972, for Bless Me Ultima. The press awarded the last Premio Quinto Sol in 1974.
Learning that the Premio Quinto Sol didn’t exist anymore crushed me, as I wanted to be among the awarded Chicano authors. However, winning an award for a book I wrote seemed to fulfill the need. I am Chicano, after all, and I have written books; therefore, I an an award winning chicano author.
And that’s the problem.
The morning after I won, I couldn’t write my morning pages. I had no words. I had nothing to say. It was just a blank mind approaching a blank page and I had nothing to say anymore. I had arrived and in arriving, I was finished. I had nothing left to prove and didn’t have to write anymore, at least not for other people. Plus, I looked around and no one seemed to care about my life’s work, anyway. I mean, winning an award showed that my writing had merit, but sales sucked and while the book’s content could probably help folks who needed it, very few actually bought it. Here I was, an award-winning chicano author who nobody read. What was the point? I was both successful and a failure at the exact same time.
Although i’ve struggled with book ideas since then, I haven’t really formed a structured and coherent framework. i’ll get there, I think. But I’ve learned to see a bigger picture: writing isn’t about awards and it never will be. Writing, for me, is a higher calling. My destiny. I’ve been locked in a battle with my own ego and it’s time for the battle to end.
i’m an award-winning chicano author. So what?
