I wasn't at the Edgar's banquet on Thursday, but MWA announced the winners right afterward.
Ta Da!
The Grand Masters were James Lee Burke and Sue Grafton--there couldn't be better picks than those two.
BEST NOVEL Blue Heaven by C.J. Box
BEST FIRST NOVEL BY AN AMERICAN AUTHOR The Foreigner by Francie Lin
BEST PAPERBACK ORIGINAL China Lake by Meg Gardiner
BEST FACT CRIME American Lightning: Terror, Mystery, the Birth of Hollywood, and the Crime of the Century by Howard Blum
BEST CRITICAL/BIOGRAPHICAL Edgar Allan Poe: An Illustrated Companion to His Tell-Tale Stories by Dr. Harry Lee Poe
BEST SHORT STORY "Skinhead Central" - The Blue Religion by T. Jefferson Parker
BEST JUVENILE The Postcard by Tony Abbott
BEST YOUNG ADULT Paper Towns by John Green (BEST PLAY The Ballad of Emmett Till by Ifa Bayeza
BEST TELEVISION EPISODE TELEPLAY "Prayer of the Bone" - Wire in the Blood, Teleplay by Patrick Harbinson
BEST MOTION PICTURE SCREENPLAY In Bruges, Screenplay by Martin McDonagh ROBERT L. FISH MEMORIAL AWARD "Buckner's Error" - Queens Noir by Joseph Guglielmelli
RAVEN AWARDS Edgar Allan Poe Society, Baltimore, Maryland Poe House, Baltimore, Maryland
MARY HIGGINS CLARK AWARD The Killer's Wife by Bill Floyd
Sue Grafton and James Lee Burke are so gracious and witty--I enjoyed sitting in on their Symposium interviews. Each one signed a book for me. James Lee Burke admitted he had waited nine years between publication of books 2 and 3 and submitted the book 111 times. So let Suck It Up forever be the motto. We never think of published authors having these issues. The book went on to win (I believe) a Pulitzer. So take heart, ye weary writers.
I rode busses in NY and didn't worry too much about the flu because I had my tiny bottle of hand sanitizer with me.
In my next blog, I'll discuss trying to get out of a restroom without contaminating your just-washed hands. This ain't easy.
Grapeshot
Showing posts with label 2009 Edgar Awards. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2009 Edgar Awards. Show all posts
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Off To the Big Apple
From Beantown to the Big Apple tomorrow, the occasion being the MWA Edgar's week, esp. the Symposium, God, how Platonic. I missed last year, being in a funk about my writing. This year, the funk is worse, but since I've resolved to give up crime fiction for mainstream or maybe even literary fiction (can I still do that?) this may be my last year, and I've been trekking down to NYC for at least 10 years for this event.
I have learned a lot about "the state of the market" which grows worse every year unless you are a top gun like Sue Grafton or Harlan Coban, and I've met some nice people, and rubbed elbows and pitched two books. I haven't pitched Festival Madness, and I suppose I should get an elevator pitch ready. For all it's worth. I've learned not to mention the KGB or Osama Bin Laden with reference to these books because that's sooooo yesterday. I've learned that people I met last year (never mind two years ago) won't remember me. I've learned that agents and editors would really rather talk with agents and editors other than aspiring writers, but that's o.k., too. In their shoes, so would I.
I've learned that it's really true. If you're standing like the wallflower at the orgy in the midst of 200 people, that if you just smile, someone will approach. This can be the most forced, shit-eating smile in the world and someone will at least return your smile.
So: life lessons learned at the Edgar's. I used to go to the banquet, too, now, alas, no longer affordable. I was always seated in Siberia, but that was O.K., because there were nice writers seated there, too, and why wouldn't I be in Siberia? Me and The Shadow Warriors. That cocktail party was even more excrutiating unless one of my New England writer buddies was along.
Some of my fellow Guppies (the Great Unpublished) will be there, so I should have lunch companions, although I didn't mind eating alone at a cool Italian place two years ago. Sat at the bar, had a wonderful lunch with wine and an attentive waiter. Sometimes, when one is in a certain mood, others think that you are SOMEBODY and serve you well.
When we were young and sexy this happened to S.O. and I at Chasen's in LA (best table in the house) and also at The Bakery in Chicago (seated in the kitchen where all the VIP's were placed.) The photo shows that young woman.
"You're up in an aeroplane, you're dining at Sardi's." Well, those were the days, and I never write about them, but I'm thinking maybe I should, and tell all the secrets, but I probably won't. Or will I? Nope. Have to outlive everyone first, including myself. Ha ha.
So after this ramble--ramble, not rant, I need to check on the orange yogurt bread and get my chicken breast in the oven. And pack. Those not-too-old-not-too-unstylish clothes. And wash my newly cut, streaked hair. "You're dining at Malibu, alone on the sand."
Onward.
Grapeshot
I have learned a lot about "the state of the market" which grows worse every year unless you are a top gun like Sue Grafton or Harlan Coban, and I've met some nice people, and rubbed elbows and pitched two books. I haven't pitched Festival Madness, and I suppose I should get an elevator pitch ready. For all it's worth. I've learned not to mention the KGB or Osama Bin Laden with reference to these books because that's sooooo yesterday. I've learned that people I met last year (never mind two years ago) won't remember me. I've learned that agents and editors would really rather talk with agents and editors other than aspiring writers, but that's o.k., too. In their shoes, so would I.
I've learned that it's really true. If you're standing like the wallflower at the orgy in the midst of 200 people, that if you just smile, someone will approach. This can be the most forced, shit-eating smile in the world and someone will at least return your smile.
So: life lessons learned at the Edgar's. I used to go to the banquet, too, now, alas, no longer affordable. I was always seated in Siberia, but that was O.K., because there were nice writers seated there, too, and why wouldn't I be in Siberia? Me and The Shadow Warriors. That cocktail party was even more excrutiating unless one of my New England writer buddies was along.
Some of my fellow Guppies (the Great Unpublished) will be there, so I should have lunch companions, although I didn't mind eating alone at a cool Italian place two years ago. Sat at the bar, had a wonderful lunch with wine and an attentive waiter. Sometimes, when one is in a certain mood, others think that you are SOMEBODY and serve you well.
When we were young and sexy this happened to S.O. and I at Chasen's in LA (best table in the house) and also at The Bakery in Chicago (seated in the kitchen where all the VIP's were placed.) The photo shows that young woman.
"You're up in an aeroplane, you're dining at Sardi's." Well, those were the days, and I never write about them, but I'm thinking maybe I should, and tell all the secrets, but I probably won't. Or will I? Nope. Have to outlive everyone first, including myself. Ha ha.
So after this ramble--ramble, not rant, I need to check on the orange yogurt bread and get my chicken breast in the oven. And pack. Those not-too-old-not-too-unstylish clothes. And wash my newly cut, streaked hair. "You're dining at Malibu, alone on the sand."
Onward.
Grapeshot
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