I won’t lie, I like getting awards. Sometimes it’s simply nice to get recognition from your peers or your fans. Sometimes you just need that little boost to feed the self-confidence machine. Sometimes they’re just fun. For example, when I was in college and still deciding if I wanted to give writing a shot, I entered a short story contest through my school and received an honorable mention (it also came with a shirt, but I may or may not have slept in it every night until it was nothing but threads. Then gave the threads a viking funeral).
A few years later, at the very first horror convention I attended, the World Horror Convention, I came in fourth place in their short story contest (the true award being receiving my certificate from Neil Gaiman).
The following year, I took first place in that contest. In a side note, apparently we were going for a POC sweep of that year’s awards: I took first place in the short story contest; Chesya Burke took first place in the flash fiction contest; however, Wrath James White let the team down by taking second place in the Gross Out Contest (losing to one, Mr. Cullen Bunn). Also, WHC 2011 is holding a short story contest again, which has just opened for submissions.
I have gone a few years without any recognition. Well, that changed this past weekend at Context when I received Shroud Publishing’s Hiram award for “The Smasher of Sterotypes.” To wit: “He’s charming, a minister of the Christian word, African-American, and snappily dressed – an impossible convergence in a horror writer.”
And it came with a trophy.
Because sometimes awards are just fun.
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This was just something I was thinking about as I vowed yet again to quit reading every review before I finish the last book in the Knights of Breton Court trilogy. As it stands, I’m ¾ of the way done with the last book, King’s War. The story is still set in Indianapolis, the characters still have their particular lexicon and their own diction. It’s all a part of world building, where I hopefully transport you to a new world and make it believable and real. After all, this Indianapolis doesn’t exist (as far as you know).







