NEW YORK, April 28 – Losing sucks.

Any arguments?

I thought not.

However, if one does lose, it suggests that one was in the damn race in the first place. And getting to the starting line is a challenge and reward in and of itself. Running the race, getting off the blocks and down the track, is a joy. Coming to the finish line with a shot at breaking the tape is a kind of revelation.

I want to be in the race. I want to be doing. I want the work of running. What happens at the finish line is gravy.

So saying. . .

I do not believe in artistic competition.

I don’t scorn it, mind you, I just don’t think that the awarding of medals, statuettes, or even cash money, gives any accurate indication of worth or quality. What it does do is reflect the merit and esteem of the body that bestows the honor. Which is nice.

But, to judge the relative quality of two or more works of creative impulse and deem one as the winner is to wander into the territory of debates regarding the number of angels jigging upon pinheads. Yes it’s entertaining; and also fruitless.

But if you’re gonna do this kind of thing, you should do it in the manner and style of the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Awards.

Unpretentious, but with just enough formality to lend some well earned gravitas to the undertaking, the Edgars are something more than the usual public display of handjobbing you get at most industry award ceremonies. They are a celebration of the literary arts as concentrated in the craft of the mystery story.

If that doesn’t seem like a big deal to you, it’s because you’re wrong.

Mysteries, thrillers, crime, pulp, or what you will; they may all be paddling about at the opposite end of the pool from the more respected literary traditions, but a few hundred true fans of the written word, in whatever form, mount and annual exercise in celebrating their favorite genre, motivated out of nothing but love of the form, and they’ve kept it going for 60 fucking years.

Why do you care?

In case you haven’t noticed, said written word, as printed on paper and published in the form of books, is a mangy old dog wandering the back alleys desperately looking for a bone and trying to stay out of the dog catcher’s net.

Being in a ballroom full of people who love that dog beyond all reason, who regularly sneak it treats from their table and point in the wrong direction when the dog catcher asks where that dirty cur is hiding now, is, forgive me this, fucking inspiring.

I find myself regularly denigrating what I do for a living. Playing down the significance of writing stories for people to read for little other reason than to be entertained and taken out of themselves. Being surrounded by folks for whom books are of undisputed importance, objects imbued with value far beyond anything intrinsic to the paper they are printed on, is tremendously invigorating. A reminded of good fortune. A reward of inestimable value.

Yes, losing sucks.

I was up for an Edgar last night and I wanted it and I didn’t take it home.

But, really, who gives a fuck?

I spent last night with people who love books. And was served reminder after reminder that the work I do does matter.

I can certainly live with finishing out of the money.

Only Slightly Hungover,
Charlie

And The Winners Are

Here are the fine writers who won Edgar Awards last night.

Jeffery Ford, the writer who won in my category, gave a lovely and modest speech that may me so fucking happy for him that I wanted to cry. I didn’t, but I’ll be reading his book, THE GIRL IN THE GLASS, very soon.

Lunch at the Odessa Diner

Had a bite to eat and some conversation at the Odessa Diner with Anthony Rainone of January Magazine.
Here’s what we talked about.
WARNING!!! This interview is full of plot spoilers for all my work in novels and comic books. Procede with caution if you care about that kind of thing.