If that was not winning I will happily take it

That’s what I said when I woke bleary-eyed on Sunday morning after the Scottish Book Awards. So no, I didn’t win the overall prize of Scottish Book of the Year. That prize went to the very admirable and very deserving Gavin Francis for Empire Antarctica. But I did have the most wonderful time. Someone asked ‘were you really upset when you heard the news?’ and I thought about it and replied, completely honestly, that I was disappointed for about a second - a small pop - but then I was just joyful to be there. 

And it’s true. Of course I’d had a wee think about what I’d do with a whacking £30k (plans included a garret in Paris, setting up a writer’s workshop, diamond shoes…) but actually, a bit like buying a lottery ticket, it never felt real so there was nothing to miss. 

And I woke on Sunday after the awards ceremony in the most beautiful B&B, looked at my £5000 prize cheque for for First Book of the Year (maybe the biggest cheque I’ve ever seen with my name on it), chucked on a big jumper and ate a giant breakfast by a roaring fire and felt on top of the world (except for a gentle hangover obviously).

And here’s why I felt so happy (added to the sausages obviously)

1. All of the kindness, generosity and support that people showed in voting for me and trying to get others to vote for me. I’ve said it already but that meant a huge amount to me. I was, and am, massively grateful to those who came out fighting Janie Ryan’s corner. I can’t say thank you enough for that. 

2. The awards night itself. The other authors, the judges, Sally Magnuson, the organisers, readers, animators and everyone else I met were….fucking lovely. Really that was the best bit of the night…and all the champagne, the delicious dinner, the fact I then went of to join a dear friend’s hen party (at near midnight) and ended up in my posh frock dancing in a circle of pals dressed as pilots and a man in a babygrow to THIS…it was a strange and strangely wonderful way to end the evening.

3. The cheque. Yes. I think I’ve made it clear that money makes a difference to writers. No, we don’t eat commas or shelter from winter winds in parentheses…we need an income like everyone else. That cheque will give me the freedom to begin my third book and there are few better gifts that the gift of writing time for a writer. I know how lucky I am to get to write full-time and I remember that as I embark on my next book. 

So…yep, just the usual stuff that makes me happy: good people, good grub, happy memories and knowing I’ve enough in the kitty to keep on writing for a while. 

A few people commented over the weekend about how grateful I seemed for everything that had happened in the last year. I’m aware that it might be a bit sickening but, for me, it’s because I know where I might have ended up. How things might have been for me. Instead I got this wonderful life full of adventure, experience and creativity. I get to eat good food, have access to music and words, film and art and live somewhere I love to live. I have so much freedom. I think I’d be an arsehole if I wasn’t grateful for that every single day.  

I slept all the way back to London on the train, my crumpled party dress squashed in my suitcase, a big grin on my face and my fingers twitching to write some more stories. Lucky.