On not being a finalist

“Bad Romance” a short piece by Lizzy the Lezzy.

For the past dozen years or so, I have loved the day that the finalists for the Lambda Literary Awards are announced. The unveiling of this list of good reads delights me. Each year, I have taken the list as a guide for a huge book purchase. Recently, that has been online, though I remember the years of going to gay and lesbian bookstores between March and June and stocking up on finalists. For me, the Lammies, as they are affectionately called, are an important curated list of LGBT literature. One that I treasure.

In part, I admit, I treasure these lists because I want to be on it. Yes, on my bucket list, on my list of lifetime goals is: win a Lammy. Yes, being a finalist is wonderful, as I learned when the anthology I edited, Milk & Honey: A Celebration of Jewish Lesbian Poetry, was one. But, I want to win. Someday. And honestly, I want a book of my poetry to be a finalist, not only an edited collection.

Today, I learned that my newest book of poetry, Sisterhood, is not a finalist. I have a lot of rationalizations about this fact. I understand the nature of awards; the deliberations of award committees. I know that this work is more art than science. I know judges are influenced by an array of factors. I think of books I have read while sick or cranky and hated only to return to them later and fall in love. I know judges are human. I know that not being a finalist does not make my book any less good, less important.

Yet. Queer literature is the reason I write. From the first book of lesbian poetry I ever read (a collection of poems by May Sarton) to every volume of poetry that I love, LGBT literature is my reason for being. This is my tribe, and I want my work to be recognized by my tribe. Today, it was not. That is painful in ways that are incalculable and hard to convey.

In fact, I pause even in writing this and thinking about posting it. I know that I should convey a particular persona online: thoughtful, cheerful, positive, productive. I know that no one wants to read about disappointments, self-pity, and most of all despair. And yet. The disappointment and pain of not being a finalist are palpable to me this evening.

I have signed off Facebook for the night because I cannot quite cheer the many friends and colleagues who are finalists. And I want to cheer them. Last year, many wonderful and amazing books were published by phenomenal queer authors, and many of these books are finalists for the Lambda Literary Awards. (And you should go and buy these books because that is one concrete way to support our LGBT arts and letters.) I hope to emerge in a few days the optimist, cheerful, generous person who delights in the achievements and recognition of others. Tonight, I am not quite able to be that person.

And it is not socially acceptable to go and post on people’s walls, who like me are not finalists. (Many people in my tribe are not.) I would like to go and post on their walls: hey, your amazing book wasn’t a finalist for a Lammy either. So sorry! I am thinking about you tonight, thinking we are sharing a sense of miserableness, a sense of despair in the world. No one wants to read that on Facebook. So those of us rejected today, those of us who are not finalists, sit quietly.

There is little to be said about not being a finalist, even among close friends. It is hard to strike the balance of anger, despair, resignation, and stoicism. I cannot yet conjure generosity, though I know I will in the future. Hopefully, the near future, because I want to be the kind and generous person who celebrates other people’s joys and successes without revealing my own pain, but this seems like not quite a fair proposition.

So I turn to this blog, this public space to hold the paradox of joy and excitement about the Lammy finalists with the sense of loss and rejection. Loss and rejection are vibrant parts of the writing life. Parts we too often elide and leave unspoken. They need to be said, though, occasionally. There are winners and losers. Our work is rejected more often than it is accepted. This is an agreement we implicitly accept when we sign on to this life. Sometimes, though, the implicit acceptance at signing is not enough and we must resist, we must speak out about the pain, the hurt.

The truth is I write because I am compelled by something inside which I cannot quite explain, but I also write to reach out to the world, to find an audience. Today, an imagined audience that is dear to my heart told me NO. You, your book, your words, your poems are not good enough for us. You are not worthy.

That message hurts tonight. The hurt will lessen over the next days and weeks, but I wanted to give words to the experience. Because that is what I do.

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