Awards that all readers and writers get to receive at some point in their lifetimes (if they’ll allow themselves the pleasure of doing so)

READERS:

The “Just because I don’t get The Beatles” Award for Realising You Don’t Have to Like Every Piece of Literature Ever: Proust got you searching for your lost time? Bukowski making you desperate for a drink? Heller got you stuck in a double-bind on pg 150 (“If he wanted to read another book he had to finish Catch-22. But Catch-22 was too tedious for him to finish. He could cure the tedium with another book but he first had to endure the tedium of Catch-22, which was unendurable. OH MY F**KING GOD HELLER I’M LAUGHING OUT MY) Then you reach that glorious moment where you’ve read the same sentence 10 times and extracted no new meaning when you think ‘Who cares if I don’t like this? It doesn’t make me stupid or uncultured or impatient or anything, it’s just that to me? At this point in my life? This book sucks.’ For flinging what to you is a useless piece of crap out the window? (And maybe reconsidering when you’re in a different mood, natch?)
Congratulations! You have earned a large glass of wine and an evening of watching Candidly Nicole (it’s stagey, but it does a great job of switching you off!)

The Going in Blind Award for Not Reading Any Criticism of the Book Beforehand: some hated it, some loved it, you’ve got no idea who they are: you’re going in blind! You know you, and you’re not afraid of the highbrow or the low, the literary or the pulp: you’re jonesing for some sentences- you’ll cast your own eye over them, you’ll decide their merit, and you won’t care who thinks what. When you’re on page 500 you think ‘Wow! I silenced that voice that said 3/5, 3/5, haha he made me laugh I’ll give him 4/5, I’ve read better than this bit, worse than that bit.’ Oh, wait, did you? Seriously? Can you tell me how?
Congratulations! You have earned a Jack and Coke, and two Chelsea Handler memoirs (no judgement? They’re all pretty good- I’d give each about a “pretty good” out of good).

The “Compiling my thoughts” Award for Writing a Review No One Reads: You’re tapping away on the keys and all your thoughts about a book just spill right out of you. When you look back, you think ‘Yes! That’s exactly what I wanted to say about that book!’ and something clicks: that was the whole motivation behind you even writing the review! You don’t care how clever it sounds or how many likes it gets: it has already served its purpose. Congratulations! Now it may sit there and please others who may or may not find it while you enjoy your well-earned Kir Royale and a big bowl of chips.

READER’S CONCLUSION:

Did you really need that white American gentleman to spell out to you in such flowery prose for 800 pages the simple message that life sucks and we all die and the entire catalogue of evil that men have done to each other when compressed and absorbed at once evokes an inhuman terror? Ehhhh nah. 200 pages was more than enough for this lifetime, thanks, and you’re certainly not doing anything to alleviate all those messages by lying in bed and propping a hardback tome on your belly. Maybe give it a miss and do something gentle?
And was it really worth letting someone else define your opinion on a book? Yes it was! In the hands of a select few trustees, this is often a great shorthand for books you won’t read. But for the ones you do read, it’s often killer. There’s a big brain up in that head of yours, and it works its way around things all by its big self, reaches its own conclusions, irrespective of previous ones. And that’s just great.

WRITERS:

Award for Being a Writer: That’s right, you get an award just for being a writer!
Maybe you were always a natural storyteller, that you gathered any audience around that would listen to you, and when you were a toddler you told stories to neighbours and cats and ugh it’s doubtful and totally unnecessary (and it was shit and not at all endearing anyway!) More likely, you woke up this morning and said ‘World? I’m a… world are you even listening to me? No? It’s a cold empty and uncaring universe and life is inherently meaningless? Oh okay. Anyway, I’m a writer!’ and what obstacle did you overcome, hoops did you jump, how many sweats did you break, words did you write, stories did you tell for the privilege of calling yourself a writer? None none nothing none none none of them. You just uttered those four simple words: “I’m a writer. Burrito”. Congratulations! You have earned said burrito, and a pink lemonade highball with floating gin-engorged gummy bears.

Award for Writing Not the Worst Thing Ever: You’re not yet chilling with Rushdie and Amis, the lit mags are still telling you no (if anything), but something big has just happened: you have something vital in your hands, something you created! Something beautiful and filled with hope! It’s: not the worst thing ever! And you know that for a fact, because you’ve read the worst thing ever. Euuuuugh.
Congratulations! You may now make a pitcher of margaritas and pre-order tickets for the Fifty Shades film premier (It’ll be watchable, they’ll have a good team behind it. “I mean… look at me.” “I am.” “Huh?” “I said ‘I am look at you.’” “Oh. Christian that’s terrible grammar. And in the trailer as well…”)

The “Did I really write that?|” Award for Carpe-ing the Jugulum: The words make you wince when you look at them. It’s so bloody open! It’s like you downloaded a vicious little axiom of hard truth directly from your brain to the page. Did you really write that? Yes you did. You wrote those words, you believe them, and to the best of your knowledge, no one else ever put it like that (technically Sappho herself did on that island in 400 BC or whatever, but, well… let’s just say you’ve increased the odds of anyone ever coming across that thought).
You believe it, and you would never say it aloud to someone’s face, and these are big criteria for a piece of writing. Who knows? You may even be brave enough to let someone read it.
Congratulations! You have earned a six pack of beers, and the right never to read those words again (but please don’t use it).

The Overly Zealous “If I can do it so can you” Award for Not Being a Genius: How did you do it? The mind boggles. The effort, the insight, the beautiful nods to the literary greats and the cocky appropriation of their techniques, all the while creating new ones (in this cynical literary landscape? No way!) That’s it! You’re a genius! Oh no wait you’re not, but that’s cool because you’re the only one who cared if you were or not, but… now you don’t!
You realise that most people in the past who were proclaimed geniuses denied it, and the ones that were desperate for that level of praise, for whom being called a genius was the goal rather than the simple perfume of genius deeds, were miserable with their high standards and misplaced self-worth, and missed out on the fun of all their myriad successes along the way.
You think of not just all the writing you’ve ever enjoyed but all the art at that, and that there’s a very minimal correlation between what it meant to you and how much of a genius the artist was/is considered to be. Not only that, but examining a handful of examples, you see that plotting the quality of work an artist produces versus their happiness provides no correlation whatsoever. So you can basically pick any point on those two axes and sit there. Any point you like!
Worry about who’s gonna read you in 100 years and you’ll miss out on engaging with the lovely folk who are reading you now.
 Maybe nobody cares whether or not an artist is a genius. And as we just clarified, you most certainly are not. But no one cares. Probably.
Congratulations! You have earned a vodka (poured with a shaky hand) tonic, and three films with James Franco in them. After all, even geniuses dicked about!

The “S’not what it’s about, mom!” Award for Making No Money (but Writing Anyway): whoahhhh just look at that bank balance! The money has absolutely not been rolling in. Oh dear: the “Kindle Direct Publishing Success Story” dress will have to stay on the hanger, your time to pay back the mortgage is still 15 years and not 1 month like you’d hoped.
But… is that really what it was all about? Is that what you were trying to do all along? ‘No!’ you say to yourself, and you write your next story.
And damned if you aren’t on the way to being recognised as a certified clever with positive bank.
Congratulations: you have earned the likely future of making money from something you now realise you would do anyway, and the less likely future of graciously batting off claims that you are a genius, all the while secretly believing them. (But definitely: something alcoholic!)

WRITER’S CONCLUSION:

The benefits of slowing down, resting and digesting, bite-sized celebrations in the hope of new ones tomorrow, setting reasonable goals and taking your eyes off the outliers and once-in-a-lifetimes, are so so so so so so so many :-) So if you wish to award yourself any of the above, go for it! You will enter the company of many other happy and fulfilled people.