I am on the long-list of another award - the highly coveted
Theakston's Old Peculiar Crime Novel of the Year. The long-list of
eighteen was made public a couple of days ago, the final shortlist
of six will be revealed in June and the winner announced at the
Harrogate Crime Festival in July.
(If being both old and peculiar were criteria, the prize is
yours - Mr B)
They're a bit of a double-edged sword (or dagger) these literary
awards. On the one hand, it's fabulous to be told by people, who
ought to know what they're talking about, that you've produced a
half-decent book. If I were smart, I'd take the metaphorical pat on
the back and not give it another thought. I'm not smart on the
subject of awards though, and neither is any other writer you could
name. (Even PD James was notoriously saddened she never won the
Gold Dagger.) I'm with PD on this one. It doesn't matter how many
times we tell ourselves the honour is in being nominated, we still
always want to win.
Now the Theakston's Old Peculiar is a bit prestigious. Almost,
if not exactly, on a par with the Gold Dagger, and I got very
excited just at making the (very) long-list. Then - I learned the
next stage is decided by public vote. Then - I saw that my fellow
long-listees include authors like Val McDermid, Reginald Hill, Mark
Billingham and Lee Child.
Lee Child for pity's sake! He probably has four million more
readers than I do! Who do you seriously imagine will win in a
public vote between the two of us? Lee, with his millions of
worshippers worldwide or me, semi-famous in Darwen, Lancashire?
It's game over, isn't it?
Except…
On last year's shortlist (presumably also the result of a public
vote) appeared debut novelists, Elly Griffiths and Tom Rob Smith.
The year previous, Tom Cain's The Accident Man made the
final list. Debutante Stef Penney won it in 2008. I'm reminded of a
chat I once had with a judge friend (yes, I do have important
friends) when he told me that if he were ever (wrongly) charged
with a crime, he would want to be tried before a jury because
juries usually get it right. So maybe the voting public, like
juries, also get it right. Maybe books make it onto important
shortlists on their own merits, regardless of the popularity of
their authors. Maybe I should have faith.
That's not to say of course, that Blood Harvest will
definitely make it to the next stage, just that whatever happens,
the reading and voting public will have made the right choice. If
you want to join them, and be part of that right and wise choice,
the link is on my homepage and below.
www.theakstons.co.uk
And yes, you have to vote for Blood Harvest! This is my
blog!
On a different note, eight days after laser surgery on my eyes,
I can once again shower, wear eye makeup and go to bed at night
without goggles that make me look like a rejected extra from The
Fly. Mr B is hugely relieved on all three counts.
It was a pretty scary experience, not least of which was being
publicly told off by the surgeon the next day for leaving my
receipt and appointment card behind 24 hours earlier. (Stone the
bloody crows, I was in shock and could barely open my eyes, it's a
wonder I got myself to Marylebone never mind all my personal
effects.) Still, senior medical professionals are a bit of a law
unto themselves!
I'd been warned beforehand that the worst bit would be the smell
of burning flesh. That was pretty bad, but worse was spending an
hour alone at Marylebone Station, unable to open my eyes for more
than a split second, tears streaming down my face, and knowing
everyone around me thought I was a mad woman.
(Shut up, Mr B, a comment is not necessary at this stage!)
It's a distant memory now, my vision is massively improved and
I'm finding it rather liberating not to be chained to specs for the
first time in about thirty five years. When those gorgeous copies
of Now You See Me appear in the shops in a few days time,
I'll be able to spot them from a distance.