Jerry Lee Lewis once opened the American Music Awards, and I paraphrase, "Elvis Presley and I may never one a Grammy, but we all know who the Kings of Rock n' Roll are."
Amid the audible gasps he then dismembered the piano during a frenzied version of 'Rockin' My Life Away' making it difficult for any real musician to follow.
Point?
Well the Bram Stoker Awards are this weekend and the frenzy continues. Many writers are glued to this. I have spoken with young writers and old as well, who are basing the success/failure of their career on having one on a shelf. Other writers tell me they get inspiration from the awards; and not in a way you may think though.
There are those who use it as a style and theme guide.
Really? Well, then you might as well wear a collar while you pant and chew your own butt.
Really.
I have nothing against awards; I just take them with a grain of salt. Your work is seen through a heavy gauze of membership, in this case in a club, and then through a faint veil of a whim.
You win you lose big deal. It really should be about the work itself.
A career should not be judged on a plaque or a 'chotsky'; it actually shouldn't be judged on all out sales as history is rife with examples of artists who sold squat and are revered today while others banked coin and have been forgotten.
Your catalogue should be judged on a trajectory of good work and like your life will be judged when you are gone.
Hey congrats to all those nominated and all those who win; but remember this isn't a sprint.
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