The subconscious can be an evil thing.
When I was a teenager (15 to be exact) I already knew I wanted to be a writer, and had been working at my craft (such as it was) for three long years. I was starting to submit stories (they were rejected). I was growing up in fandom, attending literary SF cons, and on Labor Day weekend in 1983, I was at ConStellation—the World SF convention in Baltimore.
I attended the Hugo Award ceremony, and there I watched Connie Willis win her first Hugo for her Novelette “Fire Watch” (yes, I went and fact-checked my memory on this part). During her speech, she referenced being a teenager and listening to someone else give a speech about winning a Hugo… and I thought… this is my defining moment. I will never forget this. And when I win my own Hugo, I will reference this story.
I have obviously never won a Hugo.
I came to realize long ago that the words I write are not the kinds of stories that win the big awards. This is okay! And this is not a pity party. I write accessible fiction—popcorn fiction, I call it. The kind that has fairly simple language, character-oriented plotlines, and hopefully makes a reader want to sit down and read the whole thing (eat the whole bowl) and maybe grab the next because I’ve whet their appetite.
I know this is how my brain works. When I aim for a more literary style, I end up with incomprehensible text, plots that make no sense, and allusions that are weird enough to take a person out of the story. So… I don’t.
But I still have this expectation baked into my skin—into my soul—that the way to be a Real Writer is to write the kinds of stories that make someone say “this is the best thing I’ve read all year” and nominate it for an award.
Sometimes I read a story (of any length) by a writer who is my peer in some manner and I feel the imposter syndrome bubble up, surrounding me until I can’t think—can’t breathe—any more. The story is so good and sometimes is buried under independent or small press publishing where I know it won’t get the eyes/readers it deserves. I want to scream about it from the rooftops. This story, this amazing story that won’t have a ton of eyes on it, is in my mind Hugo worthy (or Nebula worthy… substitute in whatever proper award fits in your mind).
I also hear that little voice that says “well, isn’t it good you didn’t apply this anthology/magazine/press” or worse yet “you are in this too, and your work isn’t nearly this good” because that’s what I internalized as a teen. That this is the only way to be good. That this wonderful story I am reading, which twists words and plot in unique and fascinating ways, is the only kind of story that merits praise.
I don’t think that voice will ever completely go away.
I do feel better as I continue reading the anthology/magazine/whatever and realize that not every single story in it gives me that same “OMG” reaction. When I sit down and think about it, I know that love of a particular story is subjective. There is no truly objective way to judge the worth of words (despite what our high school English teachers tried to tell us). What a story is, and how it is told, may touch my soul and no one else’s. Or vice versa. I’ve read entire anthologies that are highly regarded without a single story striking me as amazing.
Sometimes I think back to what we say about writing fanfic: write what you love, and there is someone out there looking for this exact story who will be thrilled to find it.
I try to remind myself of this when I fall into the “is it Hugo worthy?” downward spiral.
For every story that sells, someone loves it enough to buy it. And they love it enough to think that there will be others who love it, too.
For every story that is written, there might be that editor out there—the one with all that love for the story (and it might take several failures before finding that one with the love). The trick is drafting the best set of words to tell the story to trip that moment of “I love that” in a reader’s eyes.
The words don’t have to be necessarily elevated. Floofy. Literary. But they have to tell the story that I want to tell.
And if that story is one fluffy popped kernel in a bowl, that’s okay. My goal can be to make my reader reach for the next, rather than being award-worthy. It’s okay to be a delicious salty snack; people talk about those with joy, too.
I will probably never win a Hugo. I am still delighted every time someone bumps into me at a con and says “Oh, that’s how I know you!” after hearing about the books, stories, and fics I have written. Touching hearts is joy in itself.