Getting a RITA

I posted this in the comments trail, and then decided I would make it a post of its own. Because getting prizes is part of writing, and anyone who decides to be a writer should be prepared for What Happens in the Writing Life.

The RITA ceremony has about 3000 people there in a grand ballroom,
all of them sitting in rows and rows of chairs and looking down at this little stage in the far distance.

(How do they get 3000 people to come do this without giving them food? Though they give them food afterwards, of course.
But still ... would YOU come to hear thirty people get up on stage one after another to somewhat incoherently thank their editors and agents and families and stare like deer caught in the headlights?)

Since nobody can see the stage
the helpful technicians at RWA have set up huuuuuuge TV screens. Those puppies must be 40 feet high.

They show every pore on the faces of the RITA winners, (or Golden Heart winners,) when they get up to speak.
This is reality TV.

AAAARRRRGGGGHHH.

I do not say I would rather face a firing squad, because, of course, I would not.

I think.

But anyhow ... there I was and I had just found out I was NOT going to get a RITA for Spymaster's Lady, having lost out to the excellent and wonderful Pam Rosenthal whose work impresses me so much it is almost not like losing at all to lose to her ...
(though not quite,)
and I am now relieved because the ordeal is over and I am not going to have to mount the scaffold ...
ah ... podium ...
and can now relax,
and they say My Lord and Spymaster.

So I drop my glasses, without which I cannot see.
Anything.

And I drop my very short speech, which I have written in Big Letters on a piece of paper,
and which consisted of only five people to thank,
not because I am stingy but because I didn't think I was going to be able to say anything at all.

So they are gone somewhere in the darkness below my chair.
And I have to walk up on stage and make that set of acks.

I do not actually remember much that happened after this point. It was so horrible my mind has repressed it.

I do not AT ALL remember standing there and staring out at THREE THOUSAND PEOPLE and saying the right words, but I have been assured by people who wish me well that I did just that and that I did not make a fool of myself.

This is good.
This is very good.

I understand they played the theme from James Bond for the 'walkup'.
No memory of this.

So, anyhow, getting the RITA is like being beaten with long, flexible bamboo poles and at the same time being tossed in a blanket while someone plays La Traviata in your ear on a penny whistle. When you come to the other side you have this beautiful little gold statue sitting on the floor in front of your feet and you are sitting down again.

I am going to put the RITA on the shelf over my desk.

It's heavy, and the gold quill the lady holds is fragile. It would still be suitable for knocking burglars over the head with.

The RITA in the photos is not my RITA. It is the RITA of Jennifer Ashley who is here and who just wrote The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie. Go. Read it.