By PJ Parrish

It’s awards season! Sunday was the Oscars. Won’t give you any opinions on winners and losers here. Just wanted to say I loved Jessie Buckley’s (Hamnet) acceptance speech: “Mom. Dad, thank you for teaching us to dream and to never be defined by expectations.”

Well said.

I’ve been thinking about awards this week because I am gearing up for my annual gig as chairman of the Edgar Awards banquet for Mystery Writers of America. I edit the program book every year, and we always come up with a theme. This year we’re paying tribute to the Best First Novels.

Why? Well, this year is the 80th anniversary of the Edgar. The only category that first year was Best First and the prize was taken home by Julius Fast for Watchful At Night.

Many freshman writers went on to become best-selling authors. Among the big names who hit a homer at their first at-bat are Patricia Highsmith, Ira Levin, Donald Westlake, Jonathan Kellerman, Stuart Woods, Martin Cruz Smith, Gillian Flynn, C.J. Box, Janet Evanovich, Michael Connelly, Patricia Cornwell, Walter Mosley, and Tana French. But if you go back and read all 80 winners (click here), you’ll find many more names that were never lit up in neon. Or those writers whose careers never even made it to cruising altitude.

Such is the capricious nature of winning an award. It can mean everything. It can mean nothing.

For our program book, we asked first novel winners to tell us what it meant to them. What it felt like. What it did for their careers. I wish I could share their answers here (can’t devulge pre-banquet night) because they are poignant and sometimes very funny. What each shares, however, is a humility and very human-ness. As one winner put it, getting that Edgar felt personal and communal all at the same time.

One of my favorite episodes of the TV show Frazier is the one where Frazier is nominated for the Seebee Award, given out to Seattle’s best broadcasters. Frazier tries to be above it all, but he just can’t. He wants to win, dammit! But at the banquet, he finds out he is up against the aging icon Fletcher Grey. Fletcher has been nominated 11 times in a row and always lost. Fletcher’s date is his 84-year-old mother who has flown in from Scottsdale — for the 11th straight year. Fletcher is also retiring. Frazier tells his producer Roz, “if we win, they’ll string us up.” Roz says, “I don’t care. I’d crawl over his mother to win this award!”

Frazier loses, of course. His agent Beebee deserts him. Roz gets drunk on Pink Ladies.

Sounds like a couple award banquets I’ve been to. My sister Kelly and I have been lucky to have been nominated for some awards over the decades, and we’ve won a couple. Yeah, yeah, It is always an honor to be nominated. But I can’t lie — it bites to lose. I once saw a nominee’s wife burst into tears when her husband lost.

In 2002 we were nominated for the Edgar. We went to the banquet at the Hyatt. Got our hair done and put on sparkly dresses. Kelly’s son Robert rented a tux. I stayed stone-cold sober in the bar before. As soon as they didn’t call our name, I grabbed the wine bottle out of my editor’s hand.

Fast forward five years to the International Thriller Writers banquet. I went with no expectations. I sat between my agent and Ali Karem but I was filled with dread. Kelly couldn’t make it, so I felt pretty alone, despite all the good vibes from fellow authors. We might write hardboiled, but I am not. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I bolted for the lobby.

Jim Fusilli was standing there and barred my way and put an arm around my shoulders.  Each nominee was announced by reading the first line of their book. Ours is “The Christmas lights were already up.” I remember thinking, “God, that sucks.”

I heard the title of our book announced as the winner. I started crying. I don’t remember what I said on stage. This is what SHOULD have said:

“Thank you so much for this great honor. First, I want to thank the ITW judges who put their careers on hold for months to read hundreds of books. Second, I want to thank my fellow nominees. I am honored to have my book mentioned among their fine works. Third, I want to thank my editor who….”

This is what was REALLY in my head:

“God, I can’t believe I am crying! How pathetic and needy! Where’s the friggin’ stairs? I can’t see! Who is that man at the podium? Shit, I forget his name! THE LIGHTS! I CAN’T SEE ANYTHING! Do I have lettuce on my teeth? Agent…mention her name. My bra is showing, DON’T PULL AT YOUR BRA!! He’s handing it to me. Jesus, it’s heavy…don’t drop it…don’t drop it…don’t drop it. Say something nice about the other nominees! Can’t…can’t…can’t remember their names. YOU TWIT! You just sat on a panel with TWO of them this morning! Wait, wait…is it Paul LeVEEN or Paul LeVINE??? Forget it…buy them a drink later. I should have gone to the hairdresser before I left home. My roots are showing. JESUS! THE LIGHTS! Stop talking now…you’re rambling, you ass…Okay, leaving now. TAKE THE AWARD! Good grief…I’m here in New York City wearing Nine West because I was too cheap to spring for those black Blahniks at Off Fifth. Dear God, just let me just off this stage so I can get to the john and pull up my Spanx….

I made it off the stage okay. Here is the photo to prove it:

Did it change things for me? Not really. I put the award on my shelf, next to my ribbon for winning an ax-throwing contest in Maine. My career continued on its nice glide path. I wrote more books, I made a little money. But I do remember one thing very distinctly that night. I was at a low point in my writing back then, feeling a little discouraged because the WIP was stalled and I wasn’t getting much joy from the writing process itself. I wasn’t feeling that feeling James wrote about this past Sunday. (click here). The world wasn’t burning through me.

But my peers gave me a gift that night — a nudge to keep going. So maybe that’s what this award thing is — just a kick in the Spanx of simple validation.

Keep going, crime dogs. Get that book out of you and out there. Somebody out there will like you. They will really like you.