And the Winner is...
I got back from FantasyCon on Sunday night, accompanied by a new little friend. Yes folks, I'm delighted to announce that I am finally the very proud recipient of a British Fantasy Award!
My first FantasyCon was in 1987, and - aside from one of the single-day London events in (I think) the late 90s - I've been to every one since. That first time, the year before Toady was accepted for publication, I remember sitting at a table during the Awards banquet and watching a stream of people I respected and admired collecting their awards to the accompaniment of cheers, applause and a mass of blinding white camera flashes. And I remember wondering whether that would ever be me; whether one day I would hear my name read out; whether one day I would go up on stage to collect my award.
And now it's happened! After twenty years and something like twelve nominations, I finally know how it feels. And believe me, it's every bit as fantastic as I imagined and hoped it would be - but it's also kind of scary and overwhelming too.
I wasn't nervous before the announcement. I've been nervous on previous occasions, but this time, having failed to win so many times before, I was no more than hopeful and perhaps just a tiny bit excited. But as soon as my name was read out, and the room erupted (or seemed to erupt) around me, I felt an abrupt and massive rush of adrenaline - as a result of which, by the time I got up on stage to be greeted by the bald grinning giants that were Simon Clark and Stephen Volk, I was shaking like a leaf. The next couple of minutes passed in a blur. I can't remember which of the two giants handed me my award, but I do remember holding the little demon sculpture in my hand - gripping it for dear life, in fact - whilst I made some sort of speech. I have only a vague recollection of what I said, but I think I was passably eloquent, and I believe I thanked all the right people. When I finally collapsed into my seat, my hands were freezing cold and I suddenly found I was incredibly thirsty. However a few glugs of water and a whisky ot two in the bar afterwards soon put me right.
So that's what it feels like. Terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. I'm sure it's not the same for everybody, but that's certainly what it felt like for me. In a way I'm kind of glad now that I didn't win one all those years ago, back when I was just starting out. If I had I doubt that this one would have felt quite so special.
So how did the rest of the Convention go? Well, need I say that it was as fantastic as ever? I moderated two panels (the first, late on Friday night, in a state of extreme and shameful drunkenness); I drank too much wine; I ate too much curry; I signed lots of books; I presented an award (as well as accepting one); I slept very little.
And, most importantly of all, I spent time (though not enough; never enough) talking bollocks and laughing like drains with people I love very, very dearly. I won't list them all - because I'll probably end up accidentally leaving someone out - but I will give a special mention to my great mate, Tim Lebbon.
It was fantastic to see Tim scoop the British Fantasy Award for Best Novel. If my own award was the icing on the cake, then Tim's was the big juicy cherry on top. What was doubly great was that it was so unexpected. There was a long shortlist (as it were), with something like eight nominees this year, but on our table we all honestly thought that Scott Lynch's The Lies of Locke Lamora would scoop it, or possibly Mike Carey's The Devil You Know. So when Tim's name was read out, he was absolutely and genuinely shocked - a fact reflected in his hilarious, silence-filled speech.
So that's it. Another FantasyCon over; another one to look forward to next year. In the meantime, here's a picture of me and Tim with our awards. You can tell we're a bit chuffed, can't you?
My first FantasyCon was in 1987, and - aside from one of the single-day London events in (I think) the late 90s - I've been to every one since. That first time, the year before Toady was accepted for publication, I remember sitting at a table during the Awards banquet and watching a stream of people I respected and admired collecting their awards to the accompaniment of cheers, applause and a mass of blinding white camera flashes. And I remember wondering whether that would ever be me; whether one day I would hear my name read out; whether one day I would go up on stage to collect my award.
And now it's happened! After twenty years and something like twelve nominations, I finally know how it feels. And believe me, it's every bit as fantastic as I imagined and hoped it would be - but it's also kind of scary and overwhelming too.
I wasn't nervous before the announcement. I've been nervous on previous occasions, but this time, having failed to win so many times before, I was no more than hopeful and perhaps just a tiny bit excited. But as soon as my name was read out, and the room erupted (or seemed to erupt) around me, I felt an abrupt and massive rush of adrenaline - as a result of which, by the time I got up on stage to be greeted by the bald grinning giants that were Simon Clark and Stephen Volk, I was shaking like a leaf. The next couple of minutes passed in a blur. I can't remember which of the two giants handed me my award, but I do remember holding the little demon sculpture in my hand - gripping it for dear life, in fact - whilst I made some sort of speech. I have only a vague recollection of what I said, but I think I was passably eloquent, and I believe I thanked all the right people. When I finally collapsed into my seat, my hands were freezing cold and I suddenly found I was incredibly thirsty. However a few glugs of water and a whisky ot two in the bar afterwards soon put me right.
So that's what it feels like. Terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. I'm sure it's not the same for everybody, but that's certainly what it felt like for me. In a way I'm kind of glad now that I didn't win one all those years ago, back when I was just starting out. If I had I doubt that this one would have felt quite so special.
So how did the rest of the Convention go? Well, need I say that it was as fantastic as ever? I moderated two panels (the first, late on Friday night, in a state of extreme and shameful drunkenness); I drank too much wine; I ate too much curry; I signed lots of books; I presented an award (as well as accepting one); I slept very little.
And, most importantly of all, I spent time (though not enough; never enough) talking bollocks and laughing like drains with people I love very, very dearly. I won't list them all - because I'll probably end up accidentally leaving someone out - but I will give a special mention to my great mate, Tim Lebbon.
It was fantastic to see Tim scoop the British Fantasy Award for Best Novel. If my own award was the icing on the cake, then Tim's was the big juicy cherry on top. What was doubly great was that it was so unexpected. There was a long shortlist (as it were), with something like eight nominees this year, but on our table we all honestly thought that Scott Lynch's The Lies of Locke Lamora would scoop it, or possibly Mike Carey's The Devil You Know. So when Tim's name was read out, he was absolutely and genuinely shocked - a fact reflected in his hilarious, silence-filled speech.
So that's it. Another FantasyCon over; another one to look forward to next year. In the meantime, here's a picture of me and Tim with our awards. You can tell we're a bit chuffed, can't you?
