I watch little TV, but did catch a few minutes of the Academy Awards on Sunday night. My favorite Oscar was the one given to the old man who wrote the original screenplay for The King's Speech. He began his acceptance speech by saying, "My father told me I was a late bloomer." My wife turned to me and said, "See, there's hope for you yet."
A great line, but one reminding me that the clock is ticking . . . even for writers. Life doesn't afford us unlimited opportunities in which to produce. So . . . I'll keep writing.
To date, my awards have centered more on handpainted cards from my children (when they still cared about their dad) and love notes from my wife (when she felt compelled, twenty years ago, to write them). I have these awards stashed in my writing closet underneath tear sheets from magazines, manuscripts and parts from old computer printers.
I don't display my awards, and I don't tout them. I don't want others to think that I have a big head. Besides, I have no place to display an award anyway, and the only thing I've ever experienced from thinking about an award is a headache. Still, I have my speech ready:
On behalf of all of the losers out there, I am not accepting this award. I'm satisfied with the lack of notoriety, the lousy sales, and the minuscule royalty checks I rarely receive. I'd like to thank the Academy for leaving me in obscurity, which is where I belong. I'm in great company and some of my best friends are perpetual losers, too. So, thank you for ignoring me. (Cue cheesy orchestra music.)
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