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The National Book Awards for first-time attendees like my wife Ann and me constituted a kind of blur of sharp-dressed men and women, most of them graying a bit but still elegant, mixed with a few twenty-somethings running around on the fringes like the kids at a bar mitzvah. The location, with its high ceilings and spectacular dome, perfectly lit, conveyed a sense more of publishing's memory palace than of its harsh reality right now. At the same time, you could hardly blame editors and writers, publishers and agents, for wanting to engage in a high-end collective sigh of relief that, despite many grim indicators, the whole thing hasn't yet gone bust. Gore Vidal in his wheelchair proved a compelling figure"”obviously frail but clear-headed, able to spin a story, and quite interesting. Sean Hannity and Harvey Weinstein (or a good look-alike) chatting provided a moment of severe dislocation. Dave Eggers at times seeming to want to fade into the wall was interesting. For an outsider who didn't know many of the faces, I felt a certain frustration that there weren't better ways to identify the nominees"”Young Person's Book nominee Laini Taylor's pink hair made her easy to locate, but otherwise I had to rely on the overhead monitors, which periodically showed book covers and the corresponding author. Although I overheard several cynical responses on press row to, for example, Gore Vidal's speech, I never thought any part of the evening lacked sincerity, and there were several moments of genuine emotion. The interplay between Vidal and Joanne Woodward, for example, was a rare example of a private moment in a public space. Eggers talking about his pirate shop in San Francisco, which serves as a kind of front for education and for reading, evoked for me a real sense of not only books still being viable and important but also reaffirmed the idea that each of us can make a difference. Having a chance to meet the genuinely sweet Junot Diaz was a treat for both me and Ann. Some people have a kind of presence about them that makes you glad to know them, and Junot is one of those people. But we behaved ourselves, and Ann got a real kick out of the whole shindig. Next morning, of course, many of those in attendance went back to cramped offices and marketing meetings about how to best take advantage of the upcoming holiday season. I had actually spent the day meeting with editors as preamble to the awards ceremony"”a nice lunch with my editor David Cashion at Abrams about the Steampunk Bible I'm working on, a late afternoon meet-and-greet with Diana Gill at HarperCollins, who just bought our anthology Thackery T. Lambshead's Cabinet of Curiosities. Editors are still buying books, and unlike the banking industry and loans to small business, they seem to be buying more of them again. Does it mean anything? It might not, but the entire day seemed to serve as a reminder that publishing is indeed not dead. More on the National Book Awards over the weekend--and don't forget to check out the archive of the live coverage here and Tom Nissley's great round-up post here.
(The crowd lining up to get into the National Book Awards, the amazing Cipriani ceiling inside)
The speeches from the winners were, frankly, not particularly memorable, but, then, writers are not, all appearances to the contrary, performers. Meanwhile, there was the absurdism of press row"”a series of tableclothed bleacher seating with waiters providing wine, and then, behind a curtain, food in the form of crustless sandwiches. It was a somewhat odd sight"”the idea of the press corps as the audience for a banquet, everyone twittering or working on rough drafts of their stories. Something illegitimate about the space, publicists and editors bringing up their authors to select reporters to make a bit of a pitch, a bit of a meet-and-greet"”all of it flanked by the establishment's security guards (including one man who leaned down in impeccable James Bond suit to where I was desperately recharging my phone to ask "Can I help you, sir?", by which he clearly meant, "Get the heck out of here.").
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