Congratulations on winning the Lambda Literary Award for And Now We Are Going To Have a Party. What does winning an award like this mean to you personally?
A vast great deal. Which took me by surprise. I didn't think the judges would consider my "multi-media, do-it-yourself Nicola Griffith home assembly kit" (Gary Wolfe, in Locus) seriously as memoir. Strictly speaking, it's not even a book, it's a box. Yes, there's a book's worth of essays in there, perfect bound in five volumes, but also crayon drawings, wretched teenage love poetry, diary entries, a CD of my music, letters to Santa, even scratch 'n' sniff panels. I thought it would be too outré for the award committee. I was delighted just to be nominated.
Right there, this was different for me. Frankly, when I see my name on a ballot I usually think, I deserve that. And then I gauge my chances of winning and show up or not at the ceremony.
This time I decided a win was unlikely but wanted to attend to meet my fellow nominees. I've never talked to another memoirist about their work. I wanted to sit and chat, say, How was it for you? How did you feel about exposing yourself this way? Which bits did you leave out, and why? I'm a complete beginner at this; I wanted to learn something from the Big Cheeses.
Naturally, I prepared a speech, just in case. It's seriously dumb not to. Then I chose my sleekest clothes and off I went. And, wow, it was a Gala. The biggest names in LGBT publishing—giants of the field (it's a younger field than f/sf, so imagine a gathering of Heinlein, Sturgeon, Knight, Moore, etc.)—were there, along with public figures like the Mayor of West Hollywood, and the whole thing was held in this chi-chi design centre, all black leather and polished marble and vaulted steel. The food was delicious. For someone used to the down-home Nebulas (or, as the leader of our local council said to me a few years ago when presenting me with an award, "the prestigious Neboola Award"—he also referred to the Lambada Awards; I'm not kidding; I have the recognition ceremony on tape somewhere) and the delightfully home-grown Tiptree, this glitz and glamour was a bit overwhelming.
In the auditorium, there were cameras everywhere. It was run like the Oscars: a professional production team, with voiceovers, taped tributes, film cameras, envelopes to rip open, the whole nine yards. The memoir/biography award came near the end--apparently it's one of the more important categories, who knew?—and they announced my name and I stood and my mind went utterly blank.
That's never happened to me before.
Immediately before the award announcement they'd screened an In Memoriam tribute to all the writers we've lost in the last twenty years. I cried. (Don't normally do that, either.) So there I was, standing, emotionally ravaged, cameras in my face, mind wiped clean.
I said some stuff. I sat down. The last two awards were presented.
Then I tried to leave.
First of all, I couldn't get out of the auditorium for all the people wanting to talk to me. Then I couldn't get through the lobby throng to the bathroom because of the people wanting to congratulate me. Then I couldn't get back into the room (where the wine was, and the dessert!) for all the people who wanted to meet me. I felt like catnip at a kitten convention. It was...unexpected. I loved every minute of it. I think this award is the best one so far.
In another interview, read Nicola's thoughts on writing her memoir and collaborating with her partner, Kelley Eskridge.
