Just a quick note about the Pulitzer Prize:
No Pulitzer Prize was awarded in the category of fiction this year. None.
I heard an interview on NPR yesterday with one of the women on the jury who reads all the books and makes recommendations for the prize finalists. (Yes, this post has “Pulitzer Prize” and “NPR” in it – which earns us credit for at least two more fake-porn posts, doesn’t it?) The woman sounded peeved, and I can see why. She had to read something like 300 books, and then, when she and her fellow Superfriends of the Pulitzer Traveling Pants Book Club passed along their three finalists for consideration, the big wigs said, “Eh, thanks but no thanks.”
Anyway, while I’m glad the integrity of the prize means something – I guess it’s good it doesn’t just get handed out all willy-nilly if no one deserves it – I find it hard to believe there’s not enough fiction going around to find a winner.
I mean, hell, we’re surrounded by fiction all the time. Half of what comes out of my mouth is fiction. (“Because children who don’t drink all their milk will get a flesh-eating rash, that’s why.”)
Here’s some everyday fiction:
Oh, pardon me – I have perfectly lovely manners, but due to a technical failure by [my email / phone / device / Siri / Bill Gates / etc.], my good intentions were thwarted, and I mistakenly appear to have behaved like a depraved ingrate.
“What? You called? My voicemail must not be working.”
“What? Of course I called you back. Is your voicemail not working?”
“What? Ohhhh, no, the invitation must have gone into my junk folder. Dammit.”
“What? No, I’m not ignoring your request. You know Facebook — so glitchy. ZUCKERBERG!”
“What? You got a text from me last night that said, ‘Here are the things I’d rather do than hang out with you: 1. Wash my face with a handful of ants, 2. Eat a bowl of congealed chicken fat with a celery stick as a spoon, 3. Pull out all my own teeth with pliers and glue them onto a paper bag and wear that as my only dress for the rest of my life.’ No, no, no. It was supposed to say, ‘Sorry I can’t make it Thursday.’” DAMN YOU, AUTOCORRECT!”
There’s no shortage of fiction. Fiction is everywhere.