They'll tell you that awards and records don't mean much in the quest to be a successful writer. That doesn't stop people from listing anywhere they can that they were shortlisted for a prize, almost won a contest, or were once recognized by some organization for something slightly related to writing well. It helps us feel some justification for those 10,000 hours I spoke of yesterday.
An anthology I'm part of (DYING IN A WINTER WONDERLAND) is listed as one of the bestsellers of 2008 by the Independent Booksellers of America. No matter how little that means to the world of publishing, it felt good to me and to the twelve other writers who contributed. Opposed to the piles of rejection letters, the email queries that don't even rate a response, and the agents who smile during your pitch session but never call, it's a tiny ray of something. It sold. People saw my name. Maybe a fraction of those people will remember it, and a fraction of that number will respond positively when they see it somewhere else.
The anthology was a fundraiser for Toys for Tots. We received no payment for our work except the joy of doing something good for the world. And now it brings something we never counted on, bestseller designation and with that a modicum of fame. Only a little bit, I know, but "it is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness."
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