There was an article in the paper the other day about how the National Book Awards wants to sex itself up. Apparently Molly Ringwald is going to attend tomorrow night. That’s nice, but somehow having an entire brat pack reunion at the ceremony wouldn’t quite achieve the luster they’re looing for. Getting a celeb for the MC is always a good start. Red carpet: check. Peach Bellinis: check. Richard Ford-era brawl in the bar also good. But let’s face it, while the NBA’s are the closest Publishing comes to the Oscars, a room full of word nerds in rented tuxedos isn’t quite sex on a stick. The author as rock star just doesn’t quite hold up. Some have done their share, of course, and some are downright gorgeous. But this face lift on the ceremony speaks to the essential problem: most writers are generally lumpy, they don’t have tremendous fashion sense, and they prefer to sit behind their computer by themselves for a reason. They are about the sweetest creatures on earth. Good luck tomorrow night!
Do you have your speech prepared?
Filed under: Uncategorized |