
"I really, really like me."
What is it about acceptance speeches that are so revolting (besides the fact that if someone else is giving one it means we haven’t won)? Even actors, trained thespians, can’t manage to pull it off. My theory is two-pronged. First, winning automatically reveals the level of desire and we’re not supposed to be so craven in our desire to win; it’s unbecoming. Second, it’s like watching someone masturbate in front of a mirror. It’s got the James Spader vibe of intense self-love parading as dead inside. (But I will defer to a certain commenter on the subject.)
When I win the National Book Award, here’s what I’m going to say: I have to thank Myra Fassler, high school English teacher, and Jorie Graham, Pamela White Hadas and Richard Howard, poets and teachers. Ugh. Start over: I have to thank the mental health professionals who…scratch that. Start over: My family…waa waa. Start now: I have no one to thank. I wish everyone would go fuck themselves. Do over: I wish to thank my agent, my editor, and my methadone counselor. Okay, enough. Give me your best acceptance speech.
Watcha got?
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