There’s so much I want to share about yesterday—the thrill of sitting next to John Farris for an hour as we autographed, brunch with Ellen Datlow, hanging out in the bar with Stephen Jones and Mandy Slater discussing zombies and the pride of work done well, watching the Mathesons interviewed from the front row and tossing out a few questions, listening to Maria Alexander read, the fun of the pre-banquet cocktail party, and more—but I am unlikely to do that today, as I’ve only six hours left here in Burbank and it makes more sense to squeeze the last drops out of the Stoker Awards weekend today than to spend time blogging about yesterday. Which means that if I share further about any of those things, it will likely be as something historical rather than contemporaneous reporting.

But I did want to pop up briefly to say, yes, I lost last night. But I’m OK with that. The competition was fierce, and so there was no shame in any of the writers or works who or which did not end up with a trophy. More importantly than that, even though I would dearly love one of those little houses one day, I find that I am quite Zen about it. You know that Stephen King line, “It is the tale, not he who tells it?” I’ve often paraphrased him, and continued the thought.

It is the tale, not he who tells it … not the awards … nor the reviews … nor any other non-literary aspect of writing.

When Stephen Jones and Mandy I were sitting in the bar yesterday, he said that he’d asked a fellow writer (whose name I’ve sadly forgotten, but will track down) how he defined success. And that writer said that success for him was if fifty years after his death, some editor putting together an anthology thought that a single old story was worth reprinting. That would be success. I agree.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to carry home a trophy at some point in the future. Only, I understand what really matters most, and where my energies should be applied. Wordsworth’s words warning that “getting and spending, we lay waste our powers,” can refer to spending too much time agonizing about these victories and defeats and how to affect or cope with them, and not enough time spent on figuring out how to use our powers to simply find the next right word.

Meanwhile, here I am, back when the evening was still filled with potential, standing next to Roy Robbins, the shrewd publisher who put out my standalone novel The Hunger of Empty Vessels, one of the five (or is it six?) horror stories I’ll have out this year. Those words, and the possiblity of your reading them, and writing new words, are all that really matters.

Now—down to the lobby to continue the fun! And if you’re here at the Stokers, come to my 11:00 a.m. panel on Long vs. Short fiction, during which I’ll attempt to moderate Yvonne Navarro, Weston Osche, and possibly David Hartwell, who I think was added after the pocket program guide was printed.