Glitz, glam, and FOMO

“JOMO: (noun) Joy of Missing Out. A feeling of contentment with one's own pursuits and activities, without worrying over the possibility of missing out on what others may be doing.”

I blame the dress. I bought the one-of-a-kind dress in Boston, and it is fabulous. It had to go somewhere at some point! It’s too funky for a black tie wedding, and it’s too fancy for going out to dinner. But for this, it was perfect.

So, off my dress and I went to the 28th annual Scotiabank Giller Prize Gala last Monday, an award ceremony that you may or may not have heard of.

It is billed as Canada's richest literary award for fiction, and is considered the equivalent of the Oscars in the Canadian fiction world (minus the appearance of Brad Pitt. Add, instead, the appearance of former Premier Bob Rae.)

The winning author of the Giller Prize is awarded $100,000, which is A LOT for an author or literary prize. The other four finalists pocket $10,000, also quite a bit for an author (and why I know Miriam Toews, a finalist for her novel Fight Night, can afford to buy me a cocktail. DM me!)

The Giller Prize was founded in 1994 by Jack Rabinovitch — who was once named “Man of the Year” by Maclean's Magazine and was honoured with the Order of Canada and multiple honorary doctorates — in honour of his late wife, journalist Doris Giller, who had passed away from cancer the year prior.

This year, the jurors read 132 novels, graphic novels, and short story collections and narrow down the list to 12 books. In early October, the five finalists were chosen, known as the “fabulous five.”

Above everything else, at least in the inner circles of publishing, it’s nearly impossible to get an invite. This leaves many agents, editors, publishers, and especially authors (including me!) with an intense feeling of FOMO (fear of missing out), of which there is no known cure.

Three years ago, after another year of not being uninvited, I reached out to someone on the board asking why authors like me don’t get invited to the Gillers. I’m not embarrassed to share this. If I was, I wouldn't be sharing it. FOMO made me do it!

Their response? “I understand where you are coming from. But the room is full to bursting with Jack's friends, media, publishers, agents and more. Would love to be able to invite all writers, but the unfortunate fact is that there's simply not enough room. So sorry.” Aack!

In tonight's re:book’s edition, we went back all the way to 2012 — yes, more than a decade (!) — to pick what we feel are the best books written by female authors that were either nominated or have won the Giller prize in present and past years. They are books we truly enjoyed, and we think you'll enjoy too.

I'm going to be super honest. This was a very time-consuming endeavor. Most Giller Prize book-anything wouldn't usually make the cut for this newsletter. In fact, at times it felt, on our end, as if we were putting together an exclusive guest list. Ironic, huh?

RE:books’ mission is, and has always been, to choose and recommend titles that are usually, but not always, on the lighter side; that don’t feel like a chore to read; that we don’t expect you to read just because they won an award; that are unpre:tentious picks; and that are often self-published.

Our book recommendations are written by Canadian female authors who generally don’t get coverage by mainstream media because their books are not considered literaturey enough.

We also happily include self-published authors, YA authors, non-fiction authors, thrillers, romance novels, and beach reads, which the Giller Prize does not take into consideration. (A huge loss, in my opinion!)

And frankly, it IS a pre:tentious evening, created for the purpose of the literary elite to feel like they are the literary elite. I consider the guest list akin to my kids’ overnight camp friends—who they also go to school with in Toronto…and see every single day. It’s not a bad thing. It just…is.

Over here, we aim to be as unpre:tentious as possible, where everyone, I hope, feels included and everyone, I hope, feels invited to the party.

At RE:books, we always aim to introduce you to books that not only we think you’ll actually enjoy, but also ones you probably haven’t heard all that much about.

The Giller nominees and winners tend to get press. I think? Or they used to. I’m going to be super honest again: No one I know, quite frankly, cares that much about the Giller nominees as much as they once did. Many of my non-pretentious author friends didn't even know the ceremony was happening.

So, to me, it is somewhat clear that this annual tradition, as amazing as it may be, as beautiful as the sentiment behind it is, and as much as I want to support Canadian authors, needs a bit of a makeover. But I'm not a party planner.

According to one publisher (who wasn’t invited), Giller prize-winning books sell anywhere from 20,000 to 40,000 more copies. According to another publisher, who I spoke with that evening (and was invited), this number is so much lower.

Margaret Atwood told me that these book prizes are “something we have to do to get noticed. They lead to an uptick in sales when there is shrinking review space. At least this calls attention to at least five novelists.” (She also complained about her small purse, which by pure coincidence, was the topic of chapter three of my book last week.)

To tell you the truth, I was debating until the last minute if I should just stay home and watch it on CBC in my pyjamas in bed, eating leftover Halloween candy (which it seems a lot of the media did. Although, it was nice to see the Philippine News there.)

But, again, the dress had to go somewhere at some point!

Years ago, I actually crashed the Giller Prize Ceremony…so I could write about it.

If you are an aspiring journalist, you should read it. There will be times when you need to cover an event that you can’t or won’t get an invite to. In fact, sometimes it's actually MUCH more fun crashing some parties, in my opinion. It’s a lot more challenging!

(There *may* have been another political party I crashed years ago that I covered for a newspaper, where the image of a now very high-powered Canadian politician dancing in a black mesh shirt still haunts me to this day.)

Since not much has changed when it comes to the Gillers — from the “special guests" to the “entertainment” — consider the story I wrote below as, “An Uninvitee’s Guide to the Giller Gala!”

We truly hope you enjoy our Giller book recommendations this week that we spent a thousand years pouring over. Next week, we’ll be back to our regular scheduled programming, featuring all sorts of different genres and books that most likely will never win any awards. (WOOT! We’re so beyond okay with that!)

Here's my experience, as an UN-invitee, many years ago. (And why I may be hated, which I also write about in this edition. (Shrug.)

***

A Party Crasher’s Guide to the Gillers

(Originally published in the National Post)

I crashed the Scotiabank Giller Prize gala Tuesday night on behalf of every writer who hopes to be nominated for the $100,000 award. Actually, I’m lying. I crashed the Giller Prize party on behalf of every writer who just hopes to be invited to the damn party.

“Are you going?” a friend had asked. “No, I wasn’t invited,” I admitted. “But you’re a writer,” he responded. “You have a number of books published.”

“Yeah. Somehow, I don’t think the literati in Canada think my books make the cut,” I told him, naming a handful of my books.

“But still,” he said. “You should be invited.”

“You know what?” I said. “I really should be invited.”

And that’s why I decided to crash the lavish annual, invite-only, black-tie gala celebrating Canadian literature. After all, it’s supposed to be a “tribute to all Canadian writers.”

Sure, Atwood, Munro and Ondaatje are serious authors, along with this year’s nominees and winner Joseph Boyden.

But when I sit down to write, I’m just as serious. And I’m Canadian!

And, no offence to the four former premiers who made the invite list, or to actor Albert Schultz and opera star Measha Brueggergosman, but I’m pretty sure none of them had spent the entire day in their pyjamas, hunched over their computers, working on a novel due two months ago, bemoaning the fact that they don’t have a balcony to jump off , like I had earlier that day.

It wasn’t hard to crash the pre-dinner cocktail party. Going up the escalator at the Four Seasons, I just got caught in the rush. No one asked for an invitation. There was no guest list. A stranger on the street — a well-dressed stranger — could have walked in.

I had a moment of panic when I realized that all guests line up to say hello to the founder of the prize and host, Jack Rabinovitch, upon entering the room.

I had been warned, when I broached the subject with someone about crashing: “Are you kidding? Jack knows every single person on the invite list.” Amazing, considering there were 500 people invited. Still, I lined up. “Thanks for inviting me,” I said, batting my eyelashes. (I find the dude cute, what can I say?)

I think there was a slight “WTF?” look in his eyes, not that he would use that expression.

“Come on in,” he said. I may have lacked etiquette by crashing his party, but he was polished enough to accept a party crasher with grace.

And aspiring authors should crash this cocktail party. The room was full of agents, publishers, booksellers, editors of books, magazines and newspapers.

Aside from the nominees and The Big Name Authors, there were very few actual writers. If you are looking for an agent, wondering where your manuscript is or want a writing gig, this would be the place to lock people down.

I almost asked one famous female author to blurb my next book. But out of respect for Rabinovitch (and the fact I wasn’t invited,) I decided not to take advantage of the open bar. (Half a glass of wine, and I would have definitely cornered her for a blurb.)

At 7 p.m., it was clear I would need to come up with some sort of game plan, as everyone was heading into the dining room. I went back to the table where the seating cards were. I checked to see who hadn’t shown up, and whose seat I could fill.

Should I be Joanna Schneller of the Globe and Mail? (Wouldn’t mind.) Antonia Zerbisias of the Toronto Star? (No, thanks.) David Peterson? (I think he was already at the table, so too iffy.)

So I picked Carrie-something at table 29. Who is Carrie?

I have no friggin’ idea, but thank you Carrie for being a noshow. The fennel-seared tuna, slow roasted beef tenderloin and chocolate mousse was to die for.

My friend, and television personality, had warned me that over the years she has been at “fun tables, boring tables, and sometimes bureaucratic tables. “What is great is that it’s different every year,” she said.

I was at a fantastic table. Half bankers, a woman who owned a television production company and two hilarious out-of-town publishers, none of whom had the slightest idea that I wasn’t actually invited. (And don’t think I’m not going to keep in contact with them.)

I was having so much fun I almost forgot I wasn’t supposed to be there. I saw Margaret Atwood — my idol — and decided to say “hi.” This is the kind of party where you can do this — possibly because everyone knows that if you’re there, you’re worthy of an invite.

“Stand up,” she said, as I crouched down while she was seated at her table. “I want to see how tall you are.”

I did as I was told. Peggy wants to see how tall I am? I’m going to stand up. And I’m going to stand up tall.

“You’re so skinny,” she told me. (Which, I think, translates to, “You are a great writer.”)

After dinner and the award presentation, people gathered for the post-cocktail party. I ran into Stuart McLean. I admitted to him that I wasn’t invited. The night was almost over. I had gotten away with crashing.

“So what’s your next book going to be called?” he asked.

“I think something that have Giller Prize nominee written all over it?” I joked.

“Yes! This year, party crasher, next year they’ll be rolling out the red carpet for you,” he laughed.

***

For a full list of previous nominees and winners, you can click here.

Until next time, flip your hair and flip the page (And remember, FOMO is not your friend!)

xo

Rebecca