Nobody could decide who should get the Pulitzer Prize in fiction, so they just didn’t give one to anybody. But I think they might have decided differently if they’d seen my current manuscript, entitled “Girl Who Was Extremely Moody And Inexplicably Inclined to Blog Her Troubles Away.”
There were three finalists, though: Train Dreams by Denis Johnson, Swamplandia! by Karen Russel, and The Pale King by David Foster Wallace. So now I have to make it a point to read three books instead of one. Thanks, panel of judges. Like I don’t have enough going on.
I kind of think they should’ve given Dave Wallace some extra points for being dead. Because his novel wasn’t even done. So can’t we assume that if he’d had the chance to finish it, it would’ve kicked the asses of the other two?
On the other hand, if he’d known he had a Pulitzer Prize-winning book on his hands, maybe he wouldn’t have hanged himself. So many what-if’s. So much that could have been, David Foster Wallace. Why? WHY?
If someone called me one day and was like, “Hello, is this Megan?” And I was like, “Yeah.” And they were like, “We’ve decided to give you the Pulitzer Prize in fiction this year.” I think I would literally shit a brick. And then I’d be like, “Well, I’m not going to accomplish anything better than that in this lifetime.” So I’d probably let myself go quite a bit. Play some Scrabble. Eat a lot of pizza.
Thank goodness I picked a career that only requires me to sit in coffee shops and dig through my brain. Because that’s probably what I’d be doing anyway.