Wearing a tortoiseshell headband in a transparent attempt to look like an Ashkenazi Caroline Bessette-Kennedy, I stood on the streets of FiDi next to a woman in a glittering ball gown and a man with orthopedic shoes and a Jansport backpack. Tonight was Books’ Big Night Out! The Oscars of Books! The 75th National Book Awards. That meant the dress code was confused, and the gossip literary.
At the annual celebration of literature, some of the most influential writers, editors, publishers, agents, and industry figures alive sat down for steak at Cipriani Wall Street. I—an intrepid journalist with official press credentials—did not join those high rollers in the ballroom. Instead, I was directed behind a pillar in the back where, after tripping over a handful of wires and shuffling sideways on some risers, I found a seat amongst the other press. These even more intrepid journalists had their laptops out and were typing smugly, doing annoying things like their jobs.
In the front row of the press section sat Mandi Montes, the social media editor for Oprah’s Book Club. She managed to out-book the Book Awards by bringing reading material to tide her over during the slower parts of the program (a galley of We Tell Ourselves Stories, a new book about Joan Didion). I hunted around my purse for something that would make me look serious and found a pack of peach-flavored cigarettes, several lipsticks in the exact same shade, and a purple pen with a decidedly unserious pouf on the end that I nabbed from the Versace dinner I went to last week. I discovered that when I waved it, the pouf signaled “Bellini” to passing waiters.
The ceremony was hosted by comedian Kate McKinnon. I was prepared to say she bombed because I have a personal vendetta against Kate McKinnon (I find the best enemies are the ones who don’t know it). Unfortunately for me, she was funny. Musician Jon Batiste led the crowd in a rousing rendition of “Hallelujah” that featured the most off-sync audience clapping I’ve ever heard. This crowd couldn’t find the beat if it offered them a month-long paid residency! Award categories were read out by the disembodied voices of Ethan Hawke, Janelle Monae, and Demi Lovato—none of whom were in attendance. Finalist Miranda July: nowhere to be found. Official headwear count: 1 top hat, 3 fedoras.
Shifa Saltagi Safadi, winner of this year’s award for YA Literature, gave a moving speech that ended in an impassioned “Free Palestine.” Percival Everett took home the National Book Award Fiction Prize for James, a reinterpretation of Huckleberry Finn from the perspective of Jim.
Surveying the room, I was reminded of a habit my father developed in the 90s. When confronted with an imposing guest list at a fancy party, he would inform the door person that he was J.D. Salinger. This worked perfectly because nobody knew what J.D. Salinger looked like, but everyone wanted him at their party.
Towards the end of the night, my headband was squeezing my head slightly, making it look more gourdlike than usual (‘tis the season), and started to give me a headache. Bellini count: 2. Congratulations to the winners of this year’s National Book Awards! If I’m not invited back next year, I’ll tell the bouncer my name is Miranda July.
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