In author questionnaires, interviews, and casual conversation I am often asked if I’ve won any awards to which I reply, “No. I have not won any awards. There are no pictures of me in magazines crouched on my knees and looking up into the lens like it’s a hand offering kibble. I am not an award-winning author (though I often find myself responding to interview questions from the New Yorker and Access Hollywood to my reflection in the bathroom mirror.)
However, today I’ve been informed that The Descendants has been shortlisted for Stanford University’s Saroyan Prize. A recent winner was Jonathan Safron Foer, which tells me that I will not be awarded the Saroyan Prize, very unfortunate, because the purse would allow me to purchase a much-needed boob refill.
I don’t think I’ll win because:

1. I write about upper-class, partial minorities and know that awards go to novels about about poor, full-on minorities struggling to save their families by selling tropical fruit in a marketplace, running a taco stand frequented by rich dudes yapping on Bluetooths, laying sheet-rock for whitey, or enduring a horrible arranged marriage.

2. To win my books would have to explore racial tension, strife, class stuff (they do, but not enough, I think), and I’ll have to come up with opinions about illegal immigrants, the war, and other Big Themes.

3. To win I’d have to write about a professor who is having some sort of crisis involving tenure and sexy students.

4. I don’t think I’ll win because I’m not visualizing it/wanting it bad enough. An award would mean some kind of writer party with cheap wine, S.U.V sized blocks of cheese, and listening to boys talk about their latest accomplishments like being published in the Chugachoochoo Review. An award could possibly involve public speaking and I basically am as inarticulate as someone on The Real World.

But then again I really want boobs that resemble oranges and not miniature Japanese eggplants so send your positive vibes my way, please.