Over the years, I’ve had many experiences as a writer that have carved themselves deep into my memory banks—some triumphant, some humbling, some downright surreal. But one moment that stands out more vividly than most was the night I found out I’d won a Goldie Award.
I honestly didn’t think I stood a chance.
You tell yourself not to get your hopes up, there are all these big names with all these fabulous books in the running. I didn’t think I stood a chance, but at least it might be some good marketing.
I was on holiday in Spain at the time, trying to enjoy the sun in a hotel overrun by European teenagers on a rampage to make as much noise as possible. So, you can imagine how delighted I was when somewhere in the early hours of the morning, I was jolted awake by my phone vibrating like it had developed a nervous tick.
Buzz after buzz, notification after notification, pouring in from every platform imaginable.
Groggy and confused, I grabbed the phone expecting bad news—only to find a flood of messages, tags, congratulations.
I’d won.
In all honesty, I think my then wife was more excited about it than I was. I was knackered. I went back to sleep. But the next day, we decided we should celebrate it, and after meeting a couple of air hostesses away on a quick weekend break, we bought champagne and had the best night. I’m still friends with them today!
By the time I got back home, I was still in a bit of a daze over it. I made the long drive up to Nottingham to meet the wonderfully talented Lise Gold for lunch. She had very kindly brought the award home for me rather than have it posted all the way from America.
And she didn’t just bring it home…she cooked a full on buffet of food for lunch. Then, there it was—my Goldie. Shiny. Solid. Proof that someone, somewhere, had read my work and thought it worthy of something more than a polite nod.
Now, it lives quietly on the sideboard in my living room. Ignored by everyone—except the dust. It doesn’t get much attention, which feels oddly fitting. Because while the award itself is a beautiful thing, it’s the journey it represents that matters most to me: the words written with my parents in the back of my mind. Words that made me cry a lot. And apparently, most people who have read it too. I considered seeing if I could get a deal with Kleenex.
The Goldie was a moment. A wonderful, unforgettable one that I can occasionally brag about, and call myself award-winning. But it’s the writing—and the flexible, wonderful life it’s given me—that keeps me going.
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