Much of the event, I have to say, is a blur. Paula Morris on her big night out at the NZ Post Book Awards

 09. August 2012 - Paula Morris

All roads lead to the Auckland Museum. Ten years ago I was in the library there, researching Hibiscus Coast, my second novel. On the shelf I came across Pictures of Old New Zealand, a collection of Lindauer paintings. That was the first time I saw the portrait of Paratene Te Manu, the first time I read the short history of his life he gave just before his death in 1896. There was a great story here, I knew. What I didn’t know: that it would take me so many years to write it.
Since then I’ve lived in Iowa City, New Orleans, Glasgow. I’ve published another four novels and a story collection. But finally I finished Rangatira, my take on the remarkable life of Paratene Te Manu, and his ill-fated trip to England in 1863. And I’m back once again at the Auckland Museum, this time for the New Zealand Post Book Awards.

Four members of my family insist on coming with me to the black-tie dinner – even after my brother discovers how much it costs to hire a tuxedo. I’m glad they’re there, because it distracts me from the anxiety of the occasion. Rangatira is nominated for best work of fiction, and I’m surprised with myself – disappointed, even – because I feel so tense about the whole thing.
Earlier that day, walking around downtown Auckland, I see an inspirational message painted on the ground: Do at least one thing you fear every day. Really, just one? How about: fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of speaking in public, fear of humiliation. (The humiliation, I’m sure, of falling over en route to the stage.)
Writers aren’t supposed to mind about things like awards. Nobody cries when they accept the Man Booker Prize. Authors are supposed to be above the petty fray, too intellectual or aesthetic or cynical to even notice things like shortlists, descending from our lonely garrets to gaze at the fray of an awards ceremony with ironic disdain. Writing isn’t horse-racing – though a few years ago I did go into a London bookies to bet when Lloyd Jones’ Mister Pip was a Booker finalist.
Read the rest of Paula's account of that night here.