Last week, the acclaimed author Helen DeWitt revealed that she had been passed over for a Windham-Campbell Prize, which is worth USD 175,000. DeWitt had been unable to fulfil certain publicity requirements due to personal and professional reasons, including mental health, family obligations, and the fact that she had finally managed to find time to write. She had been contacted in February; the Prize has just announced its latest set of recipients.
This news sharply divided commentators into two camps: those who felt that DeWitt was being unreasonable, and those who felt that the very definition of an accolade like the Windham-Campbell Prize, like a MacArthur Genius Grant or any similar recognition that brings a windfall, is that an author should be able to rest on her laurels.
DeWitt has shared that the Mercatus Center has just given her, presumably in response to all this, USD 175,000 — no strings attached.
The whole debacle has brought out some of the rarely well-concealed pettiness of the literary world. It’s all par for the course: people will say that they themselves would have accepted one award or opportunity or rejected another. This isn’t in fact because of the hypotheticals, but because of the thing they don’t say, which is that they believe themselves equally if not more deserving.
DeWitt’s behaviour is also entirely on par for the course, and only in modern times has the demand for performance and networking been hoisted on artistes whose work necessarily requires isolation and immersion. Eccentricity has always been accepted as being common in brilliant people (I haven’t read DeWitt’s work, but for purposes of this debate I can take other people’s word on it). So have neuroatypical patterns, short social batteries, and disinterest in anything that disrupts creative time — all of which prevent successful, let alone unrelenting, public-facing availability.
The discussion, in any case, isn’t even really about DeWitt, or even about the particular prize that has snubbed her. It is about the circus acts — the jumping through hoops and the tightrope walking and the big-smiled “Tada!” — that are expected from people who make literature, and which take the maker away from the craft.
All this should be illuminating for those not in the know. Whenever anyone sees a video collage of delighted faces, or even just one person, accepting an honour, chances are that they had all been notified in advance but have to act surprised. There’s a showbiz aspect to the book biz, and that’s the part that many authors dread. Some certainly and quite visibly excel at it, and arguably reap more perks than those who can’t or don’t play the game. But in truth, this aspect has nothing to do with writing, translation, illustration, or editing.
Prizes, especially those which offer ample funds, do matter. The Windham-Campbell is life-changing. But the missing piece in discourse both within the domain and beyond it is that life itself feels remarkably different from person to person. Capacity, health, circumstance, responsibility, and fundamental wiring each have an effect. Infrastructure that supports creativity and doesn’t cordon it off from life itself is what we need — not only from prestigious quarters, but equally from small ecosystems.