For me, April 16, 2026 was a day that created a “before” and an “after”.

I’ve had a lot of those over the past year and a half. Writing “Prishelets”. Winning the third quarter Writers of the Future contest. Having Analog buy one of my stories. But April 16 was one I actually saw coming. I’d known it was coming since October of last year. So I had plenty of time to prepare. Not that I used it.

It just didn’t feel real. After all these years spinning my wheels, someone wanted to recognize me for my writing. To be fair, WotF contest director Joni Labaqui tried to impress upon me the gravity of what was about to happen. She tried very, very hard. But after toiling in obscurity for so long, it was hard to fathom. I’d pictured some modestly-nice affair, maybe in some convention center or hotel ballroom or something. An event bearing more similarity to a high school prom than a Hollywood awards show. Why would anyone make such a fuss over me?

So I didn’t feel any pressure. Not really. I flew out to LA, strolled Hollywood Boulevard, sat in on workshop sessions where I met some truly fantastic sci-fi authors. I met my fellow writers, and fell in with them instantly. It was hard work, but also fun. And at the end, I told myself, I’d go up on stage surrounded by chintzy balloon decorations, accept my little trophy, say a few grateful words, and that would be that. A few days later I’d hop a plane back to Cincinnati and everything would go back to normal. I’d be another anonymous writer. The best published author nobody had ever heard of.

Then, on Wednesday night, we had our rehearsal for the awards show. And I realized everything Joni had told me was dead serious.

The venue was exactly the sort of place you see in Hollywood awards ceremonies. The decorations weren’t chintzy; they were breathtaking, producing a spectacle that would’ve seemed wildly out of place anywhere else on Earth. They had a director. They had camera angles. Teleprompters. Stage marks where we were to stand. They told us to rehearse our speeches, because they’d be streaming the event globally. From a room filled with wealthy guests and benefactors. The who’s who of science fiction and fantasy.

Thursday morning, I could barely eat breakfast, and soon after found myself pacing in my room. There was no one outside the contest to talk to. It was early morning on a work day back home. Everyone I knew was as busy as I would be, on any other Thursday. I kept telling myself there was no pressure. I wasn’t going to win the grand prize. In an effort to not take myself too seriously I even clowned around a little, so to speak…

Soon it was 12 PM. At 2 PM I was to report to the lobby in my tuxedo (I’d never worn a tux before), and board the limo that would take us to the awards show. Too wrapped up to eat, I decided to take a walk. I’d heard so much about the Hollywood Hills, and amid all the bustle of the workshop I still hadn’t had a chance to see it, so I went for a stroll. Off Hollywood Boulevard. Past Author Services, where I’d spent most of the previous four days. Soon I found myself immersed in a world of tropical plants, of color and brilliant sun. At around 12:30, I took a picture of a clutch of blooms hanging from a tree, which I later learned was a blue jacaranda.

And as I strayed further and further from the hotel, the clock ticking down to two, it hit me. All my years of stop-and-go writing. All the podcasts, all the cups of coffee, all the late nights and hours sitting in front of my computer. Story after story, rejection after rejection, had led inexorably to this. I’d known it was coming, because every writer does. If you work hard and stick with it, you will succeed. In the immortal words of Bo Schembechler, “Those who stay will be champions.” But until that day, it had been a theoretical concept. Suddenly I found myself walking through Hollywood, the dog who caught the car, and I had an unexpected thought:

What if I just kept walking?

Amid all the pressure of standing on the threshold of everything I’d worked so hard for, I’d literally headed for the hills.

There was never any real doubt that I’d be at the award show. I’d come too far, fought too hard, to give it all up. Even if it meant surrendering my anonymity. But felt nice, for just a moment, to pretend I could take it all back.

Pretty soon I was walking back to the hotel, double-time. I had to use Google Maps to make sure I didn’t get lost. I got back to the hotel after 1 PM and still had to shower. By the time I got down to the hotel lobby, everyone else was there and ready. I had bathed. I’d donned my tux. All I had on me was my room key, my phone…and the clown nose seen above, tucked into my left jacket pocket. Just a reminder not to take myself too seriously. To stay grounded in the moment.

There were cameras everywhere as we boarded the limos. I’d never ridden in an Escalade limousine, and the first thing I noticed was they weren’t anywhere near as big inside as they looked. While we waited for our departure, I took pictures of myself and my fellow winners, my new friends, mainly to keep myself calm. I wonder if any of them noticed I was shaking.

When we arrived on the red carpet, I finally experienced that SoCal heat I’d heard so much about. It was sweltering, and wearing all black probably didn’t help much. In minutes I had sweat dripping down my back. My illustrator, Nate, stuck close to me. When they started bringing trays of hors d’oeuvres around, I snatched up what I could, but didn’t have much time. Soon I was being pulled into interviews. People spoke to me, one after another, in front of the cameras, sometimes pulling Nate in, too. I kept seeing staff come through with glasses of water, but couldn’t snag one. There was a shaded area where most of the guests were congregated. Some of my fellow winners were there, too, but I couldn’t reach them. Every time I tried to head for the patio, someone came along and herded me back to the red carpet.

With the event about to start, I was finally permitted to enter the hall. I shook hands with Carmen—the P.R. guy for the contest—on my way past, letting him know that if he found anyone else on the planet I hadn’t spoken to yet he could send them in after me. Before entering the ballroom I paused at the doorway with the other first placers: Zach, Tom Slee, and Tom Eggenberger (who was seated at my table). I lamented to them that I hadn’t had a free moment since I’d arrived; everyone seemed to want to interview me. That drew confused glances from the others. Zach said no one had spoken to him. Tom Slee and Egg said the same.

The dinner was wonderful, and I ate heartily even though my stomach was in knots. I made small talk with Mark McWaters (who I hadn’t had as much chance to talk to as the other winners). Nate, being the go-getter he is, was talking business, about what we were going to do together after all of this. I, uncharacteristically, stayed mostly quiet.

During dinner, we were called to the back of the room two at a time—author and illustrator—to have our pictures taken with our award presenters. Up to that point, I hadn’t known who would be presenting my award. We arrived in the photo area at the back, not that different from what you’d see at a senior prom. The area was fairly dark, but after a few minutes I saw Larry Niven walking up to us.

As we were standing in front of the backdrop, Mr. Niven turned to me and said, “Before anything else, since we have the chance now, I’d just like to say congratulations.” Then a bestselling sci-fi author who’d written for Star Trek shook my hand. Looking back now, I don’t think he was congratulating me just for winning first place in the third quarter.

With dinner over, Nate had a waitperson bring us a pot of coffee. And for the record, that’s the kind of initiative you want in an illustrator. I always drink it black, but I added a little cream this time because frankly my stomach was a mess. The show began with a fascinating artistic display that included a violin player (right up my alley) and, amazingly, swords. Then, in groups of three, the awards were handed out.

I took pictures of all my fellow winners, because by this point they were close friends. I took just as much pride in their success as I did mine. My award (alongside Nate) was near the end of the show, but clapping and cheering for my friends helped ease the tension a little. During the brief interlude before my award was presented, I excused myself to the bathroom. I fixed my hair (mostly). I straightened my bow tie (it still ended up being crooked). And as I made my way back toward the show I posted this picture to my platform:

With the caption, “Gametime”.

So Mr. Niven opened with a few jokes about the Anthropic Scandal before mispronouncing my name (he was not the last to do so). But it didn’t matter. When my time came, I went up and accepted my award. I gave my speech, in which as planned I said a few words about my story before thanking the wonderful people who’d helped me get to that podium. From the side I looked on as Nathan delivered a heartfelt, deeply-emotional speech that was probably the best of the night. And then we went back to our table.

The moment had passed, and I was fine. I started breathing a little easier. My stomach settled, and I poured myself another cup of coffee. When I checked my phone it was exploding: friends and family across the world had watched, and I was swimming in congratulations. My critique group was rejoicing. My mother was texting me in all caps. I took a picture of my first-place trophy, and was answering comments on it when my name was called again…

I’d won the grand prize.

As the illustrator winner—Bafu—said, contest president John Goodwin had told us the grand prize speeches were usually worse. Because nobody wants to prepare for them, since they don’t want to believe they’ll be the grand prize winner. For the record, this is an actual screenshot of my notes for the two speeches:

I’d like to think I at least wasn’t a total yutz. But to be completely honest, I had in fact thought about what I’d say if I won the grand prize: I would thank the city of Cincinnati. My home. The only place in all the world where I’ve ever truly felt like I belonged. My little Germany on the banks of the Ohio. Cincinnati has taken my blood, sweat, and tears. But in exchange it’s given me a home, friends, family. A life. And as I said in my speech, over my two decades here, it’s given me more than it could possibly take.

In an instant, everything changed. While the other winners went out to sign books, I was kept onstage for interviews and pictures with Bafu, who was clearly even more shocked than I was to have won. Wonderful guy that he is, he kept saying, “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.” I kept assuring him that he’d earned it. That he absolutely deserved it. Even as I kept thinking the same thing, while smiling for pictures until my face hurt. The trophy was extremely heavy.

Soon after I was out signing books and shaking hands, flanked by Nate and my “workshop bestie” Kathleen Powell: Bafu’s writer. I couldn’t have asked for a better bunch to be stuck on the line with. Upon my arrival (I was late because of the hullabaloo onstage) people who’d already been through the line circled back through for my and Bafu’s autographs. I smiled and joked with them. It was easy by that point. I was so dazed none of it felt real.

The moment the last person came through the line (Joni, the contest director who’d first informed me that I was a finalist), I bolted for the bar, barely catching them before they closed down. I grabbed a bottle of Stella, and probably drank in about two minutes. On the way back to the hotel, the woman running the limo service asked for song requests. I suggested California Soul by Marlena Shaw.

Friday, April 17, 2026, became the first day of my new life. I spent twelve hours in front of cameras and microphones. Thankfully I got up early for one final breakfast at the coffee shop I’d fallen in love with. I wouldn’t have the chance to eat again until 9 PM. Interview after interview, podcasts and film. The life of a very minor celebrity. Since I returned home it’s been more of the same. I’ve fielded phone interviews, visited bookstores, and written numerous blog posts. This one is the last of those.

I saved this until the end not to generate hype on the eve of the release, but because it’s taken me this long to collect my thoughts and make sense of it all. The workshop week. Meeting my fellow winners. The afternoon when I thought about literally running away from success and fame. The show where I was shaking like a leaf. Not daring to hope for the very thing that ultimately happened.

You never know how you’ll respond to moments like that until you’re in them. And looking back, I know I was never really going to run off into the hills. Because I chose this. The moment I first entered Writers of the Future, I accepted the chance (however remote, in my estimation), that I would win. Just as the moment I first put proverbial pen to paper, I accepted the idea that, if I succeeded, people would know me. They’d recognize my face, my name. I’d end up at conventions and on podcasts, and my stories would end up on shelves across the world.

Since that afternoon in the Hollywood Hills, I’ve kept looking back at that picture I took of the blue jacaranda. A reminder that in the end, we cannot hide from ourselves forever. Sooner or later, we show our true colors. —MK

Writers of the Future, Vol. 42, will be released tomorrow, April 28, electronically and in bookstores everywhere. It features many wonderful stories, including my first published work. First, but not last.