The Best of Connie Willis

GRAND MASTER ACCEPTANCE SPEECH

As Barbra Streisand said when she won the Oscar, “Hello, Gorgeous!”

Those of you who know me

know that I faithfully watch the Oscars,

mostly for the clothes—

like that awful pink thing Gwyneth Paltrow wore a couple of years ago

and that thing with the giant red bow that Emma Stone wore this year,

but I also watch for the acceptance speeches

Like when Jack Palance dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups.

Or when Sally Field kept hugging her Oscar to her and saying,

“You like me, you really like me!”

No, we didn’t.

Or when James Cameron shouted, “I’m king of the world!”

And Richard Attenborough compared himself to Gandhi and

Martin Luther King, Jr.

All this research came in handy the last couple of weeks.

No, not to show me how to give a bad speech.

To show me how to do a good one.

Meryl Streep did it.

She gave a great one this year

when she won Best Actress for Iron Lady.

Emma Thompson did it.

John Wayne did it.

The guy from Flight of the Conchords did it, for heaven’s sake.

How hard can it be?

But it must be fairly hard

because there have been lots of bad speeches.

Now, when I say bad speeches,

I’m not talking about people being rambling and incoherent.

That’s to be expected.

They’re excited.

And I don’t mind if they get all choked up.

Crying is fine.

And so is putting on their reading glasses,

pulling out a list,

and thanking everybody they’ve ever known,

including the third-grade teacher

who cast them as the pumpkin in their school production of Cinderella.

I totally get that,

especially the part about the third-grade teacher,

although in my case

it was my sixth-grade teacher, who introduced me to Little Women,

and my eighth-grade teacher, who introduced me to the Blitz,

and my high school English teacher,

who took me to meet Lenora Mattingly Weber.

I wouldn’t be here without them.

And I wouldn’t be here without my BFFs—truly my Best Friends

Forever

Jim Kelly

and Sheila Williams

and Cynthia Felice

and Michael Cassutt

and Melinda Snodgrass

and John Kessel

and Nancy Kress

and without my BHE—Best Husband Ever, Courtney

and my DTD—Dearer than Daughter, Cordelia.

Without my WWCIA—Writer’s Workshop Comrades in Arms

Ed Bryant

and John Stith

and Mike Toman

and Walter Jon Williams

and my LSEs—Long-Suffering Editors

Anne Groell

and Gardner Dozois

and Ellen Datlow

and Liza Trombi

and Shawna McCarthy

and my FWAGMs—Friends Who Are Grand Masters (is that cool, or what?)

Robert Silverberg

and Joe Haldeman

and Fred Pohl

and all the wonderful people who’ve befriended me over the years

from Chris Lotts

to Dr. Neil Gaiman

and Rose Beetum

and Lee Whiteside

and Craig Chrissinger

and Patrice Caldwell and Betty Williamson

and SFWA

and all the great science-fiction people I’ve known,

some of whom are here

and some of whom—

Charlie Brown

and Ralph Vicinanza

and Isaac Asimov

and Jack Williamson—

aren’t.

As Meryl Streep said in her acceptance speech,

“The thing that counts the most is the friendship

and the love we’ve shared.

I look out here and see my life before my eyes.”

And I do:

—driving all night to the Chicago Worldcon with Cee

—eating chocolate donuts with George R.R. Martin

—and getting thrown out of the Tupperware Museum with Sheila Williams and Jim Kelly

—and driving Charlie Brown to Jack Williamson’s in Portales

—and getting thrown out of the Grand Ole Opry with Sheila Williams and Jim Kelly

—and sparring, onstage and off, with Mike Resnick and Bob Silverberg

—and laughing so hard at dinner with Gardner Dozois and Eileen Gunn that I snorted a piece of lettuce up my nose

—and staying up all night eating red pistachios and talking about the Nebulas with Jim Kelly and John Kessel

—and having wonderful conversations about

Star Wars

and Shakespeare

and sangria

and the Algonquin Round Table

and Primeval

and the Marx Brothers

and how e-books are going to kill us

and what happens after we die

and meeting, oh, so many people,

making, oh, so many friends.

Now this is the place where the music starts to come up

and the winner starts talking faster and faster to get everything in

before they drag them off the stage,

and I’m going to do it, too,

because I have to thank the people to whom I owe the most:

—Robert A. Heinlein,

for introducing me to Kip and Peewee

and to Three Men in a Boat

and to the whole wonderful world of science fiction

—and Kit Reed and Charles Williams and Ward Moore,

who showed me its amazing possibilities

—Philip K. Dick and Shirley Jackson and Howard Waldrop and William Tenn,

who taught me how science fiction should be written

—and Bob Shaw and Daniel Keyes and Theodore Sturgeon, whose stories:

“The Light of Other Days”

and “Flowers for Algernon”

and “The Man Who Lost the Sea”

taught me to love it.

I wouldn’t be here without them.

Or without you.

As Meryl Streep put it,

“My friends, thank you, all of you,

for this inexplicably wonderful career.”

Or, as Sally Field should have said it,

“I love you.

I really, really love you.”

Thank you for this inexplicably wonderful award.