AFTER THAT, I ASK EMILY TO DECLINE MOST EVENT INVITATIONS on my behalf. I’m done with schools, bookstores, and book clubs. I’m selling at the level where personal appearances aren’t going to move the needle on sales, so I don’t need to keep exposing myself as bait for further controversy. The only events I keep attending are awards ceremonies at literary conventions, because as much as I now want to hide from the public, I’d hate to give up the rush of validation from those.
Awards in this industry are very silly and arbitrary, less a marker of prestige or literary quality and more an indication that you’ve won a popularity contest with a very small, skewed group of voters. Awards don’t matter—at least, I am told this constantly by the people who regularly win them. Athena made an annual point to explain all this on Twitter, always right after she was nominated for something big: Oh, of course I’m so honored, but remember, if you weren’t a finalist, that doesn’t mean your work doesn’t matter! All of our stories are special in their own, important ways.
I do fully believe that awards are bullshit, but that doesn’t make me want to win them any less.
And The Last Front is, simply put, awards bait. It’s brilliantly written—check. It attracts both commercial and “upmarket” readers—check. But most important, it is about something; some timely or sensitive issue that the awards committees can point to and say, Look, we care about what is going on in the world, and since literature is a necessary reflection of our lived reality, this story is what we’ve chosen to elevate.
I’m a bit nervous that The Last Front is too commercially successful to win anything. I’m told that awards committees want to seem more tasteful than the proletariat, so there’s always a mega bestseller that doesn’t make the ballot in the category it should obviously win, and always a few finalists in every category that no one’s ever heard of. But I shouldn’t have worried. The nominations trickle in one by one: Goodreads Choice Awards, check; the Indies Choice Book Awards, check. The Booker Prize and the Women’s Prize are long shots, so I’m not too disappointed when I don’t make the short list for those. Besides, I’m nominated for so many regional awards that I’m swimming in attention regardless.
Adele Sparks-Sato is eating her heart out, texts Marnie when I share the Goodreads Choice Awards news.
From Jen: YES! Good on you. The best revenge is to thrive. Proud of you for handling all this with grace. #StayClassyStayWinning!
I reread my nomination emails several times a day, gloating at those words: Dear Ms. Song, we are delighted to inform you . . . And I dance around my apartment, rehearsing an imaginary acceptance speech, attempting the same mixture of grace and youthful excitement Athena always exuded in hers: “Oh my God, I really don’t believe it . . . No, really, I didn’t think I was going to win . . .”
The nominations bring about a flurry of good press. I’m featured on a lot of BuzzFeed lists. I get to do a profile with the Yale Daily News. Winning the Goodreads Choice Award gives me a sizable sales bump, and I end up back on the New York Times bestseller list for two weeks. I suppose the awards buzz gets the attention of people in Hollywood, too, because Brett calls me that week to let me know my film agent wants to set up a meeting between me and some people from Greenhouse Productions.
“What’s Greenhouse?” I ask. “Are they legit?”
“They’re a production company. Pretty standard; we’ve done a few deals with them in the past.”
“I’ve never heard of them.” I type the name into Google. Oh, no, they’re actually pretty impressive—their main staff are three producers who have a number of films I recognize under their belts, and notably, one producer-director, Jasmine Zhang, who was an Oscar finalist last year for a film about Chinese migrant workers in San Francisco. I wonder if she’s the source of the interest. “Oh, shoot, so they’re like actually a big player?”
“You wouldn’t have heard the names of most independent production companies,” Brett explains. “They largely operate behind the scenes. They package your book, find a screenwriter, attach some talent, etcetera, and then they pitch it to a studio. The studios put up the big money. But the production companies will pay you up front to option it, and this is the strongest option interest we’ve seen so far. Can’t hurt to chat, right? How’s next Thursday?”
The Greenhouse Productions people happen to be in DC for a film festival that weekend, so we arrange to meet at a coffee shop in Georgetown. I arrive early—I hate the fluster of shaking hands, then figuring out what to order, and then fumbling with my card at the register—but they’re already occupying a booth in the back when I show up. There’s two of them—Justin, one of the Greenhouse founders, and his assistant, Harvey. They’re both blond, tan, fit, and possessed of dazzlingly white smiles. They look like they could be brothers, maybe cousins, though perhaps that’s because their hair is coiffed back in identical crests and they are wearing the same cut of V-neck Henley rolled up to the elbows. Jasmine Zhang does not appear to be present.
“Hey, Juniper!” Justin stands up to hug me. “Wonderful to meet you. Thanks for making time for us.”
“Of course,” I say, just as Harvey leans out for a hug as well. It’s awkward, reaching over the booth toward his outstretched arms, and I strain to meet him in the middle. He smells very clean. “Georgetown is super close.”
“Do you come out here a lot?” asks Justin.
Actually, no, because everything in Georgetown is so fucking expensive, and the students who overrun the neighborhood are loud, obnoxious, and way too rich. I’ve only been here a handful of times with Athena, who was obsessed with this margarita place on Wisconsin Ave. But I picked the venue, mostly because I hoped it would impress, so I can’t act like I don’t know the area. “Um, yeah, all the time. El Centro is nice. Lots of good seafood places on the waterfront. And the macaron place on M, if you have some free time later.”
Justin beams like macarons are his favorite food in the world. “Well, we’ll have to try it out!”
“Definitely,” says Harvey. “Right after this.”
I know their puppy-dog act is meant to set me at ease, but instead I’m now stiff with nerves. Hollywood people mean literally none of what they say, Athena had once complained. They’re so friendly and enthusiastic, and they tell you you’re the most special snowflake they ever did see, and then they turn around and ghost you for weeks. I see now what she meant. I have no idea how to gauge how genuine Justin and Harvey are, or how they’re evaluating my responses, and their blindingly cheerful front makes them so hard to read that it’s sending my anxiety into overdrive.
A waitress comes by and asks for my order. I’m too rattled to peruse the menu, so I ask for the same thing Justin is sipping, which turns out to be an iced Vietnamese coffee called “the Miss Saigon.”
“Great choice,” says Justin. “It’s very nice. Very strong—and sweet, too, I think it’s made with condensed milk?”
“Oh, um, yeah.” I hand my menu back to the waitress. “It’s what I always get.”
“So! The Last Front.” Justin slams both hands so hard against the table that I flinch. “What a book! I’m surprised no one’s snapped up the rights already!”
I don’t know what to say to this. Does that mean he feels lucky we’re having this meeting, or is he fishing for a reason why the rights haven’t been more attractive? Should I pretend like there’s been other interest?
“I guess Hollywood isn’t too keen on taking a risk on films about Asian people,” I say. It’s an arch comment, but I mean it, and I’ve heard the same complaint plenty of times from Athena. “I would love to see this story adapted for the big screen, but I guess it would take a true ally to do it. Someone would really have to understand the story.”
“Well, we loved the novel,” says Justin. “It’s so original. And so diverse, in a time when we desperately need diverse narratives.”
“I love the mosaic storytelling style,” says Harvey. “It reminds me of Dunkirk.”