[To be given at first possible opportunity—]
Good evening. You’re all idiots who know nothing about choosing award winners. I cannot fathom the stupidity required to select my work for this insignificant honor or what pitiful competition it supposedly bested. You ghouls incompetently crowned me champion of an entirely subjective popularity contest with no bearing on what work is truly good or legitimately awful. I’m not honorable. I’m not popular. I’m not even necessarily a good writer. Yet here I stand before you, foolishly given a microphone and soapbox. The curse of a thousand plagues on all your families.[1]
Good evening. It’s with great humility that I humbly accept this award. This speech stemmed from my back-to-back victories of the small but notable Annual Online Poetry Contest-Age 18-40 Division, and, despite being old words, they still ring true, so I offer them to you tonight. Though the Contest’s competitive field should certainly be regarded instead as a community garden, I was proud to win. My silly poetry moved somebody’s emotions, earned me a $50 Amazon gift card, and became part of the canon via the presentation of a card stock certificate, upon which my name was spelled incorrectly. Considering the ridiculously long hours spent splitting my few remaining hairs over each word incorporated into my work, the reward certainly felt justified.
First, I want to thank the Academy—or whichever governing body officially endorsed my work as superior. They set aside the well-worn rejection stamp just long enough for me to slip one past them, thus providing the almost-false hope necessary to motivate my writing for the next ten years. Hopefully, my subsequent award arrives before the decade’s end and I avoid following the great Hemingway down the bottle to a miserable life in a Cuban feral cat colony.
Also, thank you to the stars—no, not Taylor Swift and the like, but those dotting the night sky. On numerous occasions, I found myself lost in thought and turned my eyes heavenward. My mind’s swirling, rolling, churning black ocean waves brought forth the words which washed up jumbled on the sandy paper. Fortunately, I managed to rearrange them in award-winning fashion before the tides could sweep in and carry them back to sea. Without the stars, my eyes—and, therefore, my thoughts—would’ve remained embarrassingly transfixed on worldly things. Sex, drugs, rocks, rolls. Geology and sourdough dominated my thoughts for years, but the stars allowed me to set aside that bad-boy lifestyle and focus on my writing. They’re a major reason why my poetry lives and why I broke through like that baby velociraptor from its egg in Jurassic Park to be the star poet standing before you tonight, the likes of which hasn’t been seen since the great W.W.’s—Walt Whitman. Willy Wonka. Walter White[2].
Appreciation also extends to capitalism. Yes, it’s hard to believe, but the American dream played a significant role in landing me on this stage. America’s staunch belief that whatever you do must result in overflowing bank vaults drove me to rebel. Trapped within both an economic and emotional depression, I spiraled for years, and it was from this world I needed respite—respite which ultimately arrived via the bookshelf. Literature fueled my life’s resurgence, my wizardry with words soared, and my award-winning poetry was born. America’s strapped boots—those by which everyone dreams of pulling themselves up—ground me into dust. But eventually, the dust scattered in the wind, uncovering talent about which I otherwise may never have known.
Thank you also to Yellowstone National Park’s gray wolves. According to National Geographic[3], scientists fully grasped the gray wolf’s importance as a keystone species after being driven regionally extinct. When the wolves were reintroduced in 1995, they affected the entire ecosystem so much that, over years, they ultimately straightened the rivers. This mirrors the long chain of events which led to my accepting this award. Once a sporty kid studying Sparknotes to muddle through high school English assignments, I transformed into an award-winning poet and published author who enjoys reading and spins a pen as a percussionist does their drumstick. While I cannot recall the exact turning point—the reintroduction of art into my life, if you will—I certainly wouldn’t be here now without having first traversed the long, winding, and enlightening path, Robert Frost’s proverbial “road less traveled.” Having at last discovered my passion, I plan to continue along this path and enjoy every single magnificent second.
Additionally, I want to thank my family. First, my parents. Though I never asked, I appreciate the opportunity to exist in this world and, as a result, win writing awards. Way back in October 1991, two people got together and I’ve quite literally been paying for it ever since in ways such as application fees and income taxes, so it’s nice to be recognized with an award that—while it pays no cash money—boosts my résumé as I strive to win awards and publish work that will pay the bills. I know that no matter which circle of Hell my parents are currently franchising, Mom and Dad are smiling up at me and blowing their money on more efficient means of torture, probably spikier iron maidens or classes teaching elephants to bite.
And, saving the best for last, to my wonderful fiancée. Just being near you makes my awesomeness luminesce that much brighter. You inspire me to be the best version of myself and ensure constant improvement on what that best version is. Thank you for everything and I love you.
Once again, it’s with every modicum of modesty that I accept this award. You may now go forth into the night knowing full well the correct candidate emerged victorious. Good night!
[1] After considering the editor’s suggestions, the opening paragraph was rewritten.
[2] After suggesting the Breaking Bad reference be removed, the editor was sacked.
[3] Original broadcast by PBS, in partnership with The Nature Conservancy. Last updated September 27, 2022
Daniel Groves (he/him) is a writer from Ohio whose work appears in Hidden Peak Press, Of Rust and Glass, The Bitchin’ Kitsch,and others. He earned his MFA at Concordia University—Saint Paul, is the EIC of The Bloomin’ Onion, and is working on his debut novel. When not writing, he enjoys spending time with his wife, reading, sports, F1, theater, film, and both applying to be on and watching Survivor. A complete list of his published work is available on Chill Subs and he’s on X – @The_Grovenator.
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