Lessons of The Kitschies

This year, I’m supplementing weekly newsletters with a monthly ‘long read’. This is the first of the latter. Enjoy.

2024 was, amongst other things, the final year of The Kitschies.

Back when we were bloggers (back when there were blogs), Anne and I really threw ourselves into the ‘talking about awards’ conversation. It is a niche conversation, but a conversation nonetheless. I swear I did like eight panels in two years, yammering on about ‘recommendation engines’ and how ‘“best” is a meaningless word’. It was inevitable that people would grumpily-but-not-unfairly challenge us to stop kvetching about other awards and ‘go make our own’. I think they meant that in a ‘shut up, n00b’ sense, but they really underestimated how tetchy we could be.

So we made an award.

I doubt any of those people are reading this, but, just in case - that’s right, we made an award to spite you, and it was awesome. Ha ha ha.

I like awards. They can contribute massively to the publishing ecosystem by celebrating and/or discovering books. Many readers - and all media outlets - are more trusting of a Branded Institution™ than the word of an internet rando, so awards can help push or platform books that otherwise don’t get noticed. To be fair, some readers prefer internet randos to Branded Institutions™, which is why it is important to pay attention to both.

And awards are recommendation engines! But like any other source of recommendation, from your dentist to your TikTok feed, it is important to understand how it works. Awards have processes and they have biases, and often the two are intertwined. People should understand why a thing is recommending the thing it is recommending, in order to help assess the value and relevance of said recommendation. Awards should be transparent and held accountable.

That ‘celebrate’ and ‘discovery’ dichtomy is key as well. Awards can do either. When it comes to celebration, an award can be a way to showcase achievement. This book is the most popular! This book has sold the most copies! This book has the most engaged readers! This author is the most liked by the people that attend this convention! These awards are about icing an already-successful cake: possibly in the hope of flogging that cake further, but mostly about - rightfully - basking in that success. This isn’t meant to belittle these awards: they’re great! We should take time to feel good. Authors and publishers and creators work hard and deserve recognition. Bring it on. If I ever win a celebrate award I’m grabbing that popularity trophy with both hands. Who doesn’t want to go platinum? As a recommendation engine, a celebrate award is saying ‘this is the book that everyone else is reading’. And that is, in fact, one hell of a recommendation. Social proof is persuasive.

A discovery award shines a light on books that everyone else might not be reading. In fact, no one else might be reading it at all. A discovery award starts with a premise - that certain readers might be interested in a certain type of book - and then seeks to find the book or books that fit that criteria. It could a book that explores gender really well; a book that’s in the spirit (‘vibe’) of a particular movement or author; a book that demonstrates a particular ideology; or any other niche or specific point of focus. Awards that involve voting - whether that’s public or membership-based - are celebrating. They don’t need other criteria, as the award is showcasing is ‘what that body of people likes’. Discovery awards generally have juries or judges; people that can discuss and agree a shared interpretation of a particular set of criteria. When I talk about celebrate/discover, I’m talking about two different objectives for an award. They’re both, as noted above, important.

Awards - like any other type of institution - they can often forget their purpose. They can become more about themselves than the books that they ostensibly seek to celebrate/discover. Scandal-plagued awards are failing as awards, not because they recommend ‘bad’ books, but because the the scandals are a distraction from the recommendations. (And also because, sometimes, they recommend ‘bad’ books.) A boring award is a good award, because it is about the books, and not about itself. An award should not be famous, it should be recognisable. The first is self-aggrandising, the second is about building trust. I wrote a post for Pornokitsch back in the day comparing the search volumes of a famous award and the books it was supposedly celebrating - and found that the award was very good at generating conversation about itself (not always for great reasons) but had seemingly marginal benefits for its winners.

In the spirit of being helpful, and because, again, I think process transparency is critical in the awards space, I’ve collected the things I think we did well. This is undeniably self-aggrandising, so please take it with a massive grain of salt. We had the advantage of building an award from scratch, and doing so the way we wanted to do it. More honestly, you’ll also see that we didn’t actually achieve all of the things we wanted to do: either sustainably or at all. But there’s as much - if not more - to learn from failure. More importantly, I stand by these principles and think they’re not only an aspiration for best practice, but theoretically replicable for future awards.

Make the award’s criteria meaningful and specific.

The criteria for The Kitschies (and I’ll remember this until the day I die): ‘the most progressive, intelligent and entertaining work containing an element of the speculative or fantastic published in the UK in the calendar year’.

The two obvious words that are missing are ‘science fiction’ and ‘fantasy’. Our argument here was two-fold. First, people bring their own assumptions to commonly-held genre labels. Folks find genres to be self-evident. They believe they know what a science fiction book ‘is’ or, worse yet, ‘should be’. The SF/F community has been endlessly parsing the difference between those two genres since their inception/s - which, ironically, arguably happened with the same book in 1818. The definitions may feel obvious, but, in reality, that’s far from the case.

The other argument is that those definitions, within the publishing industry, are a set of known, limiting marketing labels. If you approach a publisher saying that you’re an SF/F award, they’ll send you to their designated SF/F imprint. But many of the great science fiction and fantasy books aren’t published by those imprints: they’re published by other imprints, and shelved as literature, book club, women’s fiction, mystery, young adult, romance, etc. Lots of these books have fantastic or speculative elements, but they’re not all shelved in Science Fiction or published by Science Fiction imprints.

By being specific - and not relying on genre terms - we forced everyone - judges, readers, media, authors, publishers - to step back from their habits and think about the books themselves. They’d often ask ‘is such and such eligible?’, which is great, as it showed they were actually thinking about the entries as much than a tick-box exercise. (And, almost always, the answer was ‘yes’.)

You know what else isn’t in there?

The word ‘best’. I harp on about this over and over again, but ‘best’ is absolutely meaningless. It is relative, subjective, contextual and so ill-defined as to be counter-productive. It tells us nothing about the quality of the work and everything about the bias of the judges. This is the ‘best science fiction’? Is that the best science? Or the best fiction? Or the most inclusive future? Or the most imaginative one? Or the most plausible one? Or the book that you liked the most ‘cause it had a dog in it that reminded you of your own? The only way to make ‘best’ even remotely possible as a descriptor is to have an award with a single judge… with whom, we can all then disagree. (This is not a good idea.) As an important subclause of ‘meaningful and specific’: don’t use the word ‘best’.

Finally, our criteria reflected our vision. We didn’t say ‘best’ and leave that for others to decide ‘why’. We had a clear vision of what books could be: progressive, intelligent and entertaining. We wanted The Kitschies to spur a broad-reaching and inclusive conversation about, and inspired by, fiction. That meant discovering smart books, future-facing books, and books that people enjoyed.

Fifteen years of judges have shared how they’ve approached those criteria, and we’re really pleased by the discussion they’ve caused. For us, it was always about a balance of those factors. We wanted a recommendation engine that churned out books that moved the space forwards (even a little bit), challenged the reader (for the better), and were fun to read. But it isn’t about our criteria, it is about the specificity of the criteria. Over the years, despite the yearly change in judges, there was a steadily-built understanding of what a ‘Kitschies’ book was. That came from those three words.

Remove the barriers to entry.

As any of the very best brand strategists will tell you, a brand isn’t only what you say, it is also what you do. An award is no exception. How an award behaves should be a reflection of its vision. In our case, you can’t be an award that seeks ‘progressive’ books if the award itself is exclusionary.

What that meant in practice:

• No cost to submit. Fun fact: if you charge someone to submit a book, they’re less likely to submit a book. Moreover, the people with less money are disproportionately less likely to submit. An entry fee limits an award to bigger books; the ones that already have the marketing and publicity budget behind it. Studies have shown that the published books that get the most support are predominantly those written by white men. You can see where this is going, right? This was always the red line / no go / you shall not pass Law of The Kitschies: no fees, ever.

• No cost for being on the shortlist. See above. The Booker is weird, y’all.

• No hidden costs. This seems pretty silly now, but fifteen years ago, telling authors that we accepted - and, in fact, preferred - digital copies was pretty radical. Requiring publishers to post multiple copies of physical books is one example of a hidden cost, and it massively discourages small and independent publishers. There are other forms of hidden cost: requiring a publisher to give away a lot of books; insisting that publishers reprint covers with the award on it; mandating marketing support; etc. These might not be feel like huge demands for big publishers or big authors, but these can be absolute deal-breakers for small presses and new voices.

• Conducting outreach. A lot of awards take the lighthouse model: WE ARE HERE! SAIL TO ME, YON SHIPS OF DIVERSITY! Then they’re shocked when a dazzling variety of books don’t come fluttering in like moths. For The Kitschies, we wanted that massive diversity of publishers, authors and books. You can’t plonk yourself down and declare yourself ‘progressive’, you have to get out there and get moving. We showed up at a lot of events. We hassled authors and publishers and (possibly most successfully) agents. We posted on forums. We even made phone calls. Horrible, I know.

• Giving ourselves permission to play. We tinkered a lot with the categories. ‘Novel’ and ‘Debut’ were obvious. ‘Cover Art’, our other long-running category, was less obvious, but felt really important given the way the market (and its retail platforms) were changing. The Kitschies trialled an ‘Interactive Fiction’ category for two years as well, which was way ahead of its time. Then we untrialled it. Basically, don’t feel like you are bound by your own traditions. Institutions have to change and adapt.

I’ve linked all of these to The Kitschies’ desire to be progressive, but they’re just as much about intelligence and entertainment. Awards shouldn’t squat there and demand from others; they need to play an active part in the space.

The challenge here, of course, is money. Without charging for entries, awards lose their most obvious source of funding. But that’s by no means the only source of funding, and thinking beyond the obvious is no bad thing. (I’m going to leave out the ‘how to approach a sponsor’ spiel, but tldr; make it a business case, not a moral one.)

Be present.

An award’s PR cycle is ‘submissions’, ‘shortlists’, ‘winner’. Those are the three moments when they’re relevant and folks pay attention.

The Kitschies were a discovery award, but even with that focus, building a recommendation engine that spat out a single book still felt antithetical to our overall purpose. We wanted people to talk about more books, more often.

What this meant in practice:

• More activities. We held workshops and panels; parties and talks. During our busiest years, we hosted events every few months on top of the basic cycle.

• More partners. We fished where the fish were to increase our reach and find a wider array of readers. We partnered with bookshops, book clubs and conventions. Places that had the infrastructure (even if that was just floor space and/or some chairs).

• Weird partners. We held events at - and with - gardening festivals (thanks, Chelsea Fringe), cinemas, and art shows. We wanted to show how great books were relevant to everyone, and could spark conversations (enjoyable ones) outside of traditional ‘book’ spaces.

• Talking a lot about books. We tried a few things in this space. We had themed events on trends we spotted - the Gothic, steampunk, post-apocalyptic literature. For a few years, judges reviewed the shortlisted books (both on The Kitschies site and beyond). I think this added a lot of transparency as well. One glorious year, Adam Roberts reviewed every single book he read, which was absolutely bonkers, but truly amazing (and since published as a book of its own). Imagine the furore if every juror of every award was that transparent.

• Sharing the love. We supported other prizes and programmes. We helped bring agents to conventions for pitch sessions and lent our name (and time) to writing workshops and competitions for new authors.

These all took a lot of time and energy. We couldn’t maintain it for every year, but the quick wins we found when we did try showed how receptive everyone was. I think another award could do it better, but the resource needs to be planned for it up front.

We also didn’t really invest in social media, which is - obviously - a way to promote continuous engagement with more books, more of the time. The social landscape being what it is right now, I’m not sure what channels I would recommend (if any), but that was certainly a huge gap in The Kitschies effort. I don’t regret our award’s focus on offline engagement. But once there is an audience, having something to connect and remind people would’ve been useful.

Again, it depends on your vision. If the point of your award is to platform a few books and shout about those books as much as possible: great. Hit the submission / shortlist / winner buttons. Focus on the ceremony and make it the biggest moment you can. Most awards are, very much, about that, and it is a very valid strategy.

If the purpose of your award is to be more than that - to encourage discovery or discussion or engagement with books more broadly - then there’s much more you can do beyond the basic cycle.

Know what you are, but be prepared to be much more.

The recurring theme here is the importance of having a very clear objective. We had an advantage with The Kitschies in that we were starting from a blank slate, and could do whatever we wanted to do. We were unburdened by history, tradition or expectations. (Or, for that matter, experience.) We had the freedom to set up an award that was going to be a) a discovery prize, b) about discussing books (broadly) and c) predicated on the values (progressive, intelligent, entertaining) that we decided. The plan - such as it was - came from there.

That said, all creative initiatives, are actually only about 10% creative. 90% is admin and paperwork and Google Sheets. Slog. It was immensely fun to dress up and talk about books, or pour rum and talk about books, or craft woolly sandworms and talk about books. And that makes the slog worthwhile. But the vast majority of running an award is the slog, and that can’t be avoided or ignored. It is all about the hard work that keeps the lights on, wheels turning and tentacles wriggling.

Even if you turn that very basic awards cycle - submissions / shortlists / winner - into a project plan, there are a lot of underlying activities. Just as a short list:

Submissions: deciding and writing criteria, finding contact details for publishers, emailing publishers, writing a press release, finding contact details for relevant media, sending the press release, chasing publishers, set up and update the website, collecting (physically or digitally) all the books, checking all the books, double-checking publication dates and eligibility, chasing media, storing all the books, compressing files, reformatting files, putting reminders into the void of social media, purchasing your own books when you get frustrated by the publishers’ inability to send you functional copies, getting the books to the judges, tracking entries, update the website again, chasing publishers again, cold-emailing new imprints, cold-calling new imprints, answering enquiries about eligibility,…

Shortlists: finding judges, finding contact details for judges, emailing judges, begging judges, getting books to judges, helping judges with IT support, chasing judges, organising judging meetings, chairing judging meetings, creating a judging spreadsheet, tracking entries, talking judges down from their inevitable panic, chasing judges again, writing a press release, updating the website and social media, faciliating the final shortlist with the judges, contacting relevant publishers, contacting relevant authors, double-checking publication dates and eligibility, answer correspondence, explain why books are ineligible, explain why books just didn’t make the list, contacting relevant media, updating social media,…

Winner: organising judging meetings, chairing judging meetings, chasing judges, facilitating final decision, contacting relevant publishers, contacting relevant media, updating social media, getting prize money from the sponsor, transferring prize money to winner/s, briefing speeches, getting speeches from winners, getting speeches from alternates, getting speeches from people who aren’t the winner but prepared to speak on their behalf but in a way that doesn’t give away that they’re the winner, inviting winners, inviting shortlistees, inviting relevant stakeholders, inviting irrelevant stakeholders, save the dates, getting email addresses for all of the above, trying one last time with media, getting quotes for the media from winners and judges, updating social media, making trophies, making posters, printing posters, finding a venue (preferably in Central London, free and fits 70+ people - good luck with that), booking the venue, booking and checking tech, finding someone with a camera and begging them to take pictures, reminder emails, prepping plan B when tech isn’t working, so much correspondence, all the RSVP management, remembering you have your own speech to give, getting the trophies to the event, getting the trophies from the event, getting the trophies to an author who lives in Canada…

That’s the bare minimum. All of this has to be done; none of these tasks are optional. It also kindly assumes the admin isn’t a judge, and isn’t doing a close read of 100+ books at the same time. (This is both a blessing and a curse. If you’re not judging, you’ve got more time and less anxiety. But if you’re not judging, you’re even less engaged with the creative part of the process.) Everything you want to do on top of the minimum - events, reviews, social media, outreach, even updating the Wikipedia page (f-ing tables) - is extra. Running an award is project management and event planning; being a press office, distributor, publicist and agony aunt. If you don’t like spreadsheets or strangers, it is hardly the gig for you.

However, the reverse is also true. If you’re willing to learn about any or all of the above, there’s no better way than getting stuck in. The Kitschies taught us all of the above, and more; skills we’ve taken with us into our professional lives and beyond. We also made a ton of friends. It turns out that, if you can make a space where people feel welcome, that doesn’t take itself too seriously, and where fun is baked in as a core value… you meet some pretty great people.

These are, of course, entirely my own opinions and not those of The Kitschies’ other directors, board members, sponsors, judges or winners - some of whom have also written about their experience with the prize. The principles set out above are the work of Leila, Glen and Anne, and I’ve tried to capture their incredible vision and dedicated work. I am, and always will be, immensely grateful to everyone who supported and inspired The Kitschies on our journey.