What I Learned at an Authors’ Award Ceremony

Recently, I had the great honor of attending an award ceremony recognizing authors for their published books. The event filled a grand hotel ballroom with several hundred guests, all gathered before a sweeping stage. It was a black-tie affair—women in long gowns, men in tuxedos. More than seventy-five winners were recognized across numerous categories, and I was fortunate enough to be among them—an achievement that felt tremendously fulfilling.

But what moved me even more than receiving the award was listening to the acceptance speeches.

Some winners had traveled from as far as the United Kingdom, Australia, and Hong Kong. The authors represented different races, cultures, genres, and worldviews. And yet, beneath all those differences, there were striking similarities.

Many authors thanked God, expressing disbelief that they could have accomplished this without divine guidance. Many thanked their families and friends, acknowledging the emotional support that sustained them. Writing may be a solitary pursuit, but that evening made something clear: no book is created entirely alone.

Another shared theme was astonishment. Again and again, authors expressed genuine surprise at winning. Few had expected it. Many seemed almost bewildered to be standing at the podium. It struck me how common imposter syndrome is among writers. We so often question whether our work is worthy.

I was no different. Leaning toward the woman seated beside me, I asked what percentage of submissions actually received awards. She told me there were thousands, with the percentage of winners varying by category. I had assumed the competition was modest. Learning otherwise made the recognition feel even more meaningful—especially in the self-help category, where submissions are plentiful. “It’s actually a very prestigious award,” she whispered. “I didn’t realize that until I looked into it.”

It seems even award-winning authors underestimate themselves.

Perhaps the most powerful similarity, however, was this: every single author had a reason for writing their book. Whether they wrote science fiction, romance, memoir, or social science, each had a message they felt compelled to share.

One author said, “I wrote this to make readers uncomfortable—to challenge their deeply held beliefs.” Another explained, “We are not recognizing the true value of the nursing profession.” Another sought to educate readers about the underlying causes of health disparities among African Americans. Another was concerned about the effects of white noise on children.

Different topics. Different approaches. But the same underlying impulse: to help.

Memoirists spoke of overcoming poverty, sexual abuse, and profound hardship. Many had transformed personal suffering into advocacy. As I looked around the room, I felt I was surrounded not simply by writers, but by resilient, purposeful individuals. I found myself wanting to meet every one of them—a rare feeling for me in a crowded room.

That night, I also reflected on a statistic I once heard: roughly 80% of people say they want to write a book. About 15% begin. Only 3% finish. Fewer than 1% publish. And an even smaller fraction receive some type of award.

Despite the perception that “everyone is an author,” the reality is quite different.

The evening left me with several powerful realizations. Authors are far more alike than we know. We doubt ourselves. We feel like imposters. Yet we write anyway—because we carry a message we believe matters. At our core, most of us are trying, in our own way, to make the world a little better with our words.

And behind every book is a human being who dared to believe their voice was worth hearing—even when they weren’t entirely sure it was.