Thank you. And yes — I cried. I want to acknowledge that up front so we can all move on.
The honest version
I have rehearsed a gracious version of this in my head for about a decade, and now that I am standing here, none of it feels true. So let me say the honest version instead.
The honest version is that nothing I have made was made alone. There is a version of this award where one person's name is on it, and that version is a lie.
Three names
The first is my mother, who worked night shifts for eleven years and never once let me believe that was unusual. Every hour I have ever spent on my own work was bought with one of hers.
The second is Priya Raman, who read the worst draft of my first project, told me the truth about it, and then stayed up with me until 3am fixing it. Talent is common. People who will tell you the truth about your worst draft are not.
The third is everyone in this room who has ever sent a stranger's work to someone else and said: read this one. That is the invisible economy our whole field runs on, and it is the only reason any of us are here.
What I am taking home
I am taking home one thing, which is that this is not a finish line, it is a louder starting line. The microphone is briefly bigger. So I will try to use it the way Priya used hers — to point at work that deserves more attention than it is getting.
Thank you for the enormous honour. Thank you for the eleven years of nights. And thank you for letting me cry in front of you; I will be normal again by the reception.