Every year, probably for the past decade or so, I’ve put together my own entry for the Pulitzer (because, as a freelancer, I don’t have a home paper to do it for me). It’s a tedious process — you have to mount original clips in a scrapbook format, which, for me, means hassling various editors to dig up the clips I need (because I never remember to save that stuff), and then spending several hours breathing spray mount as I play cut-and-paste, and then writing a fifty dollar check and sending the whole package off into the void, from which it shall never be heard again. (Some of you may remember that I’ve mentioned my disgust with the whole process before.)
In short, it’s always been a complete waste of time.
And this year when I thought about acting out that pointless little ritual once again, I found that I just didn’t have it in me. Let’s face it — the gatekeepers of the most prestigious award in journalism are not going to be handing it to Tom Tomorrow anytime soon. Not that I am wallowing in self-pity over this — just feeling reality-based.
Anyway, I’m done. This is my declaration of liberation. I’m not going to waste my time chasing that particular brass ring any longer. Deadline’s tomorrow, and I won’t be slipping in under the wire.