Ah, the Annual Nevada Writers Hall of Fame— a glittering event where literary luminaries gather to celebrate the written word. But this year, they have pulled a classic Comstock move: overlooking the very essence of Nevada storytelling.
On Friday, November 1, the University Libraries will be hosting their annual soirée, where the literati will gather to sip wine, nibble on hors d’oeuvres, and pretend they have captured the true essence of Nevada—by which is meant, the essence that never got within 50 miles of a mine shaft or a brothel.
The newest honorees? Michael Branch and Laura Newman.
Do not go wrong—these fine folks have written a thing or two. Branch, for instance, is the proud author of over 300 essays and an entire book about jackalopes—yes, you read that right, jackalopes, because nothing says Nevada grit quite like a mythological rabbit with antlers. And then there is Laura Newman, who once conquered the dangerous world of KOLO-TV sales and wrote a collection of short stories, which is great if your idea of frontier hardship is dealing with ad buyers.
But where are the writers who have inhaled the dust of a collapsing mineshaft or thrown out of a saloon for starting a fight over whose typewriter is faster? Where are they who have printed out their stories on newspaper presses that smelled like printer ink and despair?
Where are Janice Oberding, Bill Brown, Karen Woodmansee, Nick Nicosia, Brenda Kime Findley, Taylor Hamby and Melody Hoover? Not in the Hall of Fame.
The ceremony, of course, is set to take place in the Mathewson-IGT Knowledge Center, which it is assumed is the sort of place where they talk a lot about “literary merit” and “Nevada’s imagination” without anyone, actually imagining how others are keeping straight faces. Dean Catherine Cardwell will lead the charge, likely with the same enthusiasm one reserves for introducing authors who have never stepped foot in the roughest corners of the Silver State.
The evening begins at 7 p.m., followed by—what else?—a dessert and wine reception, where attendees will surely bond over a shared experience of not having written about anything remotely involving dynamite or ghost towns. Let us picture it—the grand ballroom, chandeliers twinkling, and there, in the corner, a lone tumbleweed rolls by.
The stage is set. The crowd hushes as the MC steps up to the podium.
MC: “Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed writers, and that one guy who accidentally wandered in from the casino—welcome to the Annual Nevada Writers Hall of Fame! Tonight, we honor the literary giants who’ve graced our state with their prose, poetry, and occasional ransom notes.
Applause. Another tumbleweed blows across the stage for effect.
MC: “Now, let’s dive into the inductees. First up, we have Jane Austen. Wait, no, my mistake—that’s Jane from the local eatery. She’s been writing her memoirs on restaurant napkins. Jane, stand up! Oh, she’s already standing. And swaying. Excellent.”
Jane raises her glass, sloshing winey onto her “Best Author” sash.
MC: “Next, the brilliant Edgar Allan Poe! Oh, wait, that’s just Gary from the gas station. He pens haikus about Slim Jims and existential dread. Gary, your ode to the Slurpee machine touched our souls.”
Gary nods, adjusting his coon skin cap.
MC: “And now, the pièce de résistance—the Comstock Chronicles! These unsung heroes have wrestled with pens, typewriters, and occasionally each other after a few shots of whiskey. Their stories? Legendary. Their spelling? Questionable.”
The spotlight swings to the Comstock table. Lester Michaelson, the grizzled bard, raises his hand.
Lester: “Y’all forgot me last year too. I wrote a poem about tumbleweeds mating during a dust storm. It was deep, man. Real deep.”
The audience shifts uncomfortably.
MC: “Ah, yes, Lester. Your poem—“Love in the Time of Sandstorms.” Truly groundbreaking.”
Lester squints at the silver medals drawn from a furnace using the finest silver from South Africa.
MC: “And let’s not forget our keynote speaker, Stephen King! Wait, no, that is just Steve from the pawnshop. He writes horror stories about overdue electric bills. Terrifying stuff.”
Steve waves, clutching a broken toaster.
Lester: “Gary, you think they’ll ever notice us?”
Gary: “Nah, Lester. We’re like footnotes in a tumbleweed’s diary. But hey, at least we spiked the punch bowl.”
And so, the Annual Nevada Writers Hall of Fame continues—a literary rodeo where the tumbleweeds write their legends, and the wine flows like forgotten metaphors
But wait, it gets better. In addition to the main event, the honorees will be gracing us with their presence at a Nevada Humanities’ Literary Crawl, where they’ll participate in a panel discussion titled “Writing the Desert West in Fact and Fiction.”
Spoiler alert: it is a guess, but the High Desert West did not involve trying to survive a Costco run in Reno or Caron City traffic. But hey, what does anyone know?
Branch’s collection of essays on desert humor and Newman’s 95-word short fiction contests are both captivating reads. Who would not want to read a story just long enough to fill the back of a whiskey bottle? But let us be honest—the Hall of Fame business feels about as connected to Nevada’s rough-and-tumble history as a poetry reading during a gunfight.
If you are wondering how much it costs to attend this literary gala, tickets are a steal at $25—though, sadly, that does not include the cost of dignity for those of us from the Comstock, who will no doubt be choking back laughter (or tears) from the cheap seats. Free parking is available in the Whalen Parking Complex, perfect for anyone who wants to leave early without having to pay for the privilege of escaping before someone recites a poem about tumbleweeds.
So, mark your calendars. The Nevada Writers Hall of Fame is ready to celebrate yet another year of not the Comstock. Because the real action these days is in book clubs, not the backrooms of Virginia City saloons.
But do not worry, the Comstock will still be here—writing stories far too gritty, too real, and too compelling for the Hall of Fame.
The Old Blog in the Desert 