Something paradoxical happens when a writer wins a major literary award—the Booker, the Pulitzer, the Nobel. They are catapulted into the spotlight, their name etched into literary history, and yet, in many cases, their creative trajectory begins to falter. This is not mere speculation but a pattern observable across decades of literary history. The pressure that follows such recognition is immense, and it becomes too heavy for some authors to bear. The expectation to produce another work of equal or greater brilliance can paralyse even the most gifted writers, leading to prolonged silences, diminished output, or, worse, books that feel like hollow imitations of their celebrated predecessors. The literary world is littered with one-book wonders—writers who produced a single masterpiece, won a significant prize, and then faded into obscurity, their subsequent works failing to capture the same magic. Why does this happen? And what does it say about the relationship between literary awards and genuine artistic longevity?
Consider the case of Arundhati Roy, whose The God of Small Things (1997) won the Booker Prize and became a global sensation. The novel’s lyrical intensity, intricate narrative structure, and unflinching portrayal of caste and family trauma marked Roy as a once-in-a-generation talent. And yet, her next book, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, did not appear until twenty years later. When it finally arrived, it was met with mixed reviews—admired for its ambition but criticised for its sprawling, unfocused narrative. The gap between the two books was not just a matter of time but a testament to the psychological toll of early, meteoric success. Roy herself has spoken about the difficulty of writing under the shadow of The God of Small Things, describing how the pressure to replicate its success became a creative straitjacket. Her experience is not unique. Kiran Desai, who won the Booker in 2006 for The Inheritance of Loss, has yet to publish another novel nearly two decades later. The silence is deafening and raises uncomfortable questions: Did the award, rather than liberating her, become a burden too great to overcome?
The phenomenon extends beyond Indian literature. DBC Pierre, whose Vernon God Little (2003) won the Booker, has struggled to recapture the anarchic energy of his debut. His subsequent novels, while stylistically inventive, have failed to resonate with critics or readers in the same way. Yann Martel, another Booker winner for Life of Pi (2001), has produced work that, while earnest, lacks the imaginative audacity of his prize-winning novel. Even Harper Lee, whose To Kill a Mockingbird (1960) became a cornerstone of American literature, famously retreated from public life and published nothing else for decades until the controversial Go Set a Watchman (2015), which many critics saw as a draft rather than a true successor. These examples suggest a troubling trend: the very awards meant to celebrate and promote excellent writing can sometimes stifle it.
The reasons for this are manifold. First, there is the psychological pressure of expectation. When a writer wins a major prize, they are no longer writing for themselves or even for their readers—they are writing for history. Every sentence is scrutinised, every thematic choice weighed against their previous work. This can lead to self-consciousness, a fear of failure that stifles experimentation. Second, there is the practical reality of sudden fame. Book tours, interviews, and public appearances consume the time and mental space required for deep, sustained creative work. Third, and perhaps most insidiously, there is the danger of becoming a prisoner of one’s success. When a particular style or theme is rewarded with critical and commercial acclaim, the temptation to repeat it—to give the audience more of what they loved—can be overwhelming. But literature thrives on risk, on the willingness to venture into uncharted territory. When a writer begins to play it safe, their work loses its vitality.
And yet, there are exceptions—writers who have used their awards not as an endpoint but as a springboard to greater heights. Hilary Mantel, who won the Booker twice for her Wolf Hall trilogy, continued to produce ambitious, critically acclaimed work until her death. Margaret Atwood, another Booker winner, has remained a prolific and daring writer across genres and decades. These authors seem to possess a rare resilience, an ability to compartmentalise the noise of acclaim and keep their focus on the work. What separates them from the one-book wonders? Perhaps it is a matter of temperament or simply the refusal to let external validation define their creative process.
The role of literary juries in shaping—and sometimes distorting—the trajectory of authors’ careers cannot be overlooked, particularly when their selections reveal biases that favour certain narratives. The Booker Prize, for instance, has long been scrutinised for its historical inclination toward works that present India through a lens of poverty, dysfunction, or political turmoil—a trend that arguably played into the wins of Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger, Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things, and Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss. While these novels are undeniably significant, their recurring themes of societal decay and postcolonial disillusionment raise questions about whether they were celebrated as much for their literary merit as for their alignment with a Western appetite for a particular, often reductive, portrayal of India. Adiga’s win, in particular, was met with skepticism in some Indian literary circles, where critics argued that his novel, though sharp and engaging, lacked the depth and nuance of contemporaneous works by writers like Amitav Ghosh or Vikram Chandra, whose narratives explored similar themes but with greater complexity and fewer concessions to shock value. The Booker’s tendency to reward India’s “darkness” over its literary diversity suggests a jury more comfortable with familiar stereotypes than with challenging, multifaceted storytelling. This not only skews global perceptions of Indian literature but also places winning authors in a creative bind: having been rewarded for a specific kind of narrative, they may feel compelled to replicate it, leading to the stagnation seen in Adiga’s later works or Roy’s long hiatus. The consequence is a literary ecosystem where the pressure to conform to award-winning formulas stifles innovation, leaving truly original voices—those unwilling to cater to exoticised misery—struggling for recognition. Suppose literary prizes are to foster lasting greatness rather than fleeting acclaim. In that case, their juries must confront their unconscious preferences and broaden their vision to celebrate the full spectrum of what literature can be.
The lesson here is not that literary awards are inherently harmful, but crucial in bringing attention to deserving writers and works that might otherwise go unnoticed. But the cult of the prize, the way it anoints certain books and authors as “the best” of their moment, can distort the natural rhythm of a writer’s career. Great literature is not produced in a vacuum nor the result of a single, isolated burst of inspiration. It is the product of years, often decades, of quiet, unglamorous labour. When we expect writers to produce masterpieces on demand, we ignore creativity’s messy, unpredictable nature.
The actual test of a writer’s greatness is not whether they win a prize, but whether they can continue to grow, to challenge themselves and their readers, long after the applause has faded. For every Arundhati Roy or Kiran Desai, there is an Amitav Ghosh—a writer who, despite never winning the Booker, has built a body of work as expansive as it is enduring. The irony is that the writers most likely to survive the weight of a significant award are those who care least about winning it. They write not for the jury, not for the spotlight, but for the sheer, stubborn love of the craft. And in the end, that may be the only prize that matters.
Alok Mishra
(Alok Mishra is a poet, literary critic, and authoritative voice in Indian English literature. He is the founder of English Literature Education.)
