Grand Slam

I watch boxing. And I watch tennis. Right now it's Wimbledon. These people practice for years, thousands and thousands of hours on the training court, in the gym, in front of the net or the hitting partner or the punching bag. They are bored most of the time, they are alone in their search for meaning of their efforts. The lack of motivation is the real opponent. The ever threatening question has to be matched: why am I doing this?
And then they enter Center Court. Or the ring in Madison Square Garden. They show themselves, they kick ass, their own and others.
I miss that climax in my work.
There are no Grand Slams for authors.
You can go for the Man Booker Prize, the Pulitzer, even The Nobel Prize in literature. But if you get there, it will be for a piece of work you finished long ago. You will receive a phone call in the middle of the dishwashing. And that's it.
An author peaks on the way. In silence, in secret.