Where last year I was the somewhat cowed New Kid on the Block, the crime fiction enthusiast dipping her toes into literary waters, this year was a bit different. For one thing, when did we suddenly roll back the weather six months so that it felt like I was attending the Edgars again? For another, there were a lot more people to recognize, to chat up and to prognosticate on who would take home the prizes. As soon as I finished the escalator climb to floor seven - making the same damn mistake as last year, where press was to go to floor six - there was Christopher Sorrentino, clad in a tuxedo that he said "fit him better than last year's" when he was a fiction nominee. He also remarked on the Richard Powers interview, wondering how on earth I'd managed to do so with a party going on. There are ways, I replied. There are always ways.

After spotting Ron and kidding the Book Standard's Chuck Shelton and Jerome Kramer about their "I Told You So", I soon made a beeline towards Nancy Werlin (right, with Penguin Young Readers senior publicist Anjulee Alvares and Curtis Brown VP Ginger Knowlton), whom I had a mind to speak to because she was blogging this week's events but also because her previous work garnered her an Edgar Award. After chatting about our common ground of crime fiction - and how tightly the group of five Young People's nominees bonded over the course of the week - I waded through the ever-increasing crowd to score a glass of white wine, mingle some more, and in some cases, talk about reactions to the OJ Simpson book deal. And then, the bell clanged, and it was time to take our seats - most downstairs in the banquet hell, and the press corps upstairs in the balcony.

And so, the awards, but first, Fran Leibowitz. Don't get me wrong - the woman is an absolute comic natural, who can drop quips while others are still thinking about formulating one - but her obsession with the awards keeping to its schedule by pointing out what time things should have taken place got old real fast. It's funny at first, even second or third, but by the dozenth time, not so much. She did make one gloriously politically incorrect joke about the newfound "Iraq Study Group", wondering why it had taken three years when one should study before a test takes place: "and where would they meet, Windows on the World?" There was a beat as the audience absorbed the joke, then burst into nervous, almost shocked admiration and laughter. But Leibowitz interpreted the consensus in a negative fashion. "Don't boo me," she said, "I'm not getting paid here."

My reaction to Adrienne Rich's honor seemed to diverge considerably from most, as those I spoke to almost uniformly expressed how wonderful the speech Mark Doty gave (a speech that, rumor has it, may appear in book format at some point soon) and how inspiring Rich was in championing poetry and her hopes for its perpetuation when dual villains of commercialism and elitism threaten the form. I only wish Doty had gotten to his point in about two minutes instead of ten, and Rich had said something new, but to be fair, it's not her job to say something new - it's that she was alive to say what she did that counts. More inspiring was David Remnick's reminiscences of New York of Review of Books founders Robert Silvers (who gave a gracious, charming speech of his own afterwards) and the late Barbara Epstein, well-remembered for her vision and her wit.

After a dinner break (where Ron collected pictures and quotes and I, um, forgot to leave the balcony) the awards proper began. M.T. Anderson took the stage to accept the award for the Young People's category, and remarked "What is this supposed to be?" when given the award (later, after a short conversation with me about the collegial nature of the "gang of five," he compared the award to a cephalopod. I can't really argue with him.) He made special mention of Gene Yang (depicted with Anderson, right) for the groundbreaking graphic novel nomination which stirred "much dithering in the blogosphere" about its place on the shortlist. Anderson then thanked the judges and his publishers several times, the latter especially for taking on a book with a difficult premise that would have been all too easy to say no to.

Both the poetry and non-fiction categories resulted in surprises. Nathaniel Mackey, in accepting the poetry prize, read a short excerpt from SPLAY ANTHEM, while Timothy Egan seemed as shocked to win as the upstairs crowd was (the going bet was either Lawrence Wright or Taylor Branch) which might have contributed to why he forgot to wear the obligatory medal given out the previous evening to all nominees. Egan hoped that his book, in some way, would allow those who survived the Dust Bowl to live on in perpetuity so that this event in American history would never be forgotten.

And finally, fiction, and if this blows my objective stance, so be it. But I was nervous, and when Powers' name was called, I roared with delight. In hindsight it wasn't that much of a surprise, but fiction chair Bharati Mukherjee seemed to tip the balance a different way when she pointed out that some of the nominees dealt with a "post 9/12" world. When I caught up with Jess Walter post-ceremony, he noted it as well - and began to get nervous that he might well win. Whatever the case, Powers seemed rather stunned by the announcement and said that "this would do a number on one's brain chemistry." He then thanked FSG for "twelve years of total freedom", singling out current editor Eric Chinski and previous editor John Glusman, then spoke eloquently of the dangerous times we live in and how "the reading of many books inspires wisdom, but the reading of one book inspires ignorance and even hatred."

But as happy as I was to see Powers win (as was almost everyone I spoke to thereafter) it wasn't until some time later that the reality sunk in: at what price will this glory come? Powers, as anyone attending tonight could testify, does not feed off of the greater crowd. He made a deliberate point not to do that much publicity for THE ECHO MAKER because, as he told Troy Patterson, "it's difficult to be out there in a theatrical way after having spent three years locked up in a back room." Well you can't get much more theatrical than the National Book Awards and the commensurate publicity machine that follows the fiction winner immediately afterwards. Publishing is a business, and publicity is a game that must often be played, but I can't shake the feeling that some Faustian bargain took place while no one was looking.

Bittersweet thoughts and the usual gripes about slowness aside, the National Book Awards were great fun. And two particular conclusions stick out for me: one, the elevators at The Marriott Marquis act of their own accord. And two, Jonathan Lethem and Christopher Sorrentino are the epitome of BFF.