For 14 years, the world’s largest bookseller—Barnes & Noble—has recognized aspiring new authors by prominently showcasing their books via the Discover Great New Writers program. At the end of the year, a panel awards two authors (one for fiction and one for nonfiction) the ultimate award based entirely on “literary excellence.” It’s called the “Discover Award” and the distinction has, in many cases, made the careers of promising young (and old) authors of both fiction and nonfiction. Past authors, and their books nominated for the award have become international bestsellers: Arthur Golden for Memoirs of a Geisha, Laura Hillenbrand for Seabiscuit, Hampton Sides for Ghost Soldiers, Alice Sebold for The Lovely Bones, and David Guterson for Snow Falling on Cedars.

For the year 2006, more than 450 submissions were received from publishers by a panel of judges who narrowed down that daunting number to 58 seasonal nominees, whose books were displayed for three months at a time at the 800 Barnes & Nobles nationwide. Those 58 nominees’ books were then read by a panel of Barnes & Noble booksellers—store managers, buyers, and the like—and bestselling authors. Six writers were named finalists—three for fiction and three for nonfiction—and offered trips to the literary capital of the world, New York City, to attend a formal luncheon in their honor.

In early February of 2007, a FedEx envelope containing an invitation was sent cross-country, arriving right here in Encinitas, California, and former editor of TransWorld SNOWboarding magazine and Cardiff resident Eric Blehm held in his hands what any yet-undiscovered author would consider the Holy Grail. His book, The Last Season—the true story of the life and mysterious disappearance of a National Park Service backcountry ranger in the High Sierra—was a finalist. I used to work with Eric at TransWorld Publications in Oceanside, and read his book shortly after it came out. It’s a cross between nature writing, biography, and adventure—and I couldn’t put it down. A mutual friend told me about the award he was up for, and I thought that it would be a perfect story for our debut issue of Encinitas Magazine. The following is a play by play of the two and a half days when he went to New York as Encinitas’s first-ever finalist for the Barnes & Noble Discover Awards.

– Tim Wrisley, Publisher, Encinitas Magazine

One of my writer friends who used to reside in Hollywood and now calls Italy his home, once asked me, “How do you stay motivated living here in North County? I’d never get anything done.”

Coincidentally, he asked the question between sets while we were surfing a quick session at D Street. It was 11 a.m. on a Wednesday, and as I turned to paddle for a wave, I answered, “Matt, I have no fricking idea …”

Truth is, I burn the midnight oil a lot and drink too much coffee. I also find that living in a so-called “sleepy” beach town is actually motivating because it’s easy to slip in and out of reality—to go to that quiet place in your mind where stories are born. And when you need a break, you can take a walk for a coffee, a surf, or my personal favorite: a trek to Never Never Land with my toddler.

In February, however, I felt like a kid myself again when I was invited to New York City: My book, The Last Season, was up for an award. It was a particularly quick trip from So Cal to the Big Apple because my lovely wife, Lorien, was extremely pregnant at the time, and if she happened to go into labor while I was away there’d be hell to pay.

The adventure (abridged, of course) went something like this . . .

I awoke on February 27 at 6:40 a.m. to the usual alarm clock—my almost-three-year-old son calling out from his room, “Mommeee! Daddeee! Cuddle?” Two minutes later, he was snuggled up between Lorien and I for a grand total of maybe three minutes before he wanted to play. Lorien mumbled something about feeling like a “beached whale,” so I took the cue and said the new magic words: “Fort time!” I had a flight in the afternoon, and thought I better let her sleep in.

By 8:00 a.m. our couch cushions, dining room chairs, and numerous bed sheets had become a castle, and my little guy was making me “lizard coffee,” a concoction of plastic reptiles that he pretends to grind up, percolate, and serve in a plastic cup after warning me repeatedly how hot it is.

Getting him ready for preschool was next on the agenda and is not unlike coaxing a cat to take a bath, but by 8:15 I had him dressed. At 8:20, Lorien had redressed him in something that actually matched, and we were off to Pipes Cafe for French toast. Since I’d be gone for a couple days, he was going to be late for that 9 a.m. toddler bell, but Ms. Natalie would forgive him.

We walked down Liverpool, waving at the Bicycle Man, passing the library, and cozying up to the counter at Pipes where Sara took our order and remembered that we like our apple juice watered down. We ate outside, patted the local dogs, got a shiny new beach rock from the Rock Lady, and ordered a real coffee from Sara II (it was Dana’s day off). Then we jogged across the 101 to check the surf at the campgrounds. There wasn’t much going on, so we walked down the steps for a short climb on the rocks at Turtles.

While stuck on the wrong side of the train tracks at Chesterfield (an everyday occurrence it seems) after dropping my son at school, I received a phone call from my agent, Christy Fletcher, who told me that publishers in Italy and Taiwan were trying to strike a deal for the international rights of The Last Season.

“How cool would that be?” I asked her. “Really cool,” she replied, before apologizing for not being able to make the Barnes & Noble event. Though based in NYC, she was currently in L.A. working on some “movie stuff.”

Back home, I checked my e-mail, signed a few books that I needed to send off to family and friends, and finished packing. Finally, I gave Lorien a hug (sort of: it’s difficult with a basketball between us) and then I rubbed her tummy and told the baby to “stay in there for a few more days, okay?”

A few hours later, I was in my room (set up by Barnes & Noble) at the Hotel Giraffe, a chic “boutique” hotel on Park Avenue complete with a full complimentary espresso bar (!) in the lobby. I’d just opened a basket of goodies, figuring it was a welcome basket from Barnes & Noble. Nope. I finally noticed the note reading: “We’re so proud of you. Love, Merrick and Lorien.”

“I’m about the luckiest guy alive,” I thought to myself.

It would have been nice to lie down, but with only two nights in the city, I rallied to meet up with my extremely talented friend Jackson Lynch, who has done things like work for Nokia in London and been a presidential speech writer during the Reagan Era; currently, he is a high-end photographer. He introduced Lorien and I when he was a marketing guru for Trek Mountain Bikes, and, being an ordained minister, he also married us. After a short visit with his beautiful family—actress wife, Amy Landecker, and their toddler daughter who happens to be about my son’s age—we were off.

Beers at Pete’s Tavern, apparently the oldest continuously operated bar in New York City (keeping the frothy stuff flowing since 1864) where a sign instructs patrons how to survive on $15 a week; and dinner (chicken fried steak burger with jalapeños) at Duke’s Diner, followed by something “literary”: a subway ride to the celebrated Algonquin Hotel, where William Faulkner penned his Nobel Prize Acceptance speech and home of the famous “Algonquin round table” where, during the 1920s a group of legendary authors and literary critics such as Robert Benchley and Alexander Woollcott often met for long discussions. This stop (bloody sand martinis), said Jackson, was “for luck.”

Happy that I remembered to bring a jacket (at the last minute), I strolled with Jackson around Times Square, watching occasional snowflakes floating down in Technicolor thanks to all the lights.

The next morning, I ditched my jeans for a suit, and my editor, Henry Ferris, met me at 11:45 so we could walk to the 24 Fifth Avenue Ballroom. There, a cocktail party was in full swing. I was introduced to important people from Barnes & Noble and HarperCollins, all of whom Henry briefed me on discretely as they approached. “Jane Friedman,” he said as one woman caught his eye. “And she is?” I said, to which Henry barely had time to answer “very, very important,” before she was shaking my hand and saying nice things about The Last Season. “That was the CEO of HarperCollins,” he told me as she walked away.

I also mingled with the other nonfiction authors: Daniel Mendelsohn, a classics scholar whose book, The Lost, tracks what happened to his relatives who didn’t survive the Holocaust; and Marilyn Johnson whose book, The Dead Beat, is, as the subhead explains, about Lost Souls, Lucky Stiffs, and the Perverse Pleasures of Obituaries. Both Daniel and Marilyn were both clearly far more seasoned at events such as this, but they made me feel relaxed in their presence, sort of like the kid brother tagging along to his first high school party.

I sucked down a glass of wine before all 200-plus smartly dressed literary folk were ushered into the dining area, where the cover of my book was blown up, along with The Lost and The Dead Beat, next to the podium as well as the fiction titles.

At this point, everything got hazy. The salad was great, and I tried to eat the carrots and tomatoes to keep my blood sugar up (legs were a little wobbly). Jill LaMar—the poised, professional, and very nice woman who is director of the Discover Program—stepped up to the podium to explain the process, then best-selling authors (who were jurists for the Discover Program) presented each of the fiction authors with their awards.

A wonderful chicken somethingorother with mashed potatoes and another glass of wine later, I tested my legs by going to the restroom. At the urinal next to mine, a gentleman in a suit greeted me by first name. I was certain I had never met him, but, since everybody at this shindig was wearing name tags, I leaned forward to discretely look over and catch his name.

Simultaneously, he glanced at me and caught me looking down. No name tag by the way, so with all the recognition I could muster, I said, “Hey there, good to see you, quite a spread out there, eh?”

I still have no idea who he was …

Shortly after I settled back into my seat, Barnes & Noble named third place for nonfiction: The Dead Beat. Wahoo! I actually had SECOND place, which meant a $5,000 prize (or a lot of diapers). I scooted my chair backward in preparation—and then the presenter called Daniel to the stage.

It took Henry kicking me under the table for me to realize that the top honors were mine: a cash prize and, most importantly, a year of promotion at Barnes & Nobles everywhere.

I don’t think I touched down for the rest of the day, floating through a meeting with my agents over fancy NYC-priced cocktails before floating over to the Barnes & Noble on Lincoln Triangle to do a reading/signing with the rest of the finalists [please check them out at www.barnesnoble.com —all six are smokin’ good reads]. Henry and his assistant, Peter Hubbard, then took me to an Upper West Side restaurant called Telepan, which included five courses, a couple bottles of wine, and a decaf cappuccino.

Early the next morning I was on a plane back to San Diego. By mid-afternoon, the high-rises and hustle and bustle of the city in winter had been replaced by warm, sunny skies and sand between my toes. At Lorien’s suggestion, I took a quick celebratory surf while our little one was napping, returning home just as he was waking up. As is par after I take a trip, he gave me the cold shoulder. “Daddy not here, Daddy still on trip,” he told Mommy, and proceeded to ignore me for the next half-hour. Then—having allotted the correct amount of time for punishment—he finally gave me that huge smile that always melts my heart and said, “Hi Daddy!”

And by the way, I swear that Lorien’s belly had gotten even bigger in those two days … is that possible?

And so we held our breath and waited for the next chapter in our lives to begin.

— Eric Blehm