Only standing naked under floodlights in the middle of a football stadium would feel more exposing than publishing a novel. In those first crucial weeks after the release date, the author is poised in nail-biting suspense, waiting to see if their creative baby will sink or swim. With sales data notoriously slow to arrive, how can you tell that your novel is not quite setting the world on fire?

The realisation usually comes slowly. First there is the conspicuous absence of reviews, publicity spots and invitations to literary festivals. Then there is the all-too-swift removal of your title from the glamorous New Release section of the bookstore, and its relegation to the densely packed Australian fiction shelves in the bowels of the shop. Lastly and most humiliatingly, you see that the single copy of your book has been turned perpendicular to the wall, now only visible by its spine. At this point you know your novel has lived its short, inglorious life and there will be only a few more spluttering sales before it passes into the annals of the entirely ignored.

Fiction writers are a sensitive bunch, and the porousness of our imaginations is often close cousin to a fragile ego. When people ask how our books are going, those of us who are not Trent Dalton affect a casual insouciance, shrug our shoulders and say, “I’m not sure really,” or “haven’t seen any figures yet”. Anything to avoid the awkward truth, which is: “The book to which I gave three years of my life and a small chunk of my soul has become the literary equivalent of a bespectacled girl sitting longingly on the bench at the school dance.”

So imagine my consternation when I was nominated for an award that broadcast to all the world (well, at least my modest number of followers on social media) that my book had been so unnoticed that it was worthy contender for the Most Underrated Book of 2019. How embarrassing. And not only for me. I avoided tweeting too loudly about it, in case my publicist felt bad, and thought she hadn’t done an awesome job (she had).

The reactions of my family and friends did nothing to bolster my spirits when I told them I’d been shortlisted. Responses ranged from, “Wait, is that a joke?” to my mother’s hushed silence, followed by, “I’m so sorry, darling.” Witty quips followed like, “better than being overrated” or “don’t underrate being underrated”. Then the mental cogs would slowly turn and they would say, “hey, that’s actually a good thing!”

The saddest thing about a book failing to reach an audience is not the wound to the ego, but the end of the conversation.

And it is indeed a good thing. Because, jokes aside, this award is saying that my novel is worthy of more attention than it received. And that’s not embarrassing at all. In fact, it is one of the most heartening and galvanising things that a writer can hear.

Very few writers are motivated solely by the desire for recognition. It is lovely if it happens, but it cannot be the reason we sit down every day to stare at a screen and be immersed for hours in the soup of our thoughts. Most of us are motivated by the power of an idea, an image, a character, a world, a moral conundrum. This engages our imagination so deeply that we are willing to stay with it for the years it may take to find its most artful expression. In my case, the idea was about the powerful, animistic tribes of ancient Britain and their passionate war against Roman invasion.

The completion of a novel brings an end to the creative relationship we have with our idea, but publication gives it a chance to be sustained in the imagination of readers. This is what fuels a fiction writer: the ongoing life of the ideas we love. The saddest thing about a book failing to reach an audience is not the wound to the ego, but the ending of the conversation.

The gift of the Most Underrated Book Award is that it gives my idea a second life. It says that the conversation begun by my book is worth continuing. It is a quietly handsome, yet sensitive man, walking over and finally asking my bespectacled girl to dance.

I have read my fellow shortlistees and am delighted to have had their work brought to my attention. In an industry that is fiercely competitive, it is a reminder to practice mindfulness, to make the time to notice what has fallen through the cracks of publishing hype. To remind ourselves that listening to the quiet voices can be deeply rewarding.

I’m not sure whether being officially underrated will mean my book gets turned cover-out on bookshelves. But it does mean that I sit down at my desk each day with renewed motivation and a willingness to don my taffeta ball dress all over again. Don’t underrate being underrated.

• Ilka Tampke’s novel Songwoman came out last year through Text Publishing and won the Most Underrated Book Award at this year’s SPN Independent Publishing Conference