Photo: Ryoji Iwata

A PERFECT FIT

I confess sometimes I don't fit in.

Like recently, at a local SCBWI writer's meeting.*  I've only attended twice, but I didn't have a good feeling about this group.  

The group meets once a month and consists mostly of unpublished writers. Though everyone was nice and polite, I couldn't relate very well to them and they couldn't relate to me.  Perhaps that was due to the fact that we hadn't had the opportunity to get to know one another.    

In addition, I noticed that the vibe was cold.  Most of the folks were very quiet.  Not that there's anything wrong with that, but there were no lively discussions—the atmosphere was kind of blah.  Part of the reason was because we didn't have much time for conversation because the leader asked us to write for 25 minutes inspired by prompts.  I felt like I was in a class.  Maybe I've missed the purpose of these meetings.  Maybe these meetings were intended for quiet writing. 

That's not all.  Another attendee assumed I knew little about writing and publishing and thought I could benefit from taking classes at the local literary center.  It was a kind gesture and I wasn't offended, but she never asked about my experience.  I had to explain that I'd been traditionally published and I have taught writing classes at the local literary center.  

Lastly, the leader came across with an I-know-it-all attitude.  At one point I had to speak up and challenge something he said (in a polite, respectful way) when he gave out inaccurate information.  He barely acknowledged what I said.  It's hard for me to be around people who can't concede they might be wrong.  

When time was nearly up, one writer said she had some ideas for the next meeting. I asked what she had in mind and she went on about where we could meet and have coffee and bagels.  OK, good to know, but what are we going to work on?  To her, food was more important than business.  Clearly, some people have a different agenda than I do.

I had wanted an opportunity to get to know other writers, to learn what others were working on, to understand each other's goals, to give and receive feedback, and to lend support.  But it didn't turn out that way.    

It's odd.  Halfway through the meeting today, I felt a migraine coming on.  My body was trying to tell me this writer's meeting probably wasn't right for me.  Later that day I wondered how other local chapters ran their meetings.  So, I posted a question for SCBWI members on Face Book wanting to know about the purpose of their get togethers.  Here's my favorite reply:  "Community building. To get to know others in the regions, to share knowledge and resources. To ask questions.  To make friends."  Yes!  That's want I want from my local group!

The sad thing is, I really want to be part of a local writer's group, to support others, to share manuscripts, and to talk about our challenges, our goals, our highs and lows.  One day, I hope to find a group where I'll feel comfortable, one where everyone can get to know one another, contribute, and help each other succeed.  Our local group is scheduled to meet later this month.  I will attend just to see how things go.  Maybe the agenda will improve and it will be exactly what I'm looking for.  But if there are no changes, I'll know this group will never be a perfect fit.  

À la prochaine!

*The Society for Children's Writers and Illustrators

  

                                                                                                                                           Photo: Tiffany Anthony
THE MISSING PEARLS 

I have a catchphrase I use whenever something goes missing: someone stole it.   

For instance, thirty-some years ago when my husband and I were moving into our new house, a box of valuables went missing.  I looked everywhere for it and came to the conclusion that garbage men must have taken it.  Which turned out to be absurd and oh so wrong.  The box eventually turned up.  

But now this catchphrase is the only explanation for the empty mother-of-pearl jewelry box on the nightstand by my bed.  This case held something special, something personal, something beautiful and delicate—a double strand pearl necklace that belonged to my bubbie.  

I had rummaged through every dresser drawer.  I've looked under the bed.  I've searched the closet: on shelves of folded sweaters, inside shoes, between clothes on hangers, and behind hats, under laundry baskets and bookbags.  I turned the bedroom upside down and inside out, looked high and low and knew in my heart the necklace had been ripped off.   

Over the years, we've had painters and carpenters in the house.  It never occurred to me to hide the necklace.  The pearls flowed freely from the jewelry box like a beaded waterfall, but I never thought it would interest others, invite others, tantalize and tempt.  So, I beat myself up for being so careless, for not guarding something that I loved and valued.   

My husband assured me it would show up.  But he was wrong.  Even though I have no proof someone took it, I had a lingering suspicion that the necklace had been lifted and I laid the blame on others.   

You could say buy another.  But that's not the point.  A new necklace would never do.  I want the necklace that graced my grandmother's neck. 

My bubbie worked at the grocery store she and my grandfather owned.  On her feet Monday through Friday.  Never complained.  She was a kind person who extended credit to people for kosher meat, knowing they probably would never be able to pay their bills.  She rarely wore the necklace—she and my grandfather didn't go out that much.  But I like to think she wore the pearls to synagogue. I can envision her touching them lightly as she recited, "Barukh Attah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha-Olam, O Lord our God, King of the universe." 

It's been ten years and counting since I've last seen the pearls.  I am crushed they are missing—the pearls held memories of my grandmother.  They were a physical way I could connect with her.  

I used to imagine a package arriving.  A small package without a return address.  A package wrapped in regret.  I would rip it open and find the necklace.  It would be accompanied with a note:  I believe this belonged to you. 

But I know this would never happen.  The necklace was gone for good.   

I think of my grandmother and sweet memories arise and my skin tingles as if she's passed right through me.  Her heavenly voice says, "You don't need pearls to have me nearby."  

You might think this is the end of the story, but there's more.  

As you may have guessed, I never received a package with a note and the necklace. Such is the stuff of dreams.

But during the Christmas break, I mentioned the stolen jewelry to my daughter and she told me she had a double strand necklace. I was so wrapped up believing in my little catchphrase, so convinced the necklace had been stolen that I had forgotten I’d given it to her.

The jewelry box is empty and it will remain empty, not because I don’t have other items for it, but because it serves as a reminder. A reminder of something missing and then found. Of something loved and valued. Of something special. Of something personal, beautiful, and delicate.  Of something passed down.  My daughter keeps her great grandmother’s necklace—and it belongs with her.  

 À la prochaine!