Friday bit

Yeah, just one bit. But it's a good one.

I got nothing today, people. But poet, friend, and Rock Sugar Beet* girl Jill Corcoran is bringing the verse over at her blog, Jill Corcoran Books. She's posted original poetry all week. I was going to pick my favorite, but it's...all of them. So be sure to scroll down. Seriously, go. Now.

And I will see you Monday for a brilliant installment of No, Seriously. Just Try It...

* In case you have forgotten, the Rock Sugar Beets are the fabulously talented and supportive fellow writers I wrote about here. And if you haven't already, you should check all them out too.

Jacqui's Room Goes to SCBWI-LA: Reflections

In which I describe why an SCBWI conference is like sleepaway camp.

You arrive and you are full of anticipation and nervousness and you feel like you don’t know anybody. And maybe you meet someone and he/she seems cool, but you’re not sure, so you just keep to your schedule, going to archery and swimming, but it doesn’t feel like you thought it was going to, and the pottery wheel isn’t as fun as you thought it would be, and you sometimes aren’t sure you’re going to be able to find someone to talk to. And there seem to be popular kids but you’re not one of them, and when you are brave enough to go up and introduce yourself, they’re nice enough but it’s clear they’re not Your People, and after a bit you think maybe I should just go home.

But you keep going to tennis or whatever the schedule says with the one or two people you met and one of them knows someone and she comes along, and that happens again and again until you realize you’re having fun. And you look around and there are all these people you know. You can’t quite remember how you met everyone but you can’t think about it too long because the conversation is flying and dipping and, wow, these people understand you, they love what you love, and you don’t have to explain yourself to them and how can I have only known you however long it’s been because it’s like we’re the same person in so many ways?

And so now you go to the cook-outs and the mess hall and you’re there with them and you’re all “omigod!” and “you did?!” and “me too!” And, oh! The campfire stories are so good and you’re sharing things you never even tell your winter best friends and maybe you fall down and maybe you cry but nobody laughs when they pick you up and yeah, even if there are popular kids and you’re not one of them, you don’t care because you’re laughing so hard you might pee at things that will never be funny to anyone else. And you go to bed way too late at night full of snuck-in cupcakes and licorice and giggles and connectedness.

And then one day, the summer you were thinking might last forever ends and the voices of your family and your winter friends start creeping back into your heart, and you are excited to get back, but you look around and are also sad to be leaving this place, these friends that could never happen at home, and this smarter, funnier, cooler Summer You. And you want to say thank you thank you and I love you, but you’re worried maybe you’re the only one who thinks that, so you sign 2good2B4gotten in each other's autograph books and exchange addresses and make plans to meet at some unspecified time. And you wait as long as possible to get back on the plane, or the bus, and you’re already planning to come back and wondering how in your real life you can hold on to the laughter and the connectedness and that Summer You.

And when you get home all smiles and exhaustion, your winter family asks, “How was it?” and all you can do is shrug and say, “Fine,” because you don’t really want to share the memories, you want to carry them around in your pocket like a secret rock that you can pull out when the weather is cold and you don't feel like writing and you just need the giggle that comes from a brief reminder of that thing that nobody else will ever think is funny.

But an SCBWI conference is even better that sleepaway camp, because at the end of summer camp you have sunburn and mosquito bites and treasure boxes made of popsicle sticks and at the end of writing camp, you have books, new books to read and to anticipate, and new ideas inside your head begging to come out and be written.

And even if my YA novel is not UNlike a treasure box made of popsicle sticks at this point, it is DONE, people, ALL DONE, for the third time and now, to celebrate, I am going to sleep.