It was in 1975 (fifty years ago!) that I published my first novel, No More Magic. If you go back into my blog entries and pull up the submission for 11-15-2016, you can read how the story came to be, which concerns the loss of a valuable jade green ring at one of my boy’s birthday parties. But there is another part to the story about the story.
To my great surprise, No More Magic was nominated for the “Best Juvenile Mystery of the Year,” by the Mystery Writers of America. These awards are better known as the Edgars, after Edgar Allan Poe. They are, as I know now, highly prestigious.
But back then, new to the world of children’s books, I had never heard of the award or the organization. The truth is I had no idea as to the meaning and honor of the award, much less what the ceremony was all about. To be perfectly clear, I did not take it all seriously.
With the nomination came an invitation to the annual awards banquet to be held in NYC.
I am not sure how it came to happen, but I invited my twin sister, Emily Leider, to come to the banquet with me. My sister is also a writer and in those days had begun her career as a published poet.
In any case, the banquet hall was full and, as I wandered about, I began to recognize some names of the people who were there, quite famous writers in the crime genre, fiction and non-fiction. I began to sense I was in a company well above my literary grade. Indeed, Jorge Luis Borges was the main speaker and award recipient.
After some general milling around, we were seated at a large round table. Introductions were made. I knew no one but recognized the name of the white-haired woman — a name I no longer remember, but whom I recognized as a quite famous mystery book writer. Around her neck, she was wearing a necklace. Its brilliance and glitter suggested the strand was all diamonds, attesting to both her status and achievements.
I was seated next to another writer (another name I can’t recall). As we were chatting, I must have made a remark to the effect that I was a nominee, that it was my first novel. I must also have made a remark about the award, musing if it had any importance.
At that point, the writer quickly pulled out a printed bookmark that listed the many books he had published. He slapped it before me. “All I can tell you,” he informed me, “is that I have published twenty-five books, and I have never been nominated.”
Abashed, I must have mumbled some kind of apology for my inexperience and ignorance.
At some point a little further on, that bejeweled woman writer across the way, turned to my sister. “And what do you do, my dear?” she asked.
“I’m a writer.”
“What kind?”
“A poet.”
“Ah!” said the woman, and she placed her hands together as if in reverence: “We who only write prose must always bow to the poets.”
And she did so.
My sister glowed with pleasure.
I did not win the award. Robert O’ Brien did for his book Z for Zachariah.
But I did win something very useful for a young writer: some humility.