Beth Kephart's Blog, page 106

Dr. Radway named to the 2013 Kirkus Best Middle Grade Books of the Year list, which blows me away with quadruple joy

I don't know how else to say this:

I am bowled over and steeped in gratitude, for I have received the news that Dr. Radway's Sarsaparilla Resolvent has been named to the 2013 Kirkus Best Middle Grade Books of the Year list.

This is a story I was determined to write ever since I'd stumbled upon my character, William, while writing my Centennial Philadelphia novel, Dangerous Neighbors. It is a story about my city—a story about machines and headlines, about classified ads and courage, about a boy who, in rescuing lost animals, rescues those he loves.

Publishing Dr. Radway was a brave and idealistic venture. My husband joined me in the dream, providing the book's illustrations. New City Community Press/Temple University Press said yes one warm winter day, and made the book real.

Thank you—thank you!— to Vicky Smith at Kirkus Reviews and to a certain reader who believed.

you know when the novel is done when —

— the characters live both on the page and off and there are so many other stories you might tell, so many secrets finally whispered in your ear;

— the book rises and falls, not just with character and plot, but with all the other things that make a life, that make a story, that write a song.

— you slow down because you don't want to leave the world you have finally entered, for you are comfortable there, at peace there, no longer struggling.

— you write your acknowledgments and you can see just how those who helped you helped —by asking questions, by reading with care, by saying, You can.

Teaching the spices of life—today—and celebrating Lise Funderburg's remarkable PIG CANDY

In just a few hours, I'll be conducting my final Handling the Truth workshop of the year. This one is called The Spices of Life, and it is being done in conjunction with First Person Arts.

The facts:

First Person Arts DATE Saturday, November 16TIME 11AM-1PMLOCATION Christ Church Neighborhood House (20 N. American St., Philadelphia)ENROLLMENT $65, $52 for First Person Arts membersSpace is limited to 12 participants.
ONLINE SALES FOR THIS WORKSHOP WILL END AT 9AM BUT YOU CAN STILL ENROLL IN PERSON AT THE VENUE STARTING AT 10AM.

Whet your appetite in this food-inspired memoir workshop with author Beth Kephart, a National Book Award finalist. Bring a provocative symbol of a well-remembered meal: a spice jar, a mother’s potholder, a stained apron, a recipe card, a photograph, a restaurant review, etc. Through a series of guided exercises in the elements of storytelling, background and foreground imagery, and use of dialogue in memoir, you will recreate scenes of gastronomic bliss.

Of course, I never do teach the exact same thing twice, and so I am elated today to be bringing into the classroom Lise Funderburg's truly outstanding memoir, PIG CANDY: Taking My Father South, Taking My Father Home. Lise teaches at the University of Pennsylvania. She writes astonishing prose. She is a true memoirist—a writer who makes the very best of the very best, which is to say memory, research, cohering idea, narrative tension, language, and love.

I'm going to be focused on the pig at the center of the book's early pages—the big pig that becomes pig candy as a family gathers in the south. I'm going to be looking at how Lise evokes this pig and its transformation into a transformational meal. I'll be reading from scenes like this:

John retrieves a knife from the kitchen and carves off tastes. Mack accepts a piece, puts it in his mouth, and contemplates it, saying nothing. Behind his big square plastic eyeglass frames, his look is impenetrable. There is a general silence after each person tries the pork. It is salty. Horribly, wretchedly salt. Apparently this is a case of over enthusiastic overinoculation with overly briney brine.

It's is a little salty, Mack Tillman concedes, once everyone else has said so.

And then, relying on the tangible evidence of the past that we've brought with us, we will settle down with our own memories.

Join us.

The GOING OVER Teacher's Discussion Guide

Like talented elves secreted away in a very special place, the Chronicle team has been at work on the Common Core Aligned Teacher's Guide for GOING OVER.

When Stephanie Wong sent me the document yesterday afternoon, I nearly fell over. It is so thoughtful, so remarkably thorough, so interesting, so well done that I could barely contain my joy. They asked for nothing from me. They, in fact, surprised me. And it's perfect.

Check out Tamra Tuller's clever tagline: A wall divides them, their love unites them.

This guide will be shared with teachers at the NCTE/ALAN conference I'll be attending next week in Boston. And I'm free to share it here on my blog. Should you know of teachers who might be interested in teaching a book about Berlin, divisions, war, love, and a certain question about the "guest" workers of Turkey who came to help a tattered country survive, please share this with them.

The Bank Street keynote slowly transforms itself into an essay

.... a mysterious alchemical process that is not nearly as easy as it may sound.



But I do have something to say about sideways writing and truth through indirection. And so I ponder the economics of language and expression to tell this story well, in another form.

Closing in on the last two big scenes

...  of a long-running novel.



Oh, baby.



As if I have finish in me.



I have to have finish in me.



Think of all the books I'll be able to review and honor here, once I am done.



Yeah. I know. It's been a long time coming.

On Mercy, Handling the Truth, and Debbie Levy

Sometimes you find yourself so startlingly well understood that you have no words, not really, to express your wonder and gratitude.



That happened to me earlier today when I read these words by Debbie Levy, about Handling the Truth. Debbie is a writer I met in July, in Alexandria, VA. She is a writer with whom I had an immediate connection, and for whom I had instant affection.



In the months since I have seen her, Debbie has had to say goodbye to the mother she loved so deeply—Jutta Salzberg, who stands at the heart of Debbie's award-winning The Year of Goodbyes. In Debbie's essay, she writes the story of reading the story that is Handling the Truth. She writes about mercy, and the role it plays in our lives. For Debbie's own wisdoms, for her own talents, I urge you to read her words today.



I hope this will lead you to one of Debbie's own books.



Thank you, Debbie.




I am a step behind in writing about Beth Kephart’s new book, Handling the Truth: On the Writing of Memoir.  Since Handling The Truth came out this past summer, this versatile and prolific writer has already geared up for release of her next book, a novel, Going Over,
due out in April 2014.  But better a step behind, I figure, than not
taking the journey at all, especially the journey offered by this book,
which, despite its subtitle, is not just a book for memoir writers, or
memoir readers, or for writers or readers of any stripe.  It works as a
book for anyone who has had a childhood or a past. - See more at:
http://debbielevybooks.com/2013/11/to...

four women: looking back on conversations with Dani Shapiro, Liz Rosenberg, Stacey D'Erasmo, and Debbie Levy

My journey these past many months has been extraordinary—taking me to places far and wide, introducing me to writers and readers who embody the best of the now. For all of you who have taken the time to share some time with me: thank you.



I've been especially blessed by the opportunity to spend time in conversation with leading writers and thinkers. And so today, as I look toward one final Handling the Truth event in the year of 2013 (more on that below), I want to say a special thank you to four women with whom I shared the stage and who were everything I'd hoped they'd be. And more.



Debbie Levy, author, most recently, of Imperfect Spiral, with whom I spent a sacred Saturday afternoon, in Alexandria, VA, talking about life and birds and truth in fiction. We gave our audience a few writing exercises; we engaged; we learned. And I adore Debbie Levy—an amazing talent and gift to younger readers.



Stacey D'Erasmo, author, most recently, of The Art of Intimacy, with whom I shared a stage at the Decatur Book Festival. Fiercely smart, hugely generous, Stacey is a writer I have read for a long time. I could not believe my great good fortune of just sitting and talking craft with her.



Liz Rosenberg, author, most recently, of The Laws of Gravity , who traveled all the way from her home in Binghamton to Mount Airy to spend a Saturday evening in a crowded independent bookstore to talk with me and with the audience about the book life. Liz and I have had a longstanding correspondence. How wonderful it was to spend some time together.



Dani Shapiro, author, most recently, of Still Writing , with whom I had the enormous pleasure of speaking last evening on behalf of First Person Arts. Dani and I had only met briefly once before. We'd talked once on the phone, emailed occasionally. But last night, in an intimate space, we shared a microphone and a passion for this writing life, and I felt as if I'd known her all my life. Dani traveled far to come to my city. She arrived in the company of her equally wonderful husband, the journalist and filmmaker Michael Maren, whose new film, "The Short History of Decay" (click on the link to see the trailer!), will be the featured film at several upcoming festivals. Philadelphians were blessed to have them both in the house. And so was I.



Thank you. And. That last 2013 Handling the Truth event? It's a First Person Arts Festival workshop called The Spices of Life. We're going to remember and write a kitchen scene. There are a few spaces left. Join us. 



Finally, that photograph above was taken by my friend Melissa Sarno on Saturday afternoon in the New York Public Library, following a really beautiful Bank Street morning. Jennifer M. Brown of Bank Street: You care about all the things that matter. You have a lot on your shoulders. Thank you for taking care of me.

The Art of Writing the Personal: Dani Shapiro comes to Philadelphia (and thoughts on Slow Motion)

Yesterday, New York City beckoned—a chance to talk about some of the young people I've taught before a wonderful audience at Bank Street (thank you, Jennifer Brown), a review of Voice in a mentor workshop (we talked The Book Thief, Two Boys Kissing, Small Damages), a quick run through the wonderful exhibit of children's books at the New York Public Library with special people, lunch with my son and husband, a hurried walk through Hoboken, a drive back home in twilight hours.



Today, I travel to my city, Philadelphia, to spend time with the incredibly talented Dani Shapiro on behalf of the First Person Arts Festival. We'll be at Christ Church Neighborhood House (20 N. American Street) from 4 to 5:30. Tickets can be bought at the door. I hope to see you for many reasons, but mostly because of this: Dani Shapiro has something to say, she says it with profound intelligence, and this is a rare opportunity to see her in person in the City of Brotherly Love.



I've read Dani through the years. I've heard others talk about her generosity toward other writers, about her powers as a teacher, about the choices that she's made; I've watched her in conversation with Oprah. I've read and loved Devotion as well as Still Writing , Dani's newest book on the writing life. I've anticipated this conversation, I'm saying, for a long, good time.



But it was not until this morning that I read Slow Motion, Dani's bestselling memoir about the accident that changed her life. Dani was a young beauty mired inside an unwanted relationship with her good friend's stepfather when Dani's father and mother were involved in a car accident. Dani's father would ultimately, and somewhat mysteriously, pass away. Her mother would heal from 80 fractures—and premature widowhood. The boyfriend would want what such boyfriends want, and Dani—who had left Sarah Lawrence in pursuit of an acting career and of this relationship—would have to make choices about who she was, what she wanted, where her life was going.



I hadn't read Slow Motion because I wanted to know Dani first, to see her as a person first, and not as this defining story. And here is the spectacular thing about having just now read the final page: Slow Motion is one of those books that has earned every accolade it's ever gotten. The story itself is remarkable. But what I believe is even more remarkable is the way that Dani tells it—her use of time, her measures of distance, her patience with the story itself, her silken language. Many may read Slow Motion for the story, but I read for the artistry.



And I was not disappointed by a single page.



Here is Dani, toward the end of the book—re-enrolled in college, emerging, at last, as the writer she must have always been. Dani has musical training in her background. Her sentences are the proof of this:

The professor sits back as the students finally start speaking. Until now, I have been the quiet one in the class, too insecure and frightened to say a word. But today, something begins to shift. I see that there might be some way I can take the raw material of my life and transform it into something that transcends my own experience. I can organize the noise in my head into something that has order and structure. I can make sense of what, until now, has been senseless.

father, brother, me: years ago

Earlier this week, my father took the time to drive me back to a favorite childhood neighborhood, for a story I had long planned to write for the Inquirer.



It was a time-tripping trip, a way-way back, and I am, as always, grateful to my dad, who does so many things for us all.



Today, as I wrote the piece for the Inquirer, I went way, way back again, this time to an album of old photographs.



I especially like this picture here, of my father, my brother, and me. It's Christmas in Woodbine. We're happy.