Beth Kephart's Blog, page 109

YOU ARE MY ONLY: the paperback arrives

I had been with a client most of this day (except for the part when I took a walk, saw a friend, came home to a note from the one and only Tomie dePaola—oh, my). So it was dark when I walked back up to my porch and stumbled against this box.



What is it? my husband wondered.



I have no idea, I said.



And truly I didn't. Had no idea that You Are My Only—a book I loved writing, a book that so many of you supported, a book that means to much to me—was actually and truly being repackaged as a paperback.



And being released.



I am filled with the desire to go out and do a reading, celebrate this book, make something happen.



You, my blogging friends, are the party I am throwing.

Quiet, Please.

We drove through tunnels, as I have said. Through the broad, excavated bellies of proud hills.



We had hours to talk, and hours to think, and that night, later, unable to sleep, I thought about what it is that I want from a life that runs so far ahead of itself, away from me, beyond my control. From Life itself, that so often ends too soon, abruptly, calamitously, without second chances.



I want to be believed in, I decided.



I want to stand in fewer shadows.



I want to be worthy of my own aspirations—not for fame (never for fame), not for riches, but for work done exceedingly, memorably well.



I want more quiet in which to do the work that I wish to leave behind.

with the world rushing by—a memoir summit, a long drive with A.S. King, Carolyn W. Field, PA Librarians

The day before, I'd stood and talked memoir at Rosemont College. A beautiful young woman took this photo. She sent it to me. I treasure it.



(Thank you for the photo, Kelly. Thank you for the summit, Carla.)



The day of, I left in the early dark, drove an hour and change to a turnpike exchange, parked at a hotel, then waited for an already infamous rented Chevy Impala (gray) to find me. Behind the wheel? The marvelous A.S. King. Our plan? To get caught up after too much time apart, each of us moving in our own whirlish circles for months now, months and days.



We were headed west together—way west—through a state we both love, through the bellies of mountains with names like Blue and Kittatinny, past cornfields, barns, longhorns, Angus's ammo shop. King was receiving the Carolyn W. Field Award for Ask the Passengers from the Pennsylvania librarians. I was a grateful honoree for Small Damages. King (like the true sportsters we are, we long ago stopped calling each other by our first names) and I had stuff to say, secrets to share, worries to fluff out, appeasements to offer. We did all that, and then we arrived, found our way through hallways, found our way to K.M. Walton and Eugene Myers and Kit Grindstaff and Karl R and Chris Caputo, found our way to lunch, and then King gave her fantastic talk, and then I hollered "King!" and we signed some books, and we were back on the road again, and now the day was starting to get pink. And the sky was incredibly blue. And I kept trying to take photographs while King drove (and a fine driver she is), but mostly I got blur.



"Blur's good," King said.



And I guess, for both of us right now, it is.

on traveling west toward librarians, friends, and the Carolyn W. Field Honor Award

Only a week ago, my husband and I made the long drive out to Bradford, PA, on behalf of book we are creating for a client. I walked an oil refinery. I walked a town. I talked to a college president, a hospital leader, a man who stands at the heart of that community's cultural landscape. I saw things. I was reminded of the power of traveling far beyond myself.



In an hour, in this dark morning, I'll get into my car again, drive west again, stop an hour from here, and wait for a rented gray Impala. Behind the wheel will be my friend, A.S. King, who has been on the front end of a whirlwind tour for her new much-heralded book, Reality Boy . She'll drive the rest of the way, out west again, this time to Seven Springs Mountain Resort, where the librarians of Pennsylvania and other writers—K.M. Walton, Eugene Myers, Kit Hain Grindstaff, Philip Beard, and Kathleen George—have gathered.



Amy has a talk to give, for she is to receive the Carolyn W. Field Award in honor of the best children's book by a Pennsylvania author (for Ask the Passengers). I am blessed to be a Carolyn W. Field Honor winner (for Small Damages). We are mostly blessed, we Pennsylvania writers, that librarians are choosing to share this day with us.



Into the dark, then, I go. Grateful for friends, grateful for people who believe in books, and grateful for the chance, again, to travel far beyond myself.

Christopher Yasick: a son leaves the world too soon, a father reaches out from his distance

Sometimes I'd be sitting in Mike Yasick's office at Shire, a client company, and he'd get to talking about his family.



The phone would ring, and he'd lift one finger, check the number, and discover his son, Chris, on the line.



"Hold on," Mike would say to me.



"Hey," he'd say to his son, his face lighting up two additional degrees of bright, which was really something for a man already so fully illuminated. Maybe Chris had some news. Maybe Chris was hoping Mike would pick up some ingredient on the way home to complete the meal Chris was cooking. Whatever it was, Mike glowed. Whatever it was, afterward, Mike would sit, talking about Chris and the rest of his family. It was a favorite topic for a famous raconteur, because Mike may have been a super star in the pharma world, but more to the point, and through and through, he was a purely devoted family man.



The world lost Mike Yasick eight months ago to a rare genetic condition. He was with us, laughing one day, parading his bright red pants, and then—suddenly—he was gone. Imagine the largest Catholic church you've ever seen. Then imagine it filled, wall to wall, with friends and family—mourners—most of them wearing Mike's trademark red. Imagine a small blog tribute—mine—read by 15,000 people. That's how loved Mike was.



Yesterday, Chris, just twenty-five years old, was taken by the same terrible disease that took his father. Another sudden passing. Another terrible loss in the world, an unimaginable heartbreak for a beautiful family. I got the news in the dark hours of the morning that Chris was in the hospital. I got the news several hours later that he was gone. In between, I prayed—so many of us prayed—for some kind of miracle.



Chris was a civil engineer, a graduate of The University of Texas at Austin. He was a young man on his way up in a job with Skyline Steel. At his father's funeral he was dignified, one of those people you really hoped you'd get a chance to personally know—his face so much like his dad's, that Yasick sparkle in his eyes. So this is Chris, I kept thinking. This is Chris.



Miracles are so hard to come by. Miracles aren't every day. The disease took Chris. But here are two things that all of us who loved Mike, who mourn with and for his family, will always see as miraculous. On the day that Chris grew so suddenly and terribly ill, Mike's best friends were in town. They had come to town specifically to see Chris, to take him out to dinner, to tell him some stories about his dad. They were there when it happened. They were there for Chris—all night in that hospital, they were there for Chris. They were present.



Just as another friend just so happened to land in Chicago, on his way to somewhere else. He checked his phone. He saw a text from Chris's sister, Katy, he changed his plans, he hurried to the hospital, he was there, too. There.



"I haven't connected on a flight in years," this friend, Matt Pauls, wrote to me. "Why last night? In Chicago? Why were his buddies in town? Because Mike made sure Chris was covered."



Mike made sure his son was covered. As other family rushed to town, as Chris's mom got there as fast as the plane could fly, as the doctors did all they could do, Mike, through his friends, was there for his son. A beautiful thing in a most tragic time, and the thing we will hold onto as we honor Chris.

Handling the Truth: The Shelf Awareness Review (oh!)

Last night, as I sat waiting for the curtains to rise on the 50th season of Pennsylvania Ballet—as I sat waiting, especially, for the gorgeous (inside and out) Julie Diana and her wonderful husband, Zachary Hench, to dance "Diamonds," a piece I had watched them rehearse a week or so before—I thought, Stop, Beth. Live this moment. Don't let it rush by.



I sat on the edge of my seat. I sat watching through streaming tears. This ballerina and her husband and that corps. The exhilarating precision and grace and humanity of it all. When art finds you, let yourself be found. Stop hurrying. Be.



Oh, how they danced. How exquisite Julie is. How other-worldly talented is her Zak. How right they are together.



This morning, too, I am stopping. I am putting aside the hurry of corporate work for just this hour and allowing myself to feel grateful for the journey I have lately been on. So many of you have been so kind to me, and have I thanked you enough? I have met such interesting people along the Handling the Truth way. Just this week I talked to the great Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, and now I look ahead to weekend conversations with Liz Rosenberg (at Big Blue Marble Bookstore, in Mount Airy) and fellow memoir summitters (at Rosemont College). I look ahead to a fantastic, multi-tiered event at Bank Street in New York City, created by the Ambassador of Children's Books (my title for her), Jennifer M. Brown, and to a conversation with Dani Shapiro as part of the First Person Arts Festival. I look toward a conversation at Kelly Writers House (and a radio recording) and a conversation on behalf of Kelly Writers House (off Rittenhouse Square), and to more workshops, and to my upcoming road trip with the fabulous A.S. King, as we join the Pennsylvania Library Association (and others of our writing friends) in western Pennsylvania.



In any life, this would be a lot. In my life, it is huge. And again: Have I thanked all of you enough?



My gratitude is here. My gratitude is huge. And I am giving this particular hour over to my gratitude (not a big enough word) to Jennifer M. Brown, who has just now posted this beautiful review of Handling the Truth in today's Shelf Awareness. Jenny and I, we just love books. We can't help ourselves. And I adore Jenny. That's just how it is and will be.



My cup runneth over.

Shebooks: calling all women writer friends to a remarkable contest/opportunity

I had the privilege, not long ago, of working on an 8,000-word memoir for Shebooks, an emerging e-book publisher. It was an intense, completing experience—my first return to long-form memoir in years, my chance to work again with an editor I love, my opportunity to try to understand the things I lost and the things I found in the wake of the passing of my mother.



Shebooks is the brainchild of Peggy Northrop and Laura Fraser. It is also the realm of Dawn Raffel and Rachel Greenfield and so many other established writers, teachers, and editors. Shebooks won a New Media Women's Entrepreneurial Fund. It has a lot of people talking.



Shebooks, as it describes itself: "Shebooks is the new e-book publisher of great short stories by women, for women. We publish long-form journalism, short memoir, and short fiction by some of the best writers in the United States and beyond, both well known and yet to be discovered."



Yesterday, Shebooks announced an incredible opportunity for writers—a contest in collaboration with Good Housekeeping. Shebooks is looking for women to write on the topic "Every Mother Has a Story." Particularly:

We're looking for submissions of 3,500-7,500 words. The contest is open to anyone 21+ who is a legal resident of the U.S., D.C., or Canada. There is a $15 submission fee and all entries must be received no later than midnight on December 15. The winner will receive $2,000 and possible publication in Shebooks and Good Housekeeping. What's more, all entrants will get a free two-month subscription to Shebooks. You can read more at www.goodhousekeeping.com/memoir-contest <http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/memoir-contest> .

 I can't think of a better organization to trust your best work to.

my conversation with Barbara DeMarco-Barrett is live and available here.

And I'm proud as a peacock to know this superstar writer/interviewer and to sometimes have the thrill of talking with her. Barbara is ridiculously smart about books (she writes her own) and authors (she knows them all) and our conversation ranged from memoir to rivers to El Salvador, voice to personhood to the wonders of multiple drafts, to the books I did not include in my appendix.



I goofed on one memoir's title.



I had fun despite the goof.



I hereby apologize to .....  well, let's see if anyone notices.



The conversation is here.

a peaceful, proposing morning

All morning long I have been at work on a proposal for a book about my city.



It was so peaceful, sitting here.

Talking with the great Barbara DeMarco-Barrett on KUCI

Barbara glows even more than the cover of Handling the Truth. Thank you, Barbara, for another great conversation on KUCI.