Beth Kephart's Blog, page 114

Morning will arrive, and my husband with it (San Francisco fog)

We drove toward Santa Rosa at two in the afternoon, when the fog, which had been absent all weekend, began to roll in. In the distance, the plumes of the Mount Diablo State Park fire had begun to show; I would read about this massive fire later, when I was home in Philadelphia. On the Golden Gate Bridge, pedestrians stood watching the bay fill with the yachts of the America's Cup.



By six that evening, on the way back to the airport, the fog was dense and blowing hard—so fast that it seemed to be on a chase of some kind, escaping something. I felt chased with it, but not escaped. It would be a long ride home in a cold plane that hurtled through winds—turbulent, noisy, a little panic.



I am always glad to be home. Always grateful for this quiet place and for my handsome husband and for the things we do that keep me grounded in a life that moves too fast. We talk business over lunch. We rearrange the house for client photo shoots. We watch Project Runway and So You Think You Can Dance and Master Chef and congratulate the winners, discuss the losers, allow ourselves to be seduced by the idea of the "real" in reality TV. And when I cannot sleep at night, and these days I so rarely sleep at night, I always know that he is up there, near. That if I really cannot bear the weight of so many things, morning will eventually arrive, and my husband with it.

when you find your name in The New Yorker

Katrina Kenison is the one who told me. My name, she said, on the back of The New Yorker.



Are you sure? I said.



Because everybody who reads this blog knows how much I love The New Yorker. How much respect I have for its pages. How I have dreamed (but it is only a dream) of being New Yorker worthy.



Just as everybody who reads this blog knows how much I love Alice McDermott, with whom I sat, long ago, at the 1998 National Book Awards. She won that evening, for Charming Billy, and I joined the roaring crowds. I have been a huge admirer ever since—of her storytelling, her language, and her humanity.



My words in this ad on the back of The New Yorker? Needless to say, it is an honor.



For those who might have missed them, my thoughts about Someone are here. Yes. I loved it.

Gearing up for Next Weekend: The Imaginarium of B.F. Spells and The Chestnut Hill Book Festival

An honor to look ahead and see these two magnificent events on my calendar—events far bigger than me (always a good thing).



First, on September 21, there's The Imaginarium of Dr. B.F. Spells: An Extraordinary Experience in Exposition, happening at the Ethical Society of Philadelphia, Rittenhouse Square and produced by Spells Writing Lab. Details are here. Diane Rodriguez Wallach and Magic and Mad Libs and More, including Dr. Radway. (We like our doctors in Philadelphia.)



Second, check out the Chestnut Hill Book Festival and Speaker Series, happening September 22 (above). Don Lee, Daniel Torday, James Hoch, Lori Tharps, Philadelphia Stories, myself, and others will be in the house. We look forward to seeing you, and details are here.

Important words about memoir, brought to you by Jesmyn Ward.

For any of those who might need just a bit more proof that it pays to, as I say "soften your stance" when approaching memoir, I offer these words from Jesmyn Ward, whose new memoir, Men We Reaped, is high on my reading list (but not read yet).



The story of Ward's memoir is featured in yesterday's New York Times in a piece by Laura Tillman. I excerpt from the middle of the story. I admire and applaud Ward's desire to find the larger story, for it is the larger story, always, that lies at the heart of memoir. She waited to write until she understood. She waited until she could identify meaning.



From the story:

“Men We Reaped,” to be published on Tuesday by Bloomsbury, is as much an
existential detective story as it is a personal history, as Ms. Ward
searches for a unifying reason that her brother, Joshua, her cousin C.
J. and friends Roger, Demond and Ronald — all young black men — died
within a four-year period. 



She writes first about Roger Eric Daniels III, who died of a heart attack at 23 while using cocaine.

“They picking us off, one by one,” a friend tells Ms. Ward in the book,
as they watch the hearse leave Mr. Daniels’s home. 




Who, she wonders, are “they”? 



“Was there a larger story that I was missing as all these deaths accumulated, as those I loved died?”

“Men We Reaped” is that larger story. With a novelist’s skill, Ms. Ward
mines her memories of the men, like the girlhood crush she had on
Ronald, or the night she enlisted a friend to wake her sister, who was
dating C. J., to break the news of his death. What she finds are threads
of the past that linger in the collective present, specifically the
role that the South’s legacy of racism has played in how these young men
lived and died.

Grateful for Wendy Robards

who took the long drive from her home in Northern California to join me at Book Passage in Corte Madera, where we gathered around a table with other talented writers and talked about truth. It was a remarkable morning. Wendy produced wonderful work. And when were done, we spent some time with Izzies and bruschetta, with mounds of garlic cloves.



Today, on a day that has so many of us thinking back, I am grateful to Wendy for taking the time to come see me, to read Handling the Truth, and to write this extraordinary review. Wendy is set to go to Florence, soon. I've been working hard, but perhaps not effectively enough, to get my Florence novel to her in the nick of time.



Hence my silence, mostly, here.



Right now, I can only say how grateful I am for this, and for the friendship.



A few (but just a few) of Wendy's words. Which made me cry on this day, when writing feels like such incredibly hard work.

Maybe you don’t want to write a memoir, so you think this book is not
for you. But I encourage you to read it anyway, because within its
pages are truths, “aha” moments, and beautiful writing. And if you only
read it to get to the appendix of book recommendations – that is also
worth your time. The research for this book was huge. Beth culls her
formidable list of titles she read down to the best – many of which I
have read and loved myself.



It was hot in Marin this past weekend – the day was heavy with
sunshine, thick with an intense heat that had people rushing into shade –
but sitting in the air conditioned environment of The Book Passage, the
day fell away behind me. We were a small group, each of us there for
different reasons and at different points in our writing abilities. We
sniffed spices, shared photos, and scribbled down bits of memory and
detail in short bursts of time. We shared. And we listened. We had the
opportunity to get a glimpse into a writer’s soul and her passion, and
reap the reward of doing so. It is not an experience I will soon forget.



Many thanks to Beth Kephart – to her willingness to share herself so
completely with others, to fly through the dark, starry nights in order
to touch the lives of her readers, and for her beautiful words of which I
never tire of reading. You are a treasure. And so is your latest book –
Handling the Truth.

Mind of a novelist. Florence, Italy.

3:45 in the afternoon, outside Philadelphia, and all this long day long, I've been in Florence, where it is dawn and has been dawn and the sun is breaking at the Ponte Vecchio.



It took me five and a half hours on a flight to San Francisco to find the image I needed, the key to a novel that has nearly broken my heart.


One image. One moment. And the novel turns.



Slowly, it turns.

A few images from a blessed trip west

And not many words, for I am exhausted. (They don't call them Red Eyes for nothing.)



But, in order: Amber, Lara, Tamra, Stephanie, of Chronicle Books, who made my day there so special. Huge thanks to all four floors of the Chronicle team—so many working so hard, and so kindly, on behalf of a book we all believe in. I held Going Over in my hands for the first time. My friends, the packaging of this book is spectacular. The people behind the book are spectacular. And Tamra Tuller is more dear than she will ever know. Thank you, too, to Ginee, for hosting a dinner I will always fondly remember, and to Summer and Esme, for being first readers.



And then, at Book Passage, where I conducted a memoir workshop with truly talented writers, and where I spent extra time with Wendy Robards, who drove hours to join us. A beautiful moment. And then the opportunity to meet Linda Joy Myers, memoir workshopper supreme, in person. I'll be having a live tele-conversation with Linda (who is also the president of the National Association of Memoir Writers) later this month. Details are here.



Later that day, at Books, Inc., another memoir workshop, and time with my first Penn student (and muse from my corporate fairytale, Zenobia), Moira Moody Kuo, who is glowing as a new mom. Moira grew up and became a great teacher herself. She also became my first student to make me a pseudo grandmother. Moira, how could you? And also: I am honored, and thank you for your gifts and card.



Early the next day, I walked miles upon miles, to see (again) parts of this city I love. The fog had rolled in. The wild sea beasts were sunning. A dog had put on its shades.



And finally, a long ride to wine country, Santa Rosa, with Brian, the best driver ever. A man who has, as it turns out, driven many friends of mine—Ruta Sepetys, Jayne Anne Phillips, D.J. MacHale, Buzz Bissinger, among them—and who makes us all feel special. I spoke to a packed room of writers at the Flamingo Resort. I also met Vicki of Copperfield Books who had, she told me, laid the groundwork for my trip out west, by making one very special request of Gotham.



I'll be forever grateful. Thank you, Gotham team, for making the trip possible.

Taking the First Person Arts Stage, with Dani Shapiro

Incredibly happy as I anticipate my conversation (about books, memoir, writing, meaning) with Dani Shapiro during the upcoming First Person Arts Festival on Sunday, November 10, 4 - 5:30, at Christ's Church in Philadelphia.



The details are here. My thoughts about Dani's wonderful new book, Still Writing, are here.

Leaving part of my heart in San Francisco

The three day odyssey is almost over. I have walked this city's hills, seen old friends, lunched with quilter and blogger Wendy Robards, held a former student's baby, met Linda Joy, dined with booksellers, listened to the work of powerful memoirists, talked a lot about truth, driven in a car with a former newspaper editor, seen the America's Cup from afar, met the amazing Chronicle team, taken a Chronicle tour given by the uber cool Lara Starr, shared a meal with Lara and the quite fine Stephanie Wong, held the GOING OVER advanced readers copy in my hands, met the phenomenal designer and her muse, talked with the international rights team ( there seems to be interest!), talked food and books with Ginee Seo,

And

And

Spent rich, unforgettable time with Tamra Tuller, with whom I could talk forever, about all things.

(Yes, I presented those details out of order, but does it matter? Tamra was there through it all.)

Today that same newspaper editor will drive me to Santa Rosa so that I can meet with a writers group. And then I will come home. I will always love this misty city.

 

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San Francisco Chinatown, Early Morning

The day begins again. An early morning walk. I will never tire of this city's many faces and hills.

I head to the great independent bookstores of San Francisco to teach memoir, to see friends.

 

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