Beth Kephart's Blog, page 129

Is This Tomorrow/Caroline Leavitt: Reflections

We in the Land of Facebook have a strong affection for Caroline Leavitt, that New York Times bestselling author, that Sundance worthy scriptwriter, that well-regarded critic, that teacher, that bloggess. Her generosity sweeps in all directions. When she interviews writers for her meaty CarolineLeavittville, you can tell that she's read the book, engaged with the book, wanted the book to succeed. When she's up in the late night or the early AM working or angsting or thinking about chocolate, she messages out, lassos us in, makes us part of her story.



You cannot possibly be a lonesome writer if your world has ever swept up against the world of Caroline Leavitt. She builds community. She knits us together.



To her books—novels that care as much about the characters as they care about the plot—Caroline transports her giant soul. I was a big fan of Pictures of You (read my thoughts here on Caroline's talent for creating intimacy with the third person voice) and so was the rest of the world.



Is This Tomorrow, Caroline's newest, instantly compelling tale, is trademark Caroline all over again—characters that walk straight out of real life and edge-of-your-seat plot. This time the story begins in the 1950s. It features a divorced Jewish mom, her son, Lewis, and his two across-the-street best friends. One of those friends will go mysteriously missing early on. The accommodations the characters make to keep moving forward in the wake of the tragedy will never be enough. The truth, when it is found out, will eventually snap the characters straight out of time and back toward the dark.



Ava, the divorcee with the fine legs and the almost (almost) unwitting seductive style, will, in time, come to take pleasure from baking—and selling—pies. Her hands are the right temperature (chilly) for the crust. Her enthusiasm for diverting from known recipes into uncharted flavors serves her well. The happiness she derives from doing that which she chooses to do—and begins to do definingly well—is the happiness, I suspect, that Caroline hopes for us all.



A few words from one of my favorite scenes:

He took a bite and then looked up at her, as if he were taking her measure. She saw the surprise in his face, the pleasure. "Cloves," she whispered into his ear. "Nutmeg." He took another bite and another and soon finished off the whole piece. "Is there more?" he said and she laughed.

And she laughed. As might we all.



On another note: just one more day in the Handling the Truth giveaway.... Memoir makers, this is for you.

On finishing the first draft of a novel, and A.S. King, look what Kephart has

So about ten minutes ago, I finished the first full draft of a book that has been in my mind and heart for more than a year. A complex book that I had to fight to simplify. An unusual story that I had to make accessible. A tale involving massive research that I had to up the IQ to understand (I don't actually know how to up the old girl's IQ, but I tried). The book has to sit now, percolate, be still.



What does that mean for you, oh loyal and kind blog readers?



That means this very very very good news: I can return to my previously scheduled programming now and write more about the books I love to read. I've got a stack of books to read piled high. I've got A.S. King, Caroline Leavitt, Dani Shapiro, Patricia Engel, Alice McDermott, Jennie Nash, so many others looking at me. I'm going to get to work.



But first to a party in West Philadelphia to celebrate the release of Anna Badkhen's The World is a Carpet, which has been lavishly praised by William Langewiesche and Rory Stewart, among others.



I can't wait to be out in the world. To be. To learn from others.

HANDLING THE TRUTH: one could be yours. announcing a few cool Beth contests (with thanks to Wendy Robards)

You know how it is. It's a Saturday morning, hot, and you've been pushing away on a project for a very long time; you want to stop. Your email bell rings and you are glad for the temporary pass out.



And then you are blown away. Because there is Wendy Robards of Caribousmom announcing a gonzo contest involving all of your books. And you are thinking, No. Wait. She can't do that. And also. No. Wait. That sounds like fun. So you throw in a signed copy of your own to make the party just a tad splashier (though it was plenty splashy already). And then, after that, you keep thinking:



Why not throw another party a few blog doors down.



So here is what Wendy at Caribousmom is offering on her blog as part of the Armchair BEA extravaganza. Thank you, amazing amazing Wendy.



And here, on my blog, I offer this—a chance to win my second-to-last galley copy of Handling the Truth. (I want to keep the last for myself.) All you have to do is write one single sentence describing the memoir genre—what IS memoir?—and your name will be placed into the proverbial hat.



You have until June 5. Starting... now.

Gambler's Choice and the Olympic Greats at the Devon Horse Show

Last night the Olympic athlete Todd Minikus won Gambler's Choice at the Devon Horse Show in a field sporting fellow Olympian McClain Ward as well as Laura Chapot, the daughter of two equestrian Olympians and a Devon Horse Show favorite. The carriages, many of them a century old, arrived in the ring after that.



A few scenes from the evening, then. A casual moment in the stables. Laura Chapot at the first fence. McClain Ward with Wings, in flight. Three images of the winner, Todd Minikus. Two scenes from the carriage ride.

Caribousmom cites Handling the Truth—and names some of my favorite memoirs in the process

When Caribousmom so generously noted Handling the Truth in her post today, she couched it within the frame of memoirs she has read and loved—three of which are prominently featured in Handling the Truth, one of which she made sure I read before I finished the book. That is Caribousmom (aka Wendy Robards, the great quilt maker and healing touch) for you. Ahead of the curve. Always. A dear friend. Forever.


I wonder if you can guess which three Wendy memoirs are also featured in Handling.

Yesterday, 5:15 AM, on my way to the train, this scene at the horse show

Alice McDermott—the surprise of a literary lifetime

Earlier today, at the Shindig booth at the BEA, my friend Lynn Rosen whispered two words into my ear: Alice McDermott.



She's here? I asked.



Lynn pointed, and I went running. Alice McDermott—the Alice McDermott. A woman I hold in the highest esteem. A woman who stood by my side at the National Book Awards in 1998 and whose books—every single one—have left me devastated.



Risking rudeness (for I was receiving that sweet, sweet Armchair BEA Award for Small Damages and Danielle Smith was near), I stood in that Alice McDermott line, determined to get a copy of her new novel. I had no idea if she would remember me. It wouldn't matter if she did. I simply wanted to read her again, to be restored by her story and words.



And so I got a copy of Someone, Alice's seventh novel. And so I slipped it into my bag. And so I walked the floor and sat with Jen Doll and met the wonderful Chronicle team and then left the event to find my son and sit with him in a place called Tracks. And then I rode two trains, and it wasn't until I was three stops from home that I took Someone out of my bag and held it to my heart and then (the way we do) slowly turned it over to read the jacket copy.



To find my own words, from a review written long ago.



I am stunned.



Beyond honored.



One of the most extraordinary gifts in my literary life.

To Manhattan, always a thrill (and now even more so)

Why is it that I can never quite get adult enough when it comes to going to New York City? The prospect always thrills me, and it thrills me even more today, for my son is there, willing to take a very late lunch so that I can spend an hour with him. His company has moved into new office space. He has, as of yesterday, a "beautiful view" of SOHO. He has stories to tell.



5:02 AM. Off to the first train of the day.

Dr. Radway is most generously read by Melissa Sarno

You know that part in the magnificent Gail Caldwell memoir Let's Take the Long Way Home, in which Gail is reflecting on an early juncture in her friendship with the writer Caroline Knapp? Gail, the older, more established writer, has been entirely supportive of Caroline's work. Caroline has asked for Gail to read; Caroline has asked for Gail's opinion; Gail has reliably responded.



Caroline, however, has never said a word about the work Gail has done, and the vulnerability of not knowing, the inequality of the playing field, has begun to rub away at Gail. Finally Gail asks, "I have to ask you something difficult—I need to know what you think about my work." Caroline, fortunately, is right there with a reassuring, loving answer.



Melissa Sarno, a young woman I met at a BEA exhibit years ago, a young woman whose writing impresses not just me, but her many blog fans and her brand new agent (wait until you someday read Melissa's Coney Island novel), is one of those people who has never left me wondering. She has, indeed, been a most generous, and perceptive, reader of my work, and I will be forever grateful.



Last evening, late, Melissa wrote to tell me that she had read a book she knows means the world to me, a book with a quiet release, a book I still have high hopes for—Dr. Radway's Sarsaparilla Resolvent. Melissa read and took the time to post these words about the book on her fabulous blog, and to share her favorite paragraph. A few lines from Melissa's blog here, below. I am moved, as a friend and a writer, by the whole.



Thank you so much, Melissa Sarno.

That is what I love, love, love about this book.  The fullness and
richness of this writhing adventure. Each sentence swells with the
endurance of characters that are, in many ways, running on empty, past empty, but with their hearts bursting full at their worn seams.

the writer's life is all here, in the making

Here, on my desk, the notes I have made for the final seven scenes in the Florence, Italy, novel.



Seven scenes is a large number and I refuse to write fast; there's too much pleasure to be found in writing slow—in taking the time to look around, in stopping to live in the thick stew of it all, in feeling deeply, in walking to the end of that alley.



I am a writer because I love to write, because—for my own psyche—I have to. This writing—this right now, this work that comes after a year of self doubt and tossed pages, certainty of failure, little cracks of light, a sudden knowing—this is the thing.



The writer's life is all here, in the making. It's what we teach ourselves about words, faith, perseverance, about the collisions that become story.