Beth Kephart's Blog, page 208

Not Musty: The British Museum

I thought the British Museum would be musty, strictly artifactual, thick around the middle, full of sad, plundering tales, half glyphs, faded graffiti.



It was hardly those things (if we overlook the plunder).  It was bright and white, a Spiralgraph.  It was—with all the hustle of morning school children and their bands of overseers—alive.

Emmy's Christmas Eve

In You Are My Only, Emmy and Autumn spend Christmas Eve together in a hospital, Emmy reading aloud from a borrowed book.  This was one of my favorite scenes to write, and when the future of this book was in doubt, when it seemed possible that it wouldn't be any book at all, I would return to this scene and write it again and imagine that Emmy and Autumn were worth fighting for. 



This morning, Bonnie Jacobs writes to say that The Adventures of an Intrepid Reader has chosen to excerpt this scene on her blog. Peace, I think.


Without further anything, then, Emmy and Autumn at Christmas:  here.

every now and then, a girl needs to get herself some flowers

I thought these were the sweetest little things.



In other news:  We have a tree.


There will be Christmas.

Cover Reveal: Nichts als Liebe (Nothing but Ghosts, the German edition)

When Nothing but Ghosts is released this summer from Taschenbuch Ausgabe, it will be translated by Cornelia Stoll, whom I am told is one of the very best, and it will have this cover.



Since I am now at work on a book that takes place in Germany, this all makes me extraordinarily happy, and hopeful.



Thank you, Jean McGinley, for helping to make this happen. Thank you to the acquiring editor, Julia Malik, for having such faith.



Thank you Taschenbuch Ausgabe and Cornelia Stoll for Nichts als Liebe. 

Cover Reveal: Nichts als Liebe Roman (Nothing but Ghosts, the German edition)

When Nothing but Ghosts is released this summer from Taschenbuch Ausgabe, it will be translated by Cornelia Stoll, whom I am told is one of the very best, and it will have this cover.



Since I am now at work on a book that takes place in Germany, this all makes me extraordinarily happy, and hopeful.



Thank you, Jean McGinley, for helping to make this happen. Thank you to the acquiring editor, Julia Malik.



Thank you Taschenbuch Ausgabe and Cornelia Stoll for Nichts als Liebe Roman. 

Wonderstruck/Brian Selznick: Celebration

I will confess to this:



Late in the darkened day, dozens of gifts finally wrapped, most of the cards out into the world, the house clean, the boy's room ready for the boy, and the clients happy, I stopped.



For my dear niece Claire, I'd bought a copy of Wonderstruck by the masterful Brian Selznick.  I hadn't wrapped this gift yet.  I'd wanted to take time with it, so that Claire and I could talk about it later.  Those soft yet crystalline pencil drawings.  Those two stories that become one.  That old-time New York City.  That cabinet of wonders.  Meteorites and movie stars.



Six-hundred thirty-five pages of art.  A book dedicated to Maurice Sendak.  A book that, in this late hour, in a time where I've been feeling that brand of holiday rush and sad, felt just right, felt perfect.



Yes.  This was the one.  This was the book for my big-hearted, big-eyed beautiful Claire.  This was the moment that finally ushered in my Christmas.

why do we write for the younger reader? because of this. always.

I sprinted outside when I saw the mailman coming; I was eager to conduct a quick exchange.  But when I realized what it was that he was handing me—a fat envelope containing a bright red folder, a folder full of thank you notes—I stopped in the cold gray air.  Stopped right there in my tracks.



I'd visited Mrs. Skrzat's classroom at The Eighth Grade Center at Springford just before I'd left for London.  I'd sat in a classroom talking about what we believe in, what we write, what we reach for, how we live.  And then, in a mad fury, I had dashed off.  Not forgetting those dear students—I never do that.  But imagining that they would soon forget me.



My high school friend Cynthia Feimster had arranged for the morning.  I want her, and Mrs. Skrzat, and all those students (they made me think, they made me laugh) to know that l hold that memory dear.  Every single letter in this bright red folder of letters is an indelible treasure.

Guess what I did to chill?

My son is closing out the second-to-last semester of his college career.



I tremble when I write that.



Papers have kept him up until 6:45 AM.  Finals are filling his days.  He'll exit the final final at the final hour — 7:30 Friday night — and then we'll bring him home.



Yesterday afternoon he called us in a snatch of stolen time.  "Guess what I just did to chill?" he asked.  I had many possible answers; I kept them to myself.  When we said we didn't know, couldn't possibly guess, he answered like this:  "I wrote.  I wrote what I wanted to write.  A new installation in my mystery series.  Can't wait to read it to you when I get home."



You know how I've always said that writing, for me, is medicinal?  I am sitting here feeling just a mighty bit of glad that I passed that part of my weird genetics on.

Oeuvre

When you are pressed, as I have been pressed, it is easy to forget that some things, sometimes, do get done.  Books are conceived.  Books are written.  Thanks to Maureen of Barnes and Noble (Devon) for this display.  (I am to blame for sneaking Small Damages in there.  It just looked so pretty.)

I breathed; I read the opening of Boleto

It's all moving at lightning speed around here, and frankly, I'm not keeping up.  "Breathe," a friend said the other day, and so, over the course of a train ride to Philadelphia yesterday morning, I neglected all other pressing responsibilities and did.  I breathed.  Which is to say, I read the first pages of my friend Alyson Hagy's new novel, Boleto, which had arrived by way of uncorrected proofs from Graywolf Saturday morning. 



I have known Alyson for a long time.  I have read every book she has written.  I have read some of her stories twice.  I have treasured every email, learned what she has generously taught me, savored the quality of her—no fair-weather friend, this Alyson Hagy.  She is always there, she is never self-important, she takes time even though I am not entirely sure how she finds a speck of time, for she is as deeply involved in the life of the creative writing department of University of Wyoming (Laramie) as she is in the university's sports program.  She snow shoes and plays championship tennis on the side.  She celebrates students, other writers, townsfolk, horsefolk.  She also writes books.



Oh, good Lord, does she write books.



My entire mood changed as I read the opening pages of Boleto.  My heart beat slowed.  For once again Alyson is doing something new with language, she is pulling me in, she is calming me with the tremendous grace of her talent.  I recalled the tone of Kent Haruf's Plainsong as I read, one of my all-time most favorite books.  I thought of how Alyson never stays in one place, is never happy with a single note, is perpetually tempted by language.



Here, for the time being, are the opening sentences of Boleto.  You are going to hear so much more about this book.  And not just from me, I swear.

She was a gift, though he did not think of her that way for a long time.  He paid twelve hundred dollars for her, money that came straight from his single account at Cabin Valley Bank.  She was halter broke, and trailer broke, and she had been wormed for the spring....  He knew twelve hundred dollars was a bargain for a strong-legged filly with papers.  He knew that even before he saw her.

Yes, reading Alyson Hagy is breathing.




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