Beth Kephart's Blog, page 224

Peace, Prayers, Healing

In memory of.In hopes for.

The Wondrous Joe Polin Has His First Published Essay

I do go on about those University of Pennsylvania students I have the privilege to teach, but why shouldn't I?  They are brave and beautiful and bold and lovable, and they have talent coming out of their ears.





I'm not typically able to show you that talent, but today I can.  That's because Mr. Joe Polin, an engineer (mind you!) who was enrolled in my class last semester, has just published this beautiful piece, his last work in our class, in the magnificent Pennsylvania Gazette.  It's called "Off the Rails."  It's about Joe's Cuban grandfather.  It starts like this, below, and to read the whole, simply click on this link here:

Santiago de Cuba, 1933:



The doctor examined the newborn twins, his forehead wrinkled with concern. He bent over the nearer one to listen to his breathing.



"Are they okay? Are they healthy?" the father asked.



The doctor finally straightened up, meeting the father's gaze. After a moment of consideration, he said, "Give this one your name, he is perfectly healthy. This one"—he pointed to the smaller of the two twins—"isn't going to make it. He's too weak to survive." 

I miss those students as fall gets underway, but in the spring I will be back.  If I see Joe Polin while he's rambling down Locust Walk some Tuesday, I'm going to give him a hug, whether he likes it or not.  For that matter, if I see any of those students .....



Thank you, editor John Prendergast.

False Notes, Or: Stop Lying to Yourself

This week, in stolen hours, I returned to a novel for adults that I began writing last year.  I tend to work this way, which is to say that I don't start writing anything until I've already thought about at least parts of it for a very long time, and then I write as if someone is chasing me with a nasty, whomping broom, and then I stop and read with my fine and fancy blinders on, and then I imagine that the book is done (You go, girl, I say, patting myself on the back), and then a very smart and kind editor will tell me that my book, while nice in theory and all, isn't actually altogether done, and then I tuck the un-done book into a safe place (stained, I'll admit, by a few tears), and then I meditate (invisibly, you see, apparently painlessly), and then (stealth attack!) I return.



If anyone ever tells you that writing is a straightforward affair, please, for my sake, disabuse them of that notion.



In returning to this novel of mine this past week, I had an epiphany moment.  To reveal that I always have this very same epiphany, book after book after book, might leave you with the notion that I'm not a very good learner.  So be it.  The secret is out.



But here, for the record (may you learn from this, since clearly I cannot):  You cannot fool your reader.  You cannot force-fit a theme.  You cannot make your characters do anything they were not organically destined to do.  You might think you're the puppet master, but you're not.  You might think that you can tell your readers that your character is behaving in a certain way because—that you can defend his actions, tuck his rationale into poetic monologues, put a fine dramatic scene into the mix to consummate the deal—but your readers are smarter than that.  No, they will say.  Vin would have never left Becca for that.  Don't you remember who he was, where he came from?  Don't you remember what he said, back then, and what he did, when Becca was broken?  I'm so sorry, your readers will say.  But that just isn't Vin.



Don't lie to your readers.  Don't lie to yourself.  This is Beth talking to Beth this morning.  I just hope that she can hear me.

the skies cleared; we lifted our chins to the moon

This afternoon, after what seemed a week of rain (and before what might be rain still), the skies cleared.  There was wet heat in the air, and the rivers and streams were still swollen and sore.  But by the time I took a walk, dinner time, say, the moon was bright and near.



Everyone was out.  We'd all been locked in, hurricaned, stormed.  I saw friends I had not seen all summer long, two little girls from my church out on scooters, a couple I will call the McC's, whose love for each other is warming.  Friends walked by, rode by, drove by, and it was like we were all in awe of the clearing together.



Not long ago I was sure I would leave this neighborhood.  I was imagining the freedom of escaping some pressures.  But what would I miss, and who, if I could not walk down these streets?  Where would the moon be, when I finally got around to lifting my own chin?

The Story Behind the YAMO Story: The Treasure Hunt Begins; A Special Prize is Offered

A few days ago, as followers of this blog know, I was all set to post about a blog treasure hunt I'd been concocting with a few dear friends when my plan got ever so slightly derailed.  I've started to call that derailment the You Are My Only grassroots campaign.  I think it's rather historic. 



But, back to our regularly scheduled program.  The blog treasure hunt is pretty simple, really.  Five posts by yours truly are about to go up around the internet.  Each of these five posts tells a story about the making of You Are My Only, a book that today received this Publishers Weekly review. Many posts include passages that were written but never used in the final book. 



These posts focus on:



* The transformation of Sophie from the 40-year-old character she began her (fictional) life as to the 14-year-old at the center of this book.



* The voice of Emmy—where it came from, how it seized me.



* The history behind the asylum that inspired a key setting in the book.



* The story behind Cloris and Helen, characters I've been developing for more than ten years.



* The story behind the book's title (and insights into titles that were considered, then rejected).



These Story Behind the Story posts will start floating around the blogosphere beginning tomorrow.  Each is going up on a different day.  Your task is to find all five entries and then post them collectively on your own blog.  Send the link to me, in the comment box on this page.  Your name will then be entered into the drawing.



Two winners will be selected.  Each will win these two things:  A signed copy of You Are My Only AND a critique (by yours truly) of the first 2,000 words of a work-in-progress.  As many of you know, I teach memoir at the University of Pennsylvania and served as the inaugural readergirlz author in residence.  I have written in multiple genres and critique adult fiction for major U.S. newspapers.  Your manuscript can, I am hinting, be in any genre, save for a screenplay, about which I have absolutely zeroexpertise.



So there it is.  The treasure hunt begins.  I look forward to hearing from you.

The (lovely) Publishers Weekly review of You Are My Only

"Kephart (Dangerous Neighbors) writes a

psychologically taut novel, juxtaposing

the thoughts of Sophie, a teen kidnapped

during her infancy, and her grieving

birthmother, Emmy, who is institutionalized

after a breakdown....  Succinct, emotionally packed chapters

capture similarities between mother and

daughter, the depth of their despair, their

common desire to be free, and their poetic

vision of the world. As Sophie begins to

find clues about her captor's secret past,

readers will be on the edge of their seats

waiting for the inevitable, liberating moment

that will change the course of the

lives of both mother and daughter." Ages

12–up. (Oct.) — Publishers Weekly

Private as a Room: A Poem

In the midst of a swirl of karmic kindness, I have returned to a novel I left standing last April, this one for adults.  Once this novel told the story a poet, and poems advanced the plot. 



If a poet now no longer stands at the center of the book, her poems (which I suppose are my poems) remain.  Here is one.







Private as a Room

You dream a silver fish big as a truckon a highway, any highway, this could be Mexico,this could be Guatemala, neverthelessand regardless, it's a damned big fish.  You dreamthe fish floating but upright, not exerting its gills,not attempting to fly, eyes the color of penniesand wide, and the highway you dream is not a highway but a river in reversals,running the wrong way toward the sky.

You tell me this in the morning, in winter, by the windowwhere the sun slides in between the branches ofthe red bird's tree, and you might as well be speaking of the Apian Way, or the color white in Mykonos, or that pool of light you photographed in the cathedral instead of the instructions of the priest.  For you had seen this fish, and it wassilver as a truck and big, coins for its eyes,that cauterized quality of dignity, and you saidyou thought you dreamed:  This is my gift to you —

this fish, that river, their sky, in the same way you once said, Marry me on Samson Street, in winter.  It was cold then, too, I remember, and the road was a thick slick of ice and the street was as private as a room, and there was nothing in your hands but my hand, nothing in our pockets but time.And yes, I'll marry you.

You Are My Only—the kindness of bloggers continues

I woke up yesterday thinking the day would be like most others—a scramble of corporate work, some exercise, laundry folded on the fly, an hour or two spent with a novel-in-progress, some texting with my son, Wednesday night salsa at MIXX.  It started out that way, that's for sure, but the pattern got broken mid-way through.  Things started to show up on my Facebook wall.  You-better-take-a-look-at....-emails were coming through.  What's going on? people were asking.  I don't know, I said.  Because for a long time I didn't.



I'm still mystified, to be honest, by all the kindness that came my way during the course of yesterday—all the kindness that exists in this world.  I'm mystified, and I'm eternally grateful. I am also feeling desperately inadequate because I have failed to capture it all.  I had planned, yesterday, to thank some very special people who have been supporting me and my work for years.  In the shuffle and shift and bewilderment of my day, I did not do that.



Today is the day that I stop and thank the readers and writers who have quietly written to me of their support.  Today is the day I thank those who read this book early and posted their thoughts.  I never want this blog to be all about me.  It is my privilege, here, to write about others, their books, their dreams; to write about my city; to write about people doing good.  In cross posting these early blogger reviews of You Are My Only, I am celebrating those who took the time—those who care.  I am telling them what I hope they already feel and know:  That I am hugely grateful.  If I have not captured your voice here, it is only because I don't know.  Because years ago I stopped googling my own name—the only solution for one as naturally obsessive and easily worried as me. 



And so then please find below the excerpts from some recent blog posts that I hope you will read in their entirety. Posts from bloggers whom you should visit daily.   Caribousmom is here—that exquistely smart reviewer with whom I first connected over The Elegance of the Hedgehog and whom I later met in person in New York; I've loved her ever since.  Becca of Bookstack, an indelible presence and so-smart reviewer and long time blog world friend is here.  There's a Book and My Friend Amy are here—their support so entirely unspeakable.  Hippies Beauty and Books. Oh my, is here, as is The Reading Zone.  These join the rocking surprise gonzo You Are My Only promotion featured here, on Chick Loves Lit and on Bookalicious, the equally stealthy and gonzo Melissa Sarno of This Too  giveaway,  Florinda, Kay's Bookshelf, and Books, Thoughts, and a Few Adventures.



Thank you.  All.  I'm about to start reading a new book called Child Wonder.  I hope to write of that soon here—to return to the universe some of the what has been sent my way.



"Beth Kephart is an author that knows the human heart and writes it with an eloquence that will have you in love with the words on the page as if they were living breathing beings. My only regret upon closing You Are My Only was that I had to leave behind Emmy and Sophie in their newly discovered freedoms, but thankfully I can still go back to visit them whenever I'd like. You Are My Only will easily be a favorite among readers, both young and old, and has quickly taken it's place on my shelf among my personal favorite reads of all time."—There's a Book



"Her latest book, You Are My Only (due out on October 25th and available for pre-order here ) is also a book about a desperate search. Two quests, really. Emmy, a young mother, searching for her lost child. And Sophie, who begins to question her world, seeking the one thing she doesn't know to look for. All of it culminating to a discovery that left me with sweaty palms and a racing heart as I turned each page."—This Too



"Beth Kephart uses a very unique style of writing for this book that reminds me a bit like Ellen Hopkins. She is extremely creative and uses a sort of poetic prose for this book that I really enjoyed. I'm not sure everyone will necessarily like this sort of writing style, but it didn't bother me or distract me from the points the author was trying to convey. It is very different and I liked it. It comes across as eloquent and efficient and I think that it added that extra special touch needed for this book to be a great book and not just a good book." — Hippies Beauty and Books.  Oh my.  



"Anyone who has read one of Beth's books know she's an observer, that her books are about characters being torn open and stitched up with hope, that healing never ever comes apart from healing together. I haven't yet been able to write a proper review for this book, because no other book this year has affected me like You Are My Only did. It's a beautiful and powerful book on its own, but it's also a book that met me exactly where I needed to be met at the moment in life. And I think that's also a little bit of what having a favorite author is all about...they always write in such a way that you marvel at their gift for knowing bits of your heart you can't express yourself." — My Friend Amy



"In case you have not already figured it out – I loved You Are My Only – a book that takes the reader into the darkness and then shows them a way to return to the light. Beautifully written and astonishing, this is a book which I highly recommend for readers of all ages."— Caribousmom

"Beth Kephart always conveys an amazing depth of understanding about her characters and their emotional lives, while creating a story that captivates and engages readers of all ages. She writes about real people in real situations whose lives and feelings mirror our own, but elevates these experiences to an almost mystical level with her beautiful descriptive language and writerly attention to detail."—Bookstack

"This isn't an action-filled book, despite the blurb.  It's quiet, meditative.  Both narrative arcs are engrossing.  I found myself loving each story individually.  Whenever the narrative changed I would be upset leaving that character behind. But then, within a few sentences, I was equally as engrossed in the alternate story.  Kephart chooses her words carefully and the prose is gorgeous.  I found myself savoring each descriptive sentence while fighting the urge to fly through the book to reach the conclusion. Highly recommended." — The Reading Zone

you will always have a place in my heart

There will, inevitably, be mistakes in this post.  That is because I am literally shaking.  My hands are numb.  My throat is tight.  Don't call me, because I'll start crying.



I am the girl in that picture, here.  Wearing funky pants and silly hairy, my whole self just a little bit blurry.



I haven't changed much.  I still have my self-doubts, my disappointments, my too-big dreams.  I can still get cranky from time to time, I can never get my hair right, and I can still write sentences that (upon waking to them the next day) shame me.  We writers out here — we are just writers.  And sometimes things go well and sometimes they don't, and if we had to do it all alone—if I had to do it all alone—well, I am pretty darned sure that my career would have stopped long ago.  I wouldn't have stopped writing.  But I might not have books in lovely covers to share.



I owe everything—everything—to the good hearts out here who have looked up from their own projects, their own days, their own children, their own blogs and said, You have a place with us here.



Today my world broke open that much wider.  Today—yesterday—the day before—the days before that—readers— friends! — reached in and turned on a light.  I have so many to thank.  It's just so inadequate, that phrase, thank you.



In a day or two, there will be a treasure hunt, a series of blog posts, distributed across the net, that I wrote to help tell the story of the story behind You Are My Only.  I will announce the details of that in time.



But all this time that I have been working with the dear hearts on this treasure hunt, those dear hearts took the party so much wider—very sneakily preparing what has become one gigantic early party for this book.  These party planners know that I never google my own name, and so perhaps that set them free. Still, I have no idea how they did this much without me even guessing that anything more was afoot.



To attend this party, you must first visit the master schemer, the beautiful heart, the lovely lady behind There's a Book, the one and only 1st Daughter.  You must at the exact same time visit the one and only, ever invincible, always dear and wise and stunning, always surprising My Friend Amy.  You then must visit the fantastically multi-hued Chick Loves Lit (I literally screamed when I saw what she has there) and the incredibly wise, totally a-licious Bookalicious.    Soon, when I stop shaking, I will share those links that have been sent my way.  Every single one of which means the world to me.



Please don't think that I am kidding about my shaking over here.  And what I just wrote in a comment box to the 1st Daughter is true: The first thing that happened when I saw all of this just now is that I said to myself, Beth, You have to call Mom.  But Mom's in heaven, and she's looking down.  She sends her love to all of you.

When you run out of thank you, what do you say?

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Look.  I'm going to be honest with you.  You book bloggers out there are bringing me to my knees in gratitude.  You have no idea what your words, your enthusiasm, your deeply felt embraces mean—right now, always.  Every single blog post takes time.  Time to construct the thoughts, to find those links, to read the words through, to make them right, to get it all out there.  Time away from something else (so many things) that might be done.  I know how much time matters—how there is never enough of it—and I am so grateful that you have gifted me with so much of yours.



I speak of all of you out there who have been so supportive of You Are My Only, of this blog, of this odd book life of mine.  And today I speak to Florinda of the fabulous 3Rs, who wrote this beautiful post just now.  In honor of who she is, and of how she stood at my side at the BEA this past summer, and of all that she does as a book blogger and reviewer (her own blog was a long-list nominee for the BBAW), I am replaying a little video that we made during a happy moment this past summer.  We had this conversation on behalf of the Armchair BEA initiative that has now been nominated as part of the 2011 Book Bloggers Appreciation Week.



Florinda, then and now, I thank you.