Beth Kephart's Blog, page 235

Celebrating 26 Years of Marriage

with a lunch at Terrain at Styer's.

The kindness of editors

A few days ago I found myself in the midst of a conversation about a book that I am writing, a novel for adults.  I'd thought the book complete; I'd thought it whole.  I believed that the time had come for this book of mine.  Indeed, I was nearly certain.



But that time isn't, as it turns out, now.  There are some aspects of this novel that need to be reconsidered.  I couldn't see that myself.  I was, thanks to readers who deeply care, helped to see it.  And what is kinder, in the end, than an editor and an editor friend who will sit and talk over the course of several days about what the future of a book might be.



I am indebted, once again.



The work awaits me.

Honoring caregivers through the Shire BRAVE Awards

As many of you know, we at Fusion Communications launched our brand new website over the weekend—a labor of love, as they say.  A big thank you to all of you who have taken the time to visit the site and to let me know.  Some of you have asked about that home page photo.  The answer to that question is:  I snapped the shot while sitting in a tiny plane headed toward Chicago from Appleton, Wisconsin.



One of the companies that is featured on the Fusion Communications site is Shire plc, a global specialty biopharmaceutical company that is led by people who continue to look for ways to make a real and meaningful contribution to the many communities in which it has a presence.  I have worked with Shire for many years; I have been grateful for the honor.



One of the newest Shire initiatives is the BRAVE Awards, designed "to acknowledge ordinary people who give of themselves by caring for others in a meaningful, dedicated and selfless manner."  Each recipient of a Brave Award will be given $10,000 USD.



Essentially, Shire is seeking stories about real caregivers. I post this here because I read your stories, learn from your convictions, marvel at your courage, and know first-hand that selflessness pervades the readership of this blog.  There are, no doubt, deserving caregivers among you.



I present the BRAVE Awards to you here, then.  Find out more by visiting this site.

The color of life: a writing prompt

Today, at the Rutgers-Camden Summer Writer's Conference, I'll be asking the students to reflect on the color of life, a prompt inspired by the wholly moving Gerald Stern poem, "Eggshell."



Among the readings will be a brief passage excerpted from the Rebecca Solnit essay, "The Blue of Distance." Solnit writes from a place of knowing toward a place of wonder. An excerpt here:

The world is blue at its edges and in its depths. This blue is the light that got lost. Light at the blue end of the spectrum does not travel the whole distance from the sun to us. It disperses among the molecules of the air, it scatters in water. Water is colorless, shallow water appears to be the color of whatever lies underneath it, but deep water is full of this scattered light,the purer the water the deeper the blue. The sky is blue for the same reason, but the blue at the horizon, the blue of land that seems to be dissolving into the sky, is a deeper, dreamier, melancholy blue, the blue at the farthest reaches of the places where you see for miles, the blue of distance.  This light that does not touch us, does not travel the whole distance, the light that gets lost, gives us the beauty of the world, so much of which is in the color blue.

Launching our brand-new company website

Thanks to the very hard work of a certain illustrator/designer, Fusion:Communications, the boutique marketing communications firm that occupies most of my waking hours, has a brand new website.



I am happy to share that with you here.

I like this photograph

I share it.[image error]

Midnight in Paris

Late yesterday afternoon the suffocating heat broke, the skies blued, and I convinced my husband to join me in seeing Woody Allen's film, "Midnight in Paris," which came highly recommended by Melissa Sarno, whose fine blog, This Too... speaks for itself. 



My friends, Melissa was right.  Allen has done something quite extraordinary here—dared to send Owen Wilson (whose screen presence is, to me, a dear one) through the streets of Paris as a yearner and would-be novelist named Gil.  Gil, is about to marry a woman (Inez, played by Rachel McAdams) who rarely listens to and hardly respects Gil's desire to leave his lucrative Hollywood career for a chance at a different kind of writerly life.  Inez is entitled, egocentric, ungenerous.  Gil dreams.



Gil also begins to walk the streets of Paris at midnight, and that's when things begin to change, when the film moves toward both fantasy and the fantastic.  You won't find spoilers here, but I will tell you this:  One of the most moving aspects of this film, to me, was how freely Allen asserted his vision.  Gil's midnight interludes are not explained away as dreams or science fiction.  They are not narratively challenged.  They are merely presented—given to us in all their sweetness and humor, for our cinematic taking.



I loved this movie for its unabashed goodness and for what it says about the power of place, of cities, to embody not just now but then. I loved it for making me laugh out loud, for releasing me back into the dusky night feeling lighter than I've been.

A thank you to my students, a report on the coming days

It is a pleasure peculiar to the teacher that, even after classes end and the students go on their way, so many find their way back to your own soul-er home.  They report on their journeys.  They change the tenor of the conversation you were having with yourself. They make you believe, above all else, that the intensity of what was then matters still, right now.



You students know who you are, and you know that I am grateful.



In other news, I prepare today to meet with the 14-year-old San Francisco-based book club that travels once each year to meet an author who has written of his/her city.  We'll be gathering at Chanticleer garden on Saturday, where two of my books (Ghosts in the Garden and Nothing but Ghosts) take place; we'll talk as well about Dangerous Neighbors. My thanks to Kathye Fetsko Petrie, a writer and writer advocate, who suggested my name to the group, and a warm welcome to Kyle Taylor and her band of reader/travelers.



I prepare as well to meet, on Monday, with the students of the 25th Annual Rutgers-Camden Summer Writers' Conference, which Lisa Zeidner so brilliantly concocts each year.  I'm joining (quite late in the game) a cast that includes the likes of Jane Bernstein, Ken Kalfus, Lise Funderburg, J.T. Barbarese, and Peter Trachtenberg.  I'm offering my thoughts on creative nonfiction.  I'm banking on some time alone with Lisa, whose friendship I have grown to cherish.

On being interviewed at the Brandenburg Gate

At the Brandenburg Gate, these two girls asked if I might have the time for an interview; they were practicing their English and would be graded on their translation.



What is your name?

Beth.



What is your work?

I write things.



When did you come to Berlin?

Yesterday.



What do you like most about Berlin?

The artist's spirit. The dome. The reconstruction. The artists.  The dome.



What don't you like about Berlin?

Nothing.  Or, perhaps, the thought of leaving too soon.



Where are you from?

Philadelphia in the United States.



Philadelphia?  Philadelphia?



They had recorded me.  I recorded them.  They were gorgeous.

The boy: happy abroad

Today, it's just this:  My kid is loving his six weeks of study abroad.  It's the students he has traveled with.  It's the cities—London, Brussels, Amsterdam—where he has gone/will go.  But let me here loudly thank the professor with whom my son is studying—a top global advertising executive, a man with stories, a guy who will go out for a meal with the kids after class and keep on teaching, listening.  He sends the students off to brand museums and into meetings with Saatchi executives. He takes them to Toyota Motor Europe.  He teaches British history, strolls the plaza, keeps his students looking up.



My son refers to this guy by his last name, as if this is the greatest honor a man could earn.  Perhaps it is.