Beth Kephart's Blog, page 245

Red Carpets and Grocery Stores: A New York City Day

If it weren't for my brother, father, and my agent, I would have never seen a New York City show. It's thanks to the first that I sat, front-rowish, at "The Phantom" and "West Side Story." It's thanks to the second that I experienced the phenomenal "Wicked." It's thanks to the third, Amy Rennert, that I once saw "The Lion King" during a weekday matinee—a celebration, years and years ago, of my beginning in the land of published books. Yesterday, my husband and I were again in New York, this time to see the moving "Billy Elliot," and this time, again, thanks to my brother and front-rowish. I am, obviously, a very lucky girl.



My husband and I had terrific weather; we had time to walk and to see. Elizabeth Law was our gracious hostess early in the day before she went off (but you'll have to check Facebook to see my blurry proof of this) to discuss political, theatrical, and literary affairs with The Naked Cowboy and to see a show of her own, spreading word of Allen Zadoff's new book everywhere she went.



After "Elliot," my husband and I headed toward Columbus Circle. We stopped at the Hearst Building, where a scene from a movie was being shot, and then moved on. In the gonzo Whole Foods on Columbus Circle, we waited in the express line with our dinners in hand—which would have been interesting enough (the Whole Foods lines snaking long and far—part political movement, part hunger), but which was made a tad more interesting when the stunning Salma Hayek appeared with her gorgeous little girl—just a mom buying the ingredients of the evening's meal.



On our return trip south, we were regaled with a tale about a Spider Man filming—if you wait until dusk, a woman offered, pointing to the Hearst building, you'll see Spidey climbing that wall.  It would be awhile until dusk, so we moved on. We'd seen enough celebrity for the day, or thought we had, but when we turned the corner on 34th Street to wait for the Bolt bus outside The New Yorker Hotel, more crowds were gathered.  It was a red carpet affair, and right before our eyes (and my tiny Sony camera) was Sonja Morgan, of The Housewives of New York. Soon that carpet would host Mary J. Blige, Jennifer Hudson, Christine Aguilera, Evan Rachel Wood, Phylicia Rashad, and others; we'd see only Phylicia before our bus departed.



But all in all, it was an interesting moment—a New York end to a very New York day, in which it was almost possible to lose myself and my complicated ways. 

Dine In, Help Out: Philadelphians Taking a Stand Against Hunger

May has been decreed Dine In, Help Out month in my wonderful city—a time when we gather friends around us, in our own homes, and donate whatever we might have spent at a restaurant to a program devoted to bringing affordable, healthy, farm-fresh food into North Philadelphia homes.  The innovative St. Christopher's Foundation for Children has organized the drive, and it has the remarkable support of Iron Chef Jose Garces, not to mention NBC 10's Dennis Bianchi, Philadelphia Media Network's Greg Osberg, and Montgomery McCracken's Steve Madva.



My own dinner is slated for six days from now, and I've invited two long-time clients and their beautiful ladies to my house.  That takes guts, as you can imagine, for a modest-living woman such as myself—no grand chef, no proven hostess, and far better with words than I am with soup spoons.



But I'm doing this, nonetheless, and I encourage you to consider throwing a dinner yourself.  Check out the web site linked above.  You'll find recipes, invitations, ideas, and facts that will both inspire and motivate.

There's just something about street puppets

They're oversized and placid.  They bob as if floated on the tide.  Down below, the crowds are scrambling.  Up above, they hardly blink.

Street Portraits: Philadelphia International Festival of the Arts

Scenes from this day. 

Can you tell which one is my fine city's fine mayor, Michael Nutter?

You Are My Only: The Very First Review

I received flowers yesterday (thank you, Trevor, Wendy, Amy, and the Central Writing League), and oh, how they were needed.  I'm going to see Billy Elliot tomorrow (thank you, Jeff) and (an extra bonus) Lawsy—needed, deeply:  true.  And just now, having come in from uprooting the truant weeds in my beleaguered garden, I found this gift right here.  The first review of You Are My Only (five stars!) sent along by YA Books Central's own Ed Goldberg.



I quote from the final paragraph.  The rest will be posted closer to release date (October) on the YA Books Central site. But as an author eager to hear how this book will be received, reading and being able to share this now (right now) means the world:


p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }

In some books, it's the story that captures you and in some, it's the characters.  In You Are My Only, it is that rare combination of story and character.  Kephart has created two (almost) separate but equal stories, both intriguing and engrossing.  In addition, she has created the perfect characters.  I defy anyone not to fall in love with Sophie, Joey and Aunts Cloris and Helen or Emmy and Autumn and even Harvey, the dog.  I defy anyone not to hate (maybe intensely dislike) Sophie's mother or Peter.  As always, Kephart chooses her words with care, and while the language is not as 'ethereal' as in some of her recent books, her images and descriptions and wording remain essential in understanding the characters and surroundings.  There are secrets that need to be unearthed and things to ponder.  There are relationships that you are jealous you are not a part of and those you are glad you have not experienced.  You can read You Are My Only quickly and enjoy the story or you can read it slowly and savor every word and nuance and description.  Either way, you must read Beth Kephart's latest addition to Young Adult literature, You Are My Only.  More than likely, after you've read it once, you'll go back and read it again.  I know I will.

My Life, The Theater, and Other Tragedies/Allen Zadoff: Reflections

Rumor has it that Allen Zadoff is appearing at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books tomorrow afternoon on the YA stage, where he'll be participating in a panel discussion (all right, so, some have called it a smack down) aimed to determine once but never for all what is most powerful, important, life-changing, elucidating, and name-making in the Land of YA:  Fantasy or Realism.



What's that?  You think you know the answer already?  You think you've read somewhere over there that Fantasy rules, Fantasy titillates, Fantasy has it all going on? You think Fantasy gets all the big bucks, the movie deals, the figurines, the very special lunch boxes?



(Okay, you can chill, I'll give you this:  Fantasy really does get all the very special lunch boxes.)



And yet, and but, and forever however:  Hold your horses and your gunfire.  Having just read Allen Zadoff's spanking-new YA novel, his work of Realism art, My Life, The Theater, and Other Tragedies (Egmont USA), I'm thinking this: If anyone can make the eloquent case for YA Realism, it's Mr. Zadoff, who knows kids, knows funny, knows where teenage angst lies, and knows—beyond all else—how to leverage (novelistically speaking) all the eruptions and allegiances and societal reconfigurations that define those awkward, blessed years.



With Life, Zadoff introduces Adam Ziegler (alter ego?), the kind of theater techie of which Tina Fey would be most proud.  Ziegler (you might also call him Ziggy) is a true backstager, a catwalk prowler, a guy who paints the world with light, or at least the stage during Montclair High's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream.  Darkness is deep sadness for Ziegler—the color of nothing, the color of his father's untimely death.  Light is Ziegler's artistry, but as a techie he's not supposed to think; he's supposed to do whatever his arrogant, nemesistic, and British-accent-flecked director says he must.



Girls are involved.  A best friend.  An overweight adult-in-charge who needs some babysitting.  There's a brother gone to Cornell and a mother who drives so slow Ziegler thinks she is driving backwards.  But mostly, you theater lovers out there, this is Theater, capital T, and this is Realism (note the bold, note the red), and this wins my vote in the smackdownistry that is about to kazam in LA.



I'm going to spend some time on this blog, in days to come, talking to Mr. Zadoff.  Send me your questions in advance.

School Visits

I have been visiting schools and working with teachers and their students for many years now, and I always love the process.  Today I've updated this blog by creating this school visits page, for those of you who might be interested in inviting me into your worlds.

Dreaming Out Loud with the Central League Championship Writers

Twenty-five minutes into my talk to the Central League Writing Championships writers, I stopped. There was a young man in an upper row with a look on his face, a question percolating.  He wanted, as it turned out, to know if you can write just to write. Is publishing always the end game? Are other readers necessary?



It was the perfect question—the launch for what became thoroughly moving testimony as I asked the nearly 100 high school freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors to tell me why they write. What is writing good for? He writes, I soon learned, to escape. She writes when she cannot draw the thing she's trying to record. She writes so that she can imagine the lives of others—see the world through their eyes. He writes to discover. She writes because her world is full of stories, things too ripe to let pass by. He writes to exercise his imagination. She writes to bare her soul. She writes because, she says, she has to, and he because he can.



Yes, I said. And yes. While in a room across the hall, a dozen teachers from schools throughout the region read the stories that these students had written in response to the contest prompt. Does it matter who wins? Does one write to win? Or do we write, as I ultimately suggested, so that we can more thoroughly know—ourselves and the world we are born into, the possibilities ahead?



I drove home through rain, a smile on my face. Drove home thinking that if all my writing life ever became was a chance to dream out loud with other dreamers such as those bright-faced kids, it would be enough.



Thank you, Central League, for the opportunity. And write eternally on.

Finding my balance

It has been quite the week—the loss of a job that mattered to me coming just ahead (hours ahead) of a last day of class with students I grew to love coming in the midst of submissions of two new books.  In an hour or so, I'm off to Conestoga High School, a familiar, welcoming place, to meet with the aspiring writers and their teachers who are gathering for the Central League Writing Contest.  I posted a wet-haired vlog tribute to Rachel Bing and her Zionsville sixth graders in the throes of it all (begging their forgiveness for both the hair and my mid-stream sentence shifts that left verbs on less than speaking terms with nouns) and I went dancing, because sometimes you have to. 



In the middle of the middle of everything else, I received a note from my cherished son about a paper he had written. He's not a boastful kid, my son, only one who shares his happiness, and I was elated with him, for him, after he had shared his news.  "What do you suppose enabled you to write a paper that got such a response?" I asked him.



"I think the key was that I was really comfortable with the material and therefore I know what I needed to say and what examples to use to make my argument," he emailed back. "It helps that I really enjoy what I'm learning, too."



Note to self:  Do not forget the basics. Love what you do. It might just love you back.

Meet me at the BEA

All right, so:  This isn't really Book Expo America.  But I like the photograph, so I place it here, and while I'm at it, I invite you to join me at the real and actual BEA, Javits Center, New York City, on Wednesday, May 25th, where I'm privileged to be appearing at two events: 

YOU ARE MY ONLY Book Signing:  10 AM (author autographing area)

AUTHOR TEA:  3 PM

Perhaps our paths will cross?  I can't promise you a Googer's Cake or Thing.  But I can promise you conversation, and maybe the Famous Elizabeth Law will walk by and sing a tune in your direction, or maybe Egmont USA's Katie Halata or Greg Ferguson or Mary Albi or Doug Pocock or Rob Guzman will lay down some ink for you.  Or maybe Nico Medina will at last wear a costume on my behalf. 



A girl can dream.



Big thanks to Florinda.  She knows what for.