Beth Kephart's Blog, page 261

Mockingbird/Kathryn Erskine: Reflections

The question sometimes is:  What divides us, one from the other?  Is it our ability to see, or listen? Does it come down to empathy, or empathy's archenemy, preconception?



With her National Book Award winning young adult novel, Mockingbird, Kathryn Erskine brings us into the heart and mind of a fifth-grader named Caitlin, whose mom is deceased, whose brother has been killed by an act of school violence, and whose dad is nearly paralyzed with sadness.  This would be too much for any of us, but it's particularly overwhelming for a little girl who has Asperger's syndrome—a girl who is bound to a most literal understanding of words, a girl who must study a book of expressions to understand the meaning of faces, a girl for whom making friends is not only difficult but not, at least a first, a top priority.  Caitlin's older brother, Devon, meant the world to her; he was, in fact, the one who best understood how to crack open the world on her behalf.  With Devon gone, all the tricky negotiations are now Caitlin's responsibility—Caitlin and the school counselor and a boy named Michael who help untangle some of life's knottiest threads.



Readers look for momentum in plot, the what-is-going-to-happen-next?. Erskine's great literary achievement with this beautifully written book is how deeply she invests her readers in caring whether or not Caitlin will make a true friend, or agree to lend color to her immaculate black and white drawings, or, mostly, help her dad finish an Eagle Scout project that her brother had started before his death. Perhaps that might not seem like much to those who line up at midnight to find out whether Katniss Everdeen will survive the battering of District 12 in the year's other major Mocking book (Mockingjay), but I would argue that what Erskine creates here is bigger, more essential—a powerful look at one who is "special" and a loving portrait of a community reeling in the aftermath of a terrible act of violence.    



Mockingbird can be read in one sitting.  It absolutely should be.

Spend the day where you should spend the day

I thought I would spend this afternoon writing, or reading.  I did something far more important instead—went in search of orchids and carried them, with a broken heart, to the home of one of my mother's best friends.  Mrs. K. had lost her husband, lost him suddenly.  Her five beautiful daughters were near.  Still, I wanted to carry the essence of my mom to this dear and original and loving Mrs. K., and that essence would be orchids of not the ordinary kind.



So that I sat there, in that generous house, and listened to stories, and told stories, and suggested the power of stories written down.  Mr. K. stories.  We all have them.  Let's begin with the smile of that man.  Let's begin with the beauty of his daughters.



And then I drove home through the white of this winter and prayed for solace for a woman I've always loved.  A woman who, even in the midst of her great grief, insisted on grapes for her guests, on chocolate.

W.I.P. (black cow by fence)

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She didn't bother with a shower, just got in the car and drove.  Yesterday's rain was gone, and in its place was a cataclysmic green.  When she got to the long ribbon of road, she eased her foot off the pedal and looked for the black cows that had moved from one hill to another, most of them nosed into a herd, only a handful come down to the thick picket fence to watch for the cars burning through.  It was Sunday, and the traffic was light.  For as far as she could see there were cows and corn, the fence holding things in, the green of the trees on the ridge beyond the corn. 

My Newest Batch of Books Is In!

And here they are—the books I've been craving—all arrived at once.  Mira Bartok's The Memory Palace, Robb Forman Dew's Being Polite to Hitler, Paolo Bacigalupi's Ship Breaker, Kathryn Erskine's Mockingbird, and Jacqueline Kelly's The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate.



Christmas, all over again.

In which I appreciate the early enthusiasm for YAMO

I have been anticipating the release of YOU ARE MY ONLY for what seems like a very long time (only because I was writing and rewriting the book for what felt like a long but deeply wonderful time).  But I did not anticipate having two of my favorite bloggers take such early notice of it.  Has anyone figured out how to send hugs long distance, yet?



For being there for me, and for my books, I am today thanking 1st Daughter at There's a Book and Amy, at My Friend Amy.  I would love to have you both to a party of cherished readers someday.



Oh, and may I just add a note of appreciation here for my dear cousin (we are going to call ourselves cousin, even if some second something is involved) Kelsey Coons for letting me know about There's a Book?  If you saw or met Kelsey, you'd want to claim first-blood relation status, too.

Morning after snow

the mini stone fortress in the woods (I have coveted this)

the geese looping high above a blue-tinged morning

Squeezed

Every now and then I feel the need to shout out an apology, on this blog, to those who so kindly stop by, even when I am managing such torrents of work that I cannot always return the favor.  I do eventually get kept caught up, I do so deeply appreciate you all, I do want to be there, more than I am.



But sometimes.  Some.  Times.....

Celebrating the National Book Critics Circle Award Nominees

I never read nearly as much as I'd like to read—my multiple worlds are perpetually colliding, fracturing time. But I was so gratified to learn that, on this year's list of NBCC nominees, many of the books I'd loved best and celebrated here, on my blog, are being equally celebrated by the judges.  In Autobiography, there's Patti Smith's remarkable Just Kids , Darin Strauss's deeply moving Half a Life , and the thoughtful, provocative Hiroshima in the Morning , by my much-loved friend, Rahna Reiko Rizzuto.  In Criticism, there's Elif Batuman's


A huge congratulations to them all, and, especially, to my dear friend, Reiko.  I've linked to my own reflections about these books here, should you be interested in how they affected me early on.

I could use a little of this ...

but since it's not the beach I'll be walking tomorrow, I will find happiness instead on the University of Pennsylvania campus, where my students and I will be talking about Joan Didion's essay, "On Keeping a Notebook," and taking a stroll with our cameras.  Maybe one or the other of us will catch the sun.  Maybe we'll fall in love with a detail.  Maybe something we see will bring us back to ourselves.  It's all worth hoping for.

It's happening here