Beth Kephart's Blog, page 276

What literature is

what literature is:  that I cannot read without pain, without choking on truth.

Quoted by Dwight Garner in his New York Times review of Roland Barthes' posthumously published Mourning Diary.

On the eve of my twentieth year, I declared

Perhaps the greatest gift that a speaking invitation yields is the chance (the excuse) to stop and collect one's thoughts.  That's what I've been doing these past few days, as I prepare for the talk I'll be giving at the Radnor Memorial Library in mid-November.  I want to read from Dangerous Neighbors that night, and I briefly will.  But I also want to look back at the road that brought me here—at the bad poems and the kind criticism, at the doors that opened and shut, and, mostly, at the percolating passion I have always had for my city.



In hunting for proof (or explanation) of this passion, I have come upon strange, forgotten queries, notes, promises, explorations, and exhortations, including a history of West Philadelphia that I decided to write (apparently for no one) at the age of 23.  I have also discovered this fragment of a poem, penned on the eve of my twentieth birthday, misplaced apostrophe and all. 



"The city is my lifetime," I declared, hints of the grandiose abounding.  It could not yet have been (despite my "long living").  It is, perhaps, now.

A Break Out Book? A girl can dream

My husband is of the opinion that an artist (or writer) should simply know when a work is done, or right, and I admire the notion, respect the theory.  But there is also, for me, something peace-giving, something necessary, about a trusted reader's response.  Late yesterday, at the end of an angst-filled many weeks, my agent called to let me know that she had read this wholly rewritten book of mine—this book that began as one kind of adult novel, became an utterly different kind of adult novel, and then, in the fury-heat of this past summer, was rewritten for a different audience and sold on the basis of early July pages to Egmont USA.  I have cared so deeply about this book, believed so thoroughly in it, and yet, to be alone with your own raw book is to be alone with your own raw self, and sometimes the soul seeks ease. 



I now have the ease of Amy Rennert's words to me:  Beth, this is your breakout book.



Perhaps number 13 will be lucky number 13.



I would really like that to be so.

The Perils of Bearing Witness

In a few days, I'll be teaching this online book club discussion for the Kelly Writers House at the University of Pennsylvania—revisiting familiar texts and reviewing some new ones as we weigh the perils of bearing witness—to our own lives and to the lives of others.  Among the many seemingly "simple" assertions we'll consider is this one, made by Patricia Hampl in her essential text, I Could Tell You Stories: 

Memoir must be written because each of us must possess a created version of the past.

 Agree?  Disagree?

On Stage

His hand had splintered in the meantimeand we were no younger than beforeand the poem of usis the try of us,and he had found the song.

These are the legs

of one of the best amateur dancers the nation has ever seen.  It was a privilege to share the stage with her during yesterday's showcase rehearsal.

A weekend of dance

It has crept up on me—the DanceSport Academy Annual Showcase—a many-hour extravaganza of dance-loving people having fun.  Or, we tell ourselves that it's fun.  Or, afterward, no matter what has happened, we remember it as being fun.  I prefer those waiting-in-the-wings moments, hidden behind the curtain, watching my friends.  I yield, every time, to the camaraderie.  I try to forget that I've been too buried in corporate work to give the performances my rehearsing all.  I'll dance a Viennese waltz with my husband—tune out the nerves, listen for the song.  I'll dance that campy, broom-swinging fox trot with John Larson.  I'll take photographs in between and hope that one or two of them turns out.



The photograph above was taking during a Dancing Classrooms final.  These are children, the flower fallen from her hair.  These are kids, enjoying their now.  I'm going to be thinking about them when I take the stage.  I am going to remember that, no matter what happens beneath the spotlight, it's a lucky thing to have bend in your knees and hope tucked in your heart.

The heart pounds; it is rewarded (a Dangerous Neighbors review)

Booking Mama dresses her blog in pink, and so this bloom is for her, for she has read Dangerous Neighbors and given it the kindest review.  I will be honest:  my heart pounded when I realized she'd posted her thoughts.  One feels an enormous responsibility to readers who have been thoughtful and helpful to earlier books, and when I published Dangerous Neighbors, which is indeed quite different from my other novels, I worried about losing some of the faithful.  I am so grateful that Booking Mama opened her heart to this story.

What are you working for?

I didn't have time for Zumba today, of course I didn't.  Stay at your desk, I told myself.  Just keep working.  Get that project done, make that call, return that email, write that story, do not stop because if you stop you'll be behind again. 



On the one hand, the chance to draw a thin blue line through another four to do's.



On the other, my friends, a little morning laughter, sweat.



What are you working for? I asked myself.



So that I can live, I answered me.



I was out the door.  I was at the gym.  Standing beside Sarah.

Dangerous Neighbors: The School Library Review

I have Egmont USA's Greg Ferguson to thank for inspiriting this afternoon with the good news of a very kind School Library Journal review for Dangerous Neighbors, the final words of which I quote here, and Pamela Sedor and Ann Pagano to thank for the Radnor Memorial Library event poster above.



I honestly don't know what I'd do, on some of these darkish, headed toward winter days without this kind of light.



Thank you.

Ultimately, it is through chance meetings with "dangerous neighbors" and caring strangers that Katherine begins to consider the possibilities of her own life going forward. Her forgiveness of Bennett and herself gives birth to a sense of hope and helps this tenderly crafted story end with a positive spin. Kephart has painted a vivid picture of the Exhibition. Readers can practically smell the roasted peanuts and feel the bruise of crowds shoving by as she creates a lively setting against which a quiet, desperate struggle is played out.–Karen Elliott, Grafton High School, WI(School Library Journal)