Beth Kephart's Blog, page 348

Already Missing Him

I am trying not to look at the calendar. I am trying not to think: In less than three weeks, my boy will be back at school, in a dorm, in his classes. My boy, who stops to see, who leans in to inquire, who walks to this side of my desk, plants a kiss on my forehead, and says, "You are looking so pretty today." No matter what I am wearing, no matter my hair, no matter what I see when I dare to see myself.

He has been writing all summer long. Yesterday I went out for three hours. When I return

The Nonfiction Question

For the fifth question in Chasing Ray's fascinating series, What a Girl Wants, Colleen Mondor asked the panel to reflect on those subjects that "should be addressed in YA nonfiction that teen girls would want to read about and just as important — should read about." Colleen never asks easy questions, but this one proved to be tougher than the rest.

My answer, as you'll see, if you travel over to the site, relates to place and culture—to the need (in my estimation) for books that transport YA rea

Prague, Writerly Remnants, and More Ghosts Kindnesses

Here's something I've learned along this writerly trail: Throw nothing away. Sometimes we have the words, the scene, the mood, the atmosphere, but we don't know what any of it means. The years go by and suddenly we know. Throw nothing that you write away.

Today, while working on this novel for adults, I remembered a short story I had written years ago that was based on a trip I'd taken to Prague. I'd written the short story. I'd flattened it to a poem. I'd based a (failed) novel around it.

Me in Person

It was my friend Buzz Bissinger who got me onto Facebook—a series of notes from him that could not be read unless I went ahead and plugged myself in. I'm not what anyone would call Facebook adept; I still can't figure out which notes are private, which are public, what the world sees and what gets sent to just one friend. And don't even ask me about that wall, and to be honest: the photos that I've posted are just the ones that have stuck; who knows where the rest of them have gone to.

Still a

Where I'm Coming From: Literary Road Trip

As part of the Literary Road Trip sponsored by the GalleySmith, I was asked to talk about home by My Friend Amy, who in turn shared our conversation with Beth Fish Reads, who so graciously reviewed Ghosts yesterday.

That's a long way around saying that if you would like to know how being a Pennsylvanian has influenced my books (and it most fervently has), I encourage you to visit Beth Fish Reads and find out. I enourage you to visit Beth Fish Reads anyway. I know that I've added her to my own d

A Father Takes Care

I take care of my father's house when he is away—check in on it after storms, water the plants in the myriad picture windows, pull in the errant delivery or paper. Today, in the wake of yesterday's weather, I went early. All was well.

My mother's plants flourish in my father's house—orchids I'd given her years ago are still blooming, as is my nephew Daniel's lemon tree, sprung from a seed in a paper cup, as are the fringe-y things that I once thought only she knew how to grow. The glass figuri

GHOSTS Kindnesses

Those of you who read this blog know that I was given the enormous gift, in the publishing of Nothing but Ghosts, of the extended, active friendship of bloggers who joined together to lift this book and me from one realm into another. Kindness such as this is revelatory. It is touchstone kindness. The memory one returns to in darker times.

This morning I discovered two bloggers who, inspired by My Friend Amy, bought and read Nothing but Ghosts and had deeply touching things to say about it. I

The Kindness Question

Last Thursday, two of the young stars of Dancesport came early to practice, and since I had my camera, I had the privilege of photographing them. I've seen them many times of course; they have terrific talent. But more than that, they are deeply good souls who look out, as partners, for one another.

When I mentioned to them both that I'd like to take their picture, the young girl responded with a warning: "We'll have a little argument first," she said, "about which dance we'd like to start wit

Those Watercolor Journals: A Vlog

Pinkdogwood asked about those watercolored poetry journals of my yesteryear, and so this vlog is for her. (Ironically, given the heat in this house, the video kept changing color as I recorded.)

While searching the too-hot closets for this exhibition A, I found other journals of the not-color-drenched variety. Below is a found poem from an August 2nd, many years ago, when extroverted rhyme still mattered to me in poems.

But before I get to that, there is this: The other day I was reading Maya G

Why All Writers Should Watch Mad Men

Tell me why you love "Mad Men", the AMC TV show that vivifies 1960s Manhattan, the dawn of a certain kind of advertising, the red pucker of big lips, and unblinkered gazing into another's eyes. All right, perhaps you haven't seen the show, perhaps this post is thereby to you seemingly irrelevant, but nonetheless, I have climbed onto this cliff and I will stay here until I explain:

I love "Mad Men" for its subtlety. Yes, subtlety. I know we are talking ad men and 1960s style TV, but I claim sub