Beth Kephart's Blog, page 354

Novel in Progress/An Excerpt (2)

The house is a storybook house. A huff and a puff and we'll blow it down house. A Bashful, Doc, and Sneezy house. The roof is soft and tumbled. The bushes grow tall past the sills. Evergreens lean in from high above the cracked slate path, torpedoing pinecones to the ground. The floor slats are slants and the furniture slides, clawing away at the varnish. Big sheets of snaggled paint have split from Sophie's bedroom wall and, like glaciers, crashed.

But there is a window—one—that is n

He Said (the first fragment of a Gerald Stern poem)

Thank God for summer, he said, and thank God the window
was to his right and there was a wavy motion
behind him and a moon in the upper right corner
only four days old and still not either blowsy
or soupy.

Gerald Stern, "He Said," This Time

(I love this: still not either blowsy or soupy. How, inside a conversational poem, the original erupts and never shatters the tone.)

Write What You Want, Open Your Own Doors

Lovers of books, buy the July 13th issue of Newsweek (a magazine that has lately been looking so smart, so right in its new designer threads). The editors have called this issue "What to Read Now," and there's no mere lip service to books paid here. This is the real thing, with articles titled "What to Read Now. And Why." (which lists The Elegance of the Hedgehog and Brooklyn among the top 50!!!), "The Write Stuff," "Best Books Ever," "Now, Read it Again," The Reluctant Poet Laureate," "My Favor

The Elegance of the Hedgehog/A Review

Many years ago, on a rainy day, I walked through a bookstore and discovered Michael Ondaatje's The English Patient. I hadn't heard of it before—I should have, but I hadn't. I brought it home and made that book my own personal discovery. My touchstone. My measure. My source of redemption when the world seemed too scarred or dark.

The same thing happened yesterday, when I finally found time to read The Elegance of the Hedgehog. Sure, indeed, tens of thousands (hundreds of thousands?) had disc

Nothing but Ghosts Reading/Boston Globe Review/The Book Chat

Tonight I have the great privilege of joining My Friend Amy, her friends, and perhaps you?, for a live book chat at 9 PM EST/6 PM PST.

In preparation for that chat, Amy asked if I might do a reading from the book. I chose to read from a section that takes place in Cascais, Portugal—a storybook world that I visited eight years ago. The music here is from the extraordinarily talented Jordan O'Connor. The photos were taken before I owned a digital camera. The piece is two minutes long.



I was furt

The Bootleg Nothing but Ghosts Interview/Major Prizes/Stunned Author

I am definitely living another's life right now.

I am not me. I am merry-go-round whirling. I am dizzy.

First My Friend Amy and Presenting Lenore cook up this not-to-be-believed virtual (surprise) launch party for Nothing but Ghosts—replete with prizes, with urgings, with viral enthusiasms. Their friends friend the initiative. Momentum builds. Conversations unfold: Can bloggers shape the book industry? Is there power in blogger suggestion? A party becomes a dialogue. A dialogue becomes a s

This is Me (and the books I should be reading)

The books are stacking taller and taller about my tiny house—beckoning, desired, and unread. No One You Know (Michelle Richmond), which I won from Presenting Lenore, who lists it as a favorite book. Halfway House (Katharine Noel) and Home Schooling (Carol Windley)—gifts from a certain editor at Grove. John the Baptizer, by Brooks Hansen, a long-time friend and an Alane Mason author, Alane being my first editor. The Language of Things (Deyan Sudjic), also an Alane book and The Little Strangers

Viral Happiness (and a thank you)

You think I love dance so much because, well, I love to dance. And that is true. But perhaps I love dance more for the friendships it has yielded, for the conversations, for the simple but abiding truths that emerge—during lessons, during practice.

There is, for example, the bit about radiant joy. About how, once it is found (once it emerges, is discovered) happiness is a contagion. Perhaps it begins (often it begins) with the song itself. The power roar of rhythm. The lyric lush or tease.

Jean, Scott, Magda, Cristina: Photos from the Dance Studio

They danced for us yesterday, for our cameras—Magda and Scott, Cristina and Jean, Tirsa. Against a canvas of white, beneath umbrellas of light, they became who they are when they are not teaching us: abetted by and glamorous with song.

To take a photograph is to be privileged by access.

The Presenting Lenore Interview and Ghosts review

Is there something of your mother's that you hold onto that keeps her memory alive? Is cooking cathartic? Does that ancient underground city in Barcelona exist? How do you know when a book you are writing has potential, and how do you know when a project needs to be scrapped?

These were among the questions that were waiting for me over email early yesterday morning. They stopped me in my tracks.

I answered them, as best as I could, for Presenting Lenore, a Germany-based blogger with internation