Beth Kephart's Blog, page 356

Portrait of Joy

One week ago I wrote of a baptism, and joy. This is me, and the joy I felt, on the day I will remember. (Thank you, Mike Matthews, for the photograph, and Cristina and Jeremy for the party.)

Virtual Party

As some of you might have read today in the New York Times, 85-year-old Gloria Vanderbilt has a new novel due out next week. It's called Obsession: An Erotic Tale, and it is, in the words of Charles McGrath, "the story of Priscilla Bingham, the widow of a Frank Lloyd Wright-like architect who, after his death, discovers a cache of letters, wrapped in magenta grosgrain ribbon, revealing in considerable detail his secret, kinky sex life."

I'm just wishing that I had an imagination big enough for

Gymtastics

So it happened: I joined the gym. I had gone all these years being the rebel, non-joiner (I was clique-less as a teen, mommy-and-me free as a young mom, a failure in a book club, and I was kicked off a committee at church once for having too strong of an opinion about, well, most things). But I was getting bored with my little self-imposed, in-the-house exercise routines and my neighborhood jaunts have been lately messed with by these biblically saturated days.

So two weeks or so ago, I sashay

Weather Mood (2)

I don't remember two consecutive days of sun. Silver is the color now. Rain is the sound. The sun is a caution sign and the moon has gone fishing. Every now and then, cloud pink, but mostly sky silver, which often fades to gray, and an understanding that I am settling into a new and fundamental slow—a different slow from the past many months, a more self-reflective one.

An even more self-reflective one.

(You were thinking it; I'll say it.)

What do the weather, the politics, the economy make of

The Importance of Music to Girls, and other notes on redemption

How would you paint regret? I asked, most recently, and I have been moved beyond words by the responses, not just on this blog proper, but also on Facebook, and also late two nights ago, while talking with my son, who said: "Regret is a path directed by a one-way sign; just beyond the sign is a storm."

This morning I embrace the collective wisdom and generosity of all of you. Why blog? This is why blog. Because you get so much more than you give.

Speaking of giving: Several weeks ago, I sold

How would you paint regret? The Nothing but Ghosts Giveaway

With Nothing but Ghosts, my third YA novel, set to launch in eight days (I think that's right), I thought I'd offer a signed copy to one of you who answers the following question: How would you paint regret?

It's a question that Katie's father asks her, as he restores an odd and ultimately revealing painting. A question that becomes integral to the mystery in which Katie is embroiled.

Here's the relevant scene from the novel. I'll have my son assist me in choosing one of your names (from a ha

Waiting for the Words

Sometimes you just have to decide: A book, this current book I'm writing, is going to take a long time. Days to conjure a single scene. More days to find the words. Many more to find the right ones. I'd been upset with myself for thinking (it seemed) inefficiently and without directed purpose, but then this morning I decided: Let the process be. Let the book find itself. Wait for the fog to burn off. Know that what I have is good, and trust more good to follow.

Live in the meantime.

How f

Street Festival, Storm Coming

My hometown, yesterday.

Life Saver

A long time ago, in a hospital room, a woman saved my life. I'd had extensive surgery on a jaw that had gone bad; I woke (as I knew I would) to a mouth wired shut. When, in the evening, all who knew me had gone home, when the nurses were on their quiet rounds, when there was no one looking, the machine that had been pumping my stomach failed. I could not scream. I could not speak. I was drowning in my own blood.

It is true what they say about the mind spinning back. Over time, over roads, o

Getting the Day Right

I have been the kind of person, throughout too much of my life, who measures the day by the progress that's been made—against deadlines, against expectations, against you name it.

I've tried to make the days count.

But today, after going urban pecs power and all, I decided to give myself the day off. Went shopping for an outfit. Went shopping for shoes. Took my beautiful boy out to lunch. Got my hair done. At four o'clock I was in the car, driving to the baptism of a baby girl who has a world