Beth Kephart's Blog, page 86

At Little Flower, I found ...

First among the privileges of attending writing festivals is this: the young people you meet. Just look at those Little Flower Catholic High School girls. Look at those faces, that youth, those smiles, that Sister-Kimberly-Miller-inspired love for books. These students made the enormously successful first Little Flower Teen Writing Festival a few brief Saturdays ago. They (along with all the hard work of Sister Kim and Kate Walton) were the reason we were there.

But the twenty writers who gathered for this event also had the chance to talk with, and support, one another. That, too, is excellent stuff. That, too, makes a weekend.

Today I'd like to share a few opening lines from two of the new books that I brought home, to entice you to go out and find these books for yourselves.

First, from Jennifer Hubbard, author of Try Not to Breathe and The Secret Years, comes her new story, Until It Hurts to Stop, about a teen trying to overcome a legacy of brutal bullying, a teen trying to believe in her own worth. (It's also about hiking, about which Jenn knows a whole lot.)

That story begins like this:

My friend Nick reaches across the cafeteria table and drops a knife into my hand. "Happy birthday, Maggie."

I turn the knife over in my hand. I have always wanted one of these. I've borrowed Nick's often enough, out on the trails.

I know I should hide it. It's a Swiss army knife, not a weapon, but our school gets hysterical over nail clippers. They'd probably confiscate it and put me on some list of budding terrorists.

Even so, I can't resist stroking the smooth metal and snapping open the different tools: the nail file, the screwdriver, the tiny scissors. Best of all, I love the tiny scissors....

Second, from Elizabeth LaBan, a story inspired by an assignment the author herself was given as a teen—to write something called a "tragedy paper." LaBan's novel (The Tragedy Paper) is told in two voices—that of an albino boy who leaves a record of his last semester in a boarding school behind, and that of the boy who discovers and ponders the tale.

That story begins like this:

As Duncan walked through the stone archway leading into the senior dorm, he had two things on his mind: what 'treasure' had been left behind for him and his Tragedy paper. Well, maybe three things: he was also worried about which room he was going to get.

If it wasn't for the middle item, though, he tried to convince himself, he would be almost one hundred percent happy. Almost. But that paper—the Irving School's equivalent of a thesis project—was sucking at least thirty percent of his happiness away, which was a shame on such an important day. Basically, he was going to spend a good portion of the next three months trying to define a tragedy in the literary sense, like what made King Lear a tragedy? Who cared? He could do that right now—a tragedy was when something bad happened. Bad things happened all the time. But the senior English teacher, Mr. Simon—who just happened to be the adult overseer of his hall this year—cared. He cared a lot, and he loved to throw around words like magnitude and hubris....

Of course, no matter how many books I own, I'm always wishing I had room and time for more. But here, for this rainy day, are the start of tales from my big reading pile.

in Publishing Perspectives: literary snacks at a Philadelphia high school

Last week I wrote here of a new initiative in my city—a chapbook vending machine soon to be installed at Science Leadership Academy, a magnet high school created in 2006 in partnership with the Franklin Institute.

The chapbook vending machine is the brain child of the independent The Head and The Hand Press—and part of a literary project initiated by two of the school's sophomores.

Today Publishing Perspectives shares my story about this intriguing turn of events—and reminds YA authors everywhere that submissions are still open for chapbook stories.

Read the whole story here.

joining an incredible line-up of writers at Main Point Books, May 24

So pleased to be part of this stellar line up of local authors to help celebrate the one-year anniversary of the Main Line's newest independent bookstore.

Join us — May 24th. Main Point is the cute shop at 1041 West Lancaster Avenue, Bryn Mawr, PA.

See you soon?

how do we make historical fiction feel like right now?

A few weeks ago, the beautiful (inside and out) Caroline Starr Rose asked me to reflect on the writing of historical fiction. What typically comes first, she wanted to know—character, era, or story idea? How do I do my research? Why do I love  research? And why is historical fiction important?

I answered that final question like this:

Why is historical fiction important?
I think it is so important to try to imagine ourselves into the lives of others during critical junctures in world history. It is a hugely empathetic act. And empathy is, finally, what storytelling is all about—empathy for others, and empathy for ourselves.

You can find our entire conversation on Caroline's blog, here.

Always a privilege to be in the company of this talented, award-winning writer.

Mr. Boardwalk/Louis Greenstein: An Announcement

As per usual here in the Kephart Fortification, the books are piled high and low, sent this way from places far and near. So many books and so many apparently good ones, but I've got a time management problem. A novel due in less than six months. Hardly any time most work-a-day days. Still, I want to help my friends, and I am anxious, failing, flailing, and so here is one solution, this morning.

It concerns the recent release Mr. Boardwalk, a first novel by the playwright Louis Greenstein (perhaps you met him while he was writing scripts for Rugrats; perhaps you saw his musical One Child Born: The Music of Laura Nyro). I received my copy from New Door Books, a publishing initiative overseen by the wonderful writer and literary enthusiast (and my friend), Douglas Gordon. I've heard wonderful things from the uber-smart and discerning, Ellen Trachtenberg. The summary itself is alluring:

At the age of seven, Jason Benson first experiences the wonders of Atlantic City—carnival rides, fortune-tellers, fudge shops, arcades and Miss America. Smitten, he decides to live there forever. But when we meet him as an adult in New York, he's been keeping his youth a secret from his wife and daughter. What happened? This dual coming-of-age tale traces the excitement and perils of the young Jason and the moral growth of the adult who must confront his past.

When I myself picked up the book just this very morning and began to read, I found this opening passage, and I thought: Durn. This sounds fine indeed.

The casinos are more ostentatious than I expected, but the souvenir shops and frozen custard stands look the same as when I was a kid: reliably, comfortably tacky.

The air is so blustery my ears prickle. I hitch my jacket collar to staunch the chill. Gripping the boardwalk railing, I study the beach. Four shaggy teenage boys toss a football. A middle-aged couple walks a shepherd collie, straining on its leash, barking into the wind. Beyond the shoreline the water's choppy, the tide's low. A hundred yards out, whitecaps flash like static. In the distance an ocean liner glides across the horizon.

I can't wait until I find the time to actually sit and read this story through. But I didn't want you all to have to wait that long to hear about it.

You have heard about it. Do what you must do.

Science Leadership Academy: Sasha's Poem

They write their thoughts and capstone projects onto the walls of Science Leadership Academy, a Philadelphia School District/Franklin Institute high school. I walked, I saw after I arrived yesterday to talk about a (fictional) Berlin graffiti artist named Ada.

There, on a "ballroom" wall, was Sasha Sapp's poem, "Dreaming Awake."

I share it with you today.

Taking the Berlin Wall to the Science Leadership Academy, today

Later this morning I'll be talking about the Berlin Wall and Going Over with the students of the Science Leadership Academy, a Franklin Institute-affiliated school that is on a mission to instill the values of learning, creation, and leadership.

It's all part of the innovative 4th Floor Chapbook Series initiative spurred by Philadelphia's daring craft publishing house, The Head and the Hand.

(Don't you love how real people keep thinking?)

More on the 4th Floor Chapbook Series can be found here.

More about the Science Leadership Academy is here.

But also, since I'm talking about cool people and places, I share the photo above, taken yesterday afternoon in Old City, following the glorious final Pennsylvania Ballet performance of my friend, the principal dancer Julie Diana Hench. (More on Julie here.) This is the alley facade of the Center for Art in Wood, and the image was painted and installed by ex-offenders and probationers from the Restorative Justice Guild Program. It's all part of the Mural Arts Program, now well into its 30th transformative year. I recently had the great pleasure of talking with Jane Golden, Mural Arts founder and leader, over lunch, and I'll have more to say about her vision later this summer as I reflect on psychylustro, the new installation now going up along a several-mile stretch between Amtrak's 30th Street and North Philadelphia stations.

Take a look if you are traveling that way. Tell me what you think. I've caught early glimpses already—shocking, electric—and will be watching for those intense colorations again as I ride the rails to the city.

images from a perfect day: Julie Diana Hench, a bunny in a stroller, moon over City Hall

Julie Diana Hench takes a final bow following a most glorious last Pennsylvania Ballet dance with her husband, Zachary. Their beautiful-beyond-description children join them on stage moments after this (illegal, blurry) shot is taken. You know who Julie and Zak are even if you've never met them. They are looking into each other's eyes. They are genuinely in love.

A bunny takes a stroller ride through Old City, Philadelphia. Moments after this I find a vintage men's shop where a Centennial Philadelphia era jacket is hung on the back wall. I buy gifts for my father and husband dating to World War I.

My husband and I, following an early dinner at the fabulous Fork Restaurant, miss our train by 10 seconds and walk the length of the city to consume the following hour. We see the moon rising over City Hall. Boarders take over Love Park. The lights go on above my river.

A perfect day.

what it is to soar—mother, son, Julie Diana Hench

This Mother's Day weekend I'm honoring my mother and son, pictured here, years and another neighborhood ago. My mother, who, with her elegant mind and many talents, cared about family first, about lasting love. My son, who made me a mother, who taught me all the important stuff, who, even as he takes Manhattan by storm, takes the time to tell me his best stories. To text. To write. To call. To love.

He's as beautiful as he always was.

On Sunday, I will sit in the parquet, DD, seat 6, of the Academy of Music, beside my husband, and watch my dear friend Julie Diana Hench dance her final song as the principal ballerina of Pennsylvania Ballet. Julie came into my life at a sideways glance early last fall, a moment she wrote of here. She let me into her world, which I wrote of here. And tomorrow she will do what she does so exquisitely well—take the music in through her soul, yield her soul to us.

Julie—wife, mother, daughter, dancer, writer, soul—has so many new chapters ahead of her.

She leaves us all with a truer idea of what it is to soar.

A lesson any of us would be blessed to learn again, on Mother's Day Weekend.

who does well after college graduation? a new study makes an unsurprising (to me) suggestion

A little more than a week ago I said goodbye to my Penn students.

It wasn't easy.

When we take risks as teachers, when we allow ourselves to get involved, when we are willing to care, to get hurt, to go out on a limb, to push the student who doesn't want to be pushed, the goodbye-ing is hard and heartbreaking.

And yet is clear, at least to me, to a certain Gallup/Purdue University team, and to the writer of this recent New York Times op-ed, that that kind of caring—invisible to most—can make a long-term difference. Engagement. Well-being. Those are the factors on the table.

Here is the Times' Charles Blow:

I was surrounded by professors who were almost parentally protective and proud of me — encouraging me to follow my passions (Yes, start that magazine, Charles), helping me win internships, encouraging me to go away and work for a semester, and cheering me on as I became a member of a fraternity and editor of the student newspaper. And, because of them, I emerged from college brimming with confidence — too much at times, depending on whom you ask — and utterly convinced that there was nothing beyond my ability to achieve, if only I was willing to work, hard, for it.

As it turns out, these are the kinds of college experiences that predict whether a person will later be engaged in work and have a high level of well-being after graduation.

 The Gallup and Purdue University research underscores what seems intuitively obvious but is also, often, institutionally ignored. That it matters, for example, that professors get students excited about learning. That it matters that professors care about the students. That it matters that shed some light and some encouragement on the dimensions of their dreams.

Common sense? Absolutely.

But how many times have I been told by a student that I am one of the only professors who knew his name? His name. How many times have I (excited, too) watched a student discover some new part of her soul, some new crazy ambition, and been told: I didn't know this was okay? My classroom is small, and that is my first good fortune. Many writing professors' classrooms are. But I'd be kidding myself if I thought the first order of business there was to churn out 15 capable bloggers or five new memoirists. My job is to assign the right texts, announce the right exercises, distribute the right critiques, build trust, strengthen community—and pay attention to the students as they each arrive. Look up into their faces, take note of their splinted fingers, read their moods, address the temperature of their days, make room for diversions and tangents that can matter right in that moment, and forever.

My job is to know them, to care about them, to nurture.

It isn't hard. It's merely human.