You Are My Only is my thirteenth book. In the early days, when that fact would surface, I was given all kinds of advice about how to go straight from 12 to 14 and thereby skip the unluckiness in between. I shrugged it off. A number is just a number, not a superstition. Right?
But in the 24 hours leading up to the long-awaited book launch party at Radnor Memorial Library last evening, I began to rethink my no superstition policy. I lost my glasses. I lost my camera. It rained most fierce just ahead of the party hour. Most concerning was that mid-day hour, when it was discovered that the copies of the books that were to be sold that night had not yet made their way to Children's Book World, which had so kindly offered to join us at the event. I admit it: A few tears were shed.
And yet, I will look back on last night as one of the luckiest nights of my life. Let's talk about what happened at six o'clock, at Elizabeth Mosier's incredibly beautiful and hospitable home, where writers feasted on Elizabeth's amazing Mexican meal. Libby is always there—a hugely talented writer and reader with a generous heart—and everyone in my neck of the woods (me perhaps above all) is grateful. Let's talk about Pam Sedor, a dear friend, who has given me a home for years at her luxurious Winsor Room. Let's talk about John, one of the most intelligent young readers I know (in fact, I refuse to believe that he is anything other than a
New York Times Book Review writer), who sent me an email at this book's very start and who, late yesterday afternoon, sent me a link to
his most stunning Dear Author review. Let's talk about
Florinda and
Amy and
Melissa and
Caroline, who wrote loving notes just ahead of the event. Let's talk about Ellen Trachtenberg, a friend who has stood by me throughout the publication of this book, lending me her perspective, know-how, and smarts. Let's talk about Amy Rennert, my agent, who was on the phone with me several times during the course of yesterday, and who sent a beautiful email last evening. Let's talk about those dancers, St. Johner's, writers, Zumbaists, long-time friends, neighbors, teachers, book clubbers, colleagues who worked their way in from the storm. I wondered, to tell you the truth, if anyone would. They did. They were there. Each one a treasure.
I hope that they know they are treasured.
In my opening remarks last evening I talked a little about what it takes to be a writer.
Sunday, 8 PM. A day of writing behind me, which is to say, a day of reworking what had already been worked. In the coming week,
You Are My Only will launch. On Tuesday I will name the winners of the
You Are My Only Treasure Hunt. On Wednesday, I will return to my friends at Rutgers-Camden (thank you, Lisa Zeidner, hello, Daniel Wallace) to teach, to lecture, to critique, to read. On Thursday evening, at Radnor Memorial Library, thanks to the good graces of Pam Sedor, I will gather with my dear friends and reflect—those festivities made even brighter by the goodness of Elizabeth Mosier.
One waits a long time for a book to find itself, and a long time (too) for a book to find its way into the world. One hopes for things, and by my blogger friends, my reader friends, my writer friends—my friends—I have been blessed.
I found this single fuscia leave today on my long walk.
That, my many loved ones, is my heart.
In the writing of the slender book that became
Flow: The Life and Times of Philadelphia's Schuylkill River, I moved in several directions before I settled on a form. For a long time the book was a collection of stories about people, most of them imagined, who lived by or near the river at different junctures in time. Today, I was remembering a piece I'd written about a character I'd originally named Lennie—a young woman who goes to the river in the 1870s to row. This is a fragment torn from the original draft. I publish it today in celebration of all my friends who do row or have rowed that river, including Katherine Wilson and Pam Sedor. I publish it, too, in celebration of all of us who work and rework our books, who keep thinking them through, until they are the best that we can make them and the world makes room for them.
She wore her scull upside down on her head like a hat, her hands on the riggers. She rolled it over and laid it down, pulled the oars through the chokes, fastened the gates, and settled her heart. She planted her feet in the stretchers and oared her way out, her back facing forward, her mind on her father’s words: Shoulders to the sky, Lennie. Knees at an angle. Catch and drive and always finish. Feather the blades so you’ll fly. She left her hair loose, a dark burst about her face. She let the breeze into her blouse. She listened to the river, and to what the river had to say. She went and she went, always beginning.
Toward the wirework of the Girard Avenue Bridge. Toward the ghost of John Penn and the animals that had come to town in ’74 to live in their fanciful abodes: the Fox Pens, the Wolf Pens, the Raccoon House, the village for the prairie dogs, the stoned-in pits for bears, the house of birds. It was coming on to four o’clock, and she rowed: oars in, oars out, the commotion of animals up the hill. A hawk, she noticed now, had flown in from the east, its red-tipped wings and tail mirrored in the river’s surface. One of the reflected wings kept breaking apart and resurrecting itself with each of her oar strokes, as if it could attach to the scull its own flight.
I wish I could have been there. So glad thirteen was lucky.
From these remarks, I would say that Emmy and Sophie are just like you....continuing the struggle and the search for goodness...you with the writing, and them through the terrible things in their lives. I'm glad the event was excellent. I wish I could have attended to hear the beautiful words in person.
BTW, Amazon is now telling me no books until Nov. 9-12. So much for pre-ordering...lol
Beth you are being very modest by not mentioning what a HUGE crowd you had and how much applause you received because your reading was so beautiful people did not want it to end!
The book is worth waiting for. So worth waiting for.
You Are My Only is your best yet! Take that, 13!
xo
There are tears streaming down my cheeks from the experiences you've so generously shared with us on here, Beth. I'm so happy that you have such a strong support group (and know you've earned it by your own kindness to others). Thank you for being so honest and vulnerable. I am bookmarking this to read, perhaps every day, in November as I struggle through NaNo, without, as yet, even one of those place-mat type maps to guide me.
PS- I can't wait to read this book!!!
I'm glad you were able to enjoy your special evening in spite of the book shortage, and I really appreciate your sharing those remarks with us here. And what Kelly said: this is a book worth waiting for.
Look at you sipping your drink looking so happy and so lovely! My name for you from now on is 'lovely Beth'. What a perfect party. Your words always take my breath away. These are particularly inspiring. How I wish I could have heard them. Thank you for sharing them with us.
Thanks for a great class on Wednesday :)
Many, many cheers to you, Beth, for lucky #13!
And I LOVE that dress - so cool!
Congratulations!!
XO
Anna
Beautiful.
I'm so glad you enjoyed the party. I love this book and I hope the world continues to discover it and YOU. xoxo
As one of the lucky ones who was there last night: thanks for posting the excerpt from your talk. I tried furiously to write it all down—so beautiful—but didn't get it all and was going to ask you for it. Now we all can read it.
I particularly love: If you think you are a writer, if you want to be a writer, you need to read. You need to be capable of hurting. You need to imagine. You need time, you need silence, you need space. You need these things. But if you do not also have a persevering spirit, you cannot be a writer...
That, plus how you must have every word in every sentence satisfy before you can tick a chapter toward its end. In your talks, your books, your blog, you always have such fresh and beautiful ways of saying things. The language you choose—that's why I love your books, most of all.
Last night was wonderful: sending you some iphone photos.
Tonight, after work: Reading You Are My Only (my signed, sweetly inscribed copy!) is my looked-forward-to-treat.
Aha! It's the "13" that caused the shortage of books around publication time! Yes, and the shortage of books means lots of people read books by Beth Kephart. Let's do the math:
13 + shortage = happy author
Thanks for sharing part of last night's talk. This is why I have a book blog: "If you think you are a writer, if you want to be a writer, you need to read."
(Go, Patti! You can do NaNo! If you need a friend, I'm "Bookbuddybonnie" there.)
I'd love a new NaNo buddy, Bonnie!! Thanks for the encouragement. (I'm daydreaming story as I ready things for my daughter and the two darling grands.) I'm "Peppermint_Patti." (I'll contact you if I can figure it out. I haven't looked around much yet and things are new. Or come get me, please.) : ) Again, thanks.
Very lucky 13--I've started it and think it's amazing.
What a awe-inspiring night :) You are just simply amazing.
I love these words:
"You lose faith in yourself when you write—that’s part of the process. You fight the lost faith of others. You fight your way out of the margins. You hold onto the people you trust. Perseverance is the final hallmark of a writer."
Never lose faith in YOURself.