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The only thing benign about Herman Koch's The Dinner is the title—which, like almost everything else about the story, is designed to throw the reader off. "My Dinner with Andre" this is not. Politics, culture, morality, and childrens' lives are at stake (only the first three were at stake in the movie). The questions: What would we do to protect a child who has committed a heinous act? What would we do if we had somehow (implicitly, explicitly) encouraged or modeled or genetically produced an evil creature? Who do we love and why do we love them and what does familial happiness look like? At what cost, secrets?

All this unfolds over the course of a meal in an expensive restaurant. Two brothers and their wives have come to High Civility to discuss a horrific, seamy event. Paul, whose jealousy and creepiness are transparent from the start, tells us the story. He tells us who he is, even as he repeatedly cautions that many parts of the tale are not our business.

It's a brutal, brilliant book (compared to Gone Girl, I think it greatly supersedes it). It's not the kind of book I typically read, it oozes with contemptible people and scenes, but I was riveted by Koch's ability to see his vision through—so entirely relentlessly. And then I got to the paperback's extra matter and an essay by Koch himself called "The First Sentence."

For me, a book is already finished once I've come up with the first sentence. Or rather: the first two sentences. Those first two sentences contain everything I need to know about the book. I sometimes call them the book's "DNA." As long as every sentence that comes afterward contains that same DNA, everything is fine.

Koch's first two sentences, in case you are wondering, are: "We were going out to dinner. I won't say which restaurant, because next time it might be full of people who've come to see whether we're there." And absolutely, yes. The entire book is bracketed within them.

I believe in the power of first sentences, too. I think about them as setters of mood and tone. I wondered, though, whether I could say, about any of my novels, that the entire story rests within the first two sentences. I decided to conduct a mini-experiment. I grabbed a few books from my shelf. Opened to page one. Conducted a self-interview and assessment. I had to cheat in one place only (Dr. Radway), where more than two sentences were required. Otherwise, I'm thinking Koch is onto something here. (And if it is true for my books, I suspect it is true for yours, too.)

From within the fissure I rise, old as anything. The gravel beneath me slides. — Flow

Once I saw a vixen and a dog fox dancing. It was on the other side of the cul-de-sac, past the Gunns' place, through the trees, where the stream draws a wet line in spring. — Undercover

In the summer my mother grew zinnias in her window boxes and let fireflies hum through our back door. She kept basil alive in ruby-colored glasses and potatoes sprouting tentacles on the sills. — House of Dance

There are the things that have been and the things that haven't happened yet. There is the squiggle of a line between, which is the color of caution, the color of the bird that comes to my window every morning, rattling me awake with the hammer of its beak. — Nothing but Ghosts

What I remember now is the bunch of them running: from the tins, which were their houses. Up the white streets, which were the color of bone. — The Heart Is Not a Size

 From up high, everything seems to spill from itself. Everything is shadowed. — Dangerous Neighbors

My house is a storybook house. A huff-and-a-puff-and-they'll-blow-it-down house. — You Are My Only

The streets of Seville are the size of sidewalks, and there are alleys leaking off from the streets. In the back of the cab, where I sit by myself, I watch the past rushing by. — Small Damages

There was a story Francis told about two best friends gone swimming, round about Beiderman's Point, back of Petty's Island, along the crooked Delaware. "Fred Spowhouse," he'd say, his breath smelling like oysters and hay. "Alfred Edwards." The two friends found drowned and buckled together, Spowhouse clutched up tight inside Edwards's feckless arms. — Dr. Radway's Sarsaparilla Resolvent

We live with ghosts. We live with thugs, dodgers, punkers, needle ladies, pork knuckle. — Going Over

If you could see me. If you were near. — One Thing Stolen

Sidenote: In every case, the first two sentences of my books existed within the book in draft one. Sometimes they weren't posted right up front in early drafts. But they always eventually got there.

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Last week, over dinner, I was telling friends about Juarez—about the trip we took years ago to a squatters' village, where we met some of the most gorgeous young people I'll ever know. We'd gone to help build a bathroom in a community without water. The children emerged from homes like those above, impeccably dressed and mannered.

Yesterday and today I am reading, at last, Katherine Boo's Behind the Beautiful Forevers. I bought the book the week it came out. It has sat here ever since, waiting for me to find time. I am, as most people know, a devotee of well-made and purposeful documentaries. Reading Boo is like watching one of those. Her compassion, her open ear, her reporting—I'll write more of this tomorrow. But for this Sunday morning I want to share again the faces of the children I fell in love with, the children who eventually worked their way into my young adult novel, The Heart Is Not a Size. 

They are breathtaking. Still. And I, as a writer, remain most alive when I feel that the story I tell might make a difference.

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Those who have followed this blog for at least a year know that, come the end of May, I begin to spend at least a few hours most days at the Devon Horse Show, prowling around behind the scenes with my camera in hand.  My long-time love for this show (I first began to visit as a child) inspired many passages in THE HEART IS NOT A SIZE, a book about two teens whose best friendship is tested when they make their way to Juarez.  Before they get there, however, they head on down to the horse show.  I conveniently gave my protagonist, Georgia, a version of my house in which to live.  I transcribed my personal experience into Georgia's tale:

The next day I woke to the quadruple clopping of hooves, the slamming and latching of a pick-up truck.  Boots on asphalt.  I grabbed my glasses, sat up.  From my bedroom window I could see them best—the long line of trailers that had arrived overnight, from California, Connecticut, New Jersey, from every state that claimed a horse with the heart or brawn to win.  The trailers were nose to rear up and down my street—some of them posh as limousines, some with room to spare for the polished carriages and sulkies that would be paraded later that week at the fairgrounds two blocks north. 

The horses were like kindergartners being let out of school—shuddering and tossing their tails as they reverse-walked down the grated ramps.  Their eyes were big as purple summer plums, and all I wanted to do right then was breathe the horses in, press my cheek against their cheeks.  It was early, a Sunday; I called Riley nonetheless.  The horse show came to town only once each year, in May, and the show was a Georgia-Riley tradition.

            “Riley.” I whispered, so that my brothers couldn’t hear.  “They’ve come.”

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In the summer of 2010, I was at the American Library Association meeting in Washington, DC, when the ever-fashionable Jill Santopolo (who had worked with me on several Laura Geringer/Harper Collins books and had herself edited The Heart Is Not a Size) slipped a copy of Ruta Sepetys's novel to me and said, "I read this on the train and cried.  I think it's the kind of book you'd love."

I did.  So did the world.

Reading Between Shades of Gray made me wonder about the editor of that book, Jill's Philomel colleague Tamra Tuller, who had taken on Ruta's literary exploration of another time, another place.  I had been working on a Seville novel for years at that point.  I had come close—very close—to selling it more than one time.  My heart had been broken, but I hadn't given up; if I believed in anything I believed in that cortijo, that cook, those gypsies, those Spanish songs.  I wrote a note to Tamra—brazen slush pile person that I have often been—and asked if she might take a look.

She did.  The rest is history.  Two years to the month after my first reaching out to Tamra, Small Damages—far the better book for the conversations Tamra and I had—will be released, on my son's birthday, to be exact.  A year or so from now (the timing isn't fixed) my Berlin novel, a book born out of a phone conversation Tamra and I had one afternoon, a book that reflects both our love for that city (Tamra having gone there first, Tamra having sent me thoughts about where I might go, what I might see), will find its way into the world.

And today, for the first time, I meet Tamra, a young woman who has changed my writing life immeasurably in ways both big and small.  Two trains, a long walk, a conversation—in person.  If I'm lucky, Jill herself will be in sight (and the very dear Jessica).

It feels like going home.

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Yesterday at Villa Maria Academy I worked with 42 beautiful eighth graders—building writing exercises out of picture books, collectively pooling words for poems that would have made William Carlos Williams proud, studying some of the many ways that a story can begin.

Schools are supposed to teach many things.  In this classroom love is clearly a curriculum component.  There were future special education teachers in the mix, young women deeply concerned about world peace, students magnanimously enthused about a classmate's striking literary gifts, at least one dancer, and readers who did not need to be introduced to Ruta Sepetys or Kathryn Erskine.  They had found these authors on their own.

At the end of the session one student shared with me her winter project—a report of sorts on THE HEART IS NOT A SIZE, my Juarez novel. She had told my story in her own words and created beautiful accompanying illustrations, and when she got to the page that introduced the little girl whom I had based on the child photographed here, I stopped.  The likeness—the dark hair, the orange sleeveless shirt with the little bow—was so absolute that it seemed as if the Villa Maria student had traveled those dusty roads with us.


I rather wish she had.  I would have enjoyed her company.

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After playing a much-needed bit of hooky at the Jersey shore yesterday (not that Jersey Shore, believe me), I came home, woke early, and wrote the final pages of Dr. Radway's Sarsaparilla Resolvent, the Dangerous Neighbors prequel.  I rarely write with a book's closing pages in mind.  This time, always, I knew where I was headed.  I've printed the whole thing out now and will take it to a quiet place to read.  But since I have reworked all thirty-three chapters (save the last one) at least a dozen times each, I think I'm in a pretty good place.

This, of course, is William's story—that boy who rescues animal for a living and, in 1876, in the pages of Dangerous Neighbors, befriends Katherine during one terrifying day at the Centennial.  The year this time in 1871, and a primary scene takes place in the room above.

I have loved every single second of researching and writing this story.  I cannot wait to share it with the world.

In the meantime, I've got corporate work to do and, thanks to the number of schools that seem to be assigning my Juarez novel, The Heart Is Not a Size, to their students, I'm about to put together a teacher's guide for that book.  It is extraordinary—and extremely reassuring—that books do find their way in this world, even if we're not entirely sure how to help them get there.

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I admit, I've had one of those what-am-I-doing-with-my-life? days.

So when my friend Anna Lefler sent me this photograph just now from all the way across the country with the words, "It was just like this at B&N—I didn't touch the display," I decided (a nano-second) that I would put the picture on my blog.

I had no idea that THE HEART IS NOT A SIZE is a summer reading choice in sunny California.  But I am glad and very grateful to know now that it is.

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I knew Dear Reader was a happening place months ago, when I was invited to stand in as a guest columnist for Suzanne Beecher.  Dear Reader is where a book-reading community gets built, where book clubs find their inspiration, and where conversations gather speed and force.  For my own guest column, I wrote about the young people I've met in my time as a young adult novelist—the passions they stir and the things they teach, the many ways that I am hopeful for and with them.

It was a special opportunity, and so I did something I've never done before—offered all six of my young adult books (the seventh,the Seville-based Small Damages, won't be out until next summer) as a summer giveaway.  And oh, what a response we have had.  I've heard from school principals and librarians, grandmothers and moms, fathers and grandfathers, uncles and aunts.  I've heard from young writers and young readers, students on the verge of college and students on the verge of applying to master's degree programs.  I've received notes from all across the country and all around the world.  Many readers have asked for YA books featuring a male teen; I'm 6,000 words into writing one of those.  Many described their particular passions, their favorite books.

I had originally thought that I would give all six books to a single winner, sweepstakes style, but as I read these notes through and considered the huge volume of mail, it occurred to me that there were some very right and particular titles for some very particular readers.  Here, then, are the winners, with the lines or thoughts that triggered my own "I have just the book for them" responses.  Please know, all of you, that I read and considered and valued and had a very hard time choosing winners.  I hope you'll look for books that sound interesting to you and let me know what you think.

Undercover, my first young adult novel, about a young, Cyrano-like poet and her discovery of her own beauty, to 14-year-old Kyla Rich, who wrote, "My 12-year-old sister and I love to read. .... you can never read too much, especially with how much you can learn from reading: Learn about the world, about scholarly things that you'd learn in school, or, sometimes, about yourself. I never really knew why I read so much or why I liked it but, as I read your Dear Reader, I realized why. I read to understand, to know beyond myself. Exactly what you said in your Dear Reader. I guess that might be another reason I write. My sister and I are writers, unpublished of course, and we write to craft the kind of books we like to read, to give someone joy, to help someone, maybe even start a craze. We write for even that ONE person who likes our books, even if it is just one. At least someone cares enough to read." 

House of Dance, about Rosie's quest to find a final gift for her grandfather (and her discovery of a wonderful cast of ballroom dancers), to Patricia Corcoran, who wrote, "I'm 63 years old and have read for as long as I can remember. Except for when I was growing up, I didn't read Young Adult books. I don't know why, but I didn't. About 3 years ago, I started reading them and thoroughly enjoy the ones I've read so far. I have 2 grandchildren, Gregory who is 9 and Emily who

3 Comments on Meet the Dear Reader Giveaway Winners, last added: 7/8/2011

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Q said, on 7/7/2011 10:29:00 AM

Good picks. :)

Caroline Starr Rose said, on 7/7/2011 12:00:00 PM

Last week I ran into a woman I used to teach with years ago. She told me about Dear Reader and that it's run by a high school classmate of hers. Small world!

Susan Taylor Brown said, on 7/8/2011 3:47:00 PM

Love the way you chose these. Very generous.

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These waters are blue rearranged by pink, the colors of sea and sky, and I thought of this image when I learned this morning of all the very kind things book blogger 1st Daughter has done and said about my books this year.  She is one very special and cherished reader.

In her year-end wrap-up of her blog, There's a Book, 1st Daughter named Dangerous Neighbors one of the top four books of the year as well as the most beautifully written book of the year, named me her favorite newly discovered author, and listed The Heart Is Not a Size as the book that had the greatest impact on her in the year. This is high, high praise from a blogger named Best KidLit Book Blogger by the BBAW of 2010 (congratulations to 1st Daughter for that!!).

I am deeply privileged, and very blessed.  Thank you.

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Do you remember how, in high school, you learned so much about yourself, about who you were and how you were seen, from the notes others wrote to you in the pages of a yearbook?

Today, thanks to the generosity of Sara and Drea at travelingarc.blookblather.net, and thanks, too, to Word Lily, Readergirls, Nomad Reader, Hope Princess, Bookworming in the 21st century, and Read What You Know, I had one of those moments when I opened my mail to discover the traveling arc of The Heart Is Not a Size come home.  In addition to their generous blog reviews and overall kind readerliness, these readers took the time to write me these notes on the book that had traveled from one to the other. 

I have a special shelf for special things.  This will now go there.  My favorite copy of Heart by far—made bigger by all of you. 

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Because this might be my Riley at the Devon Horse Show (where a major scene from The Heart is Not a Size does indeed occur), I place her here, in acknowledgement of (and in gratitude for) the extraordinary review that you will find here, courtesy of a special lady.  That's all I'm saying.  You'll have to travel beyond these unpopped balloons to find out more.

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I am grateful this morning for the extraordinarily generous words about Heart posted yesterday on There's a Book.  This is a reader who knows Juarez well, and who shares her own interesting perspective.  Thank you, 1st daughter.

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What have you been up to?
(a question posed by Readergirlz)

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Bookalicious isn't just an essential, edible name.  It's the site of an enormously generous reviewer.  Thank you so much for these words about Heart.

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My thanks to the reviewer of The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books, who penned these words about Heart:   “Kephart writes with polished style, particularly excelling in her portraits of the characters. The background setting is quietly moving, drawn with telling details rather than cheap color. Readers who were drawn in by Kephart’s smooth style and thoughtful characterization will find satisfaction in Georgia’s surprising summer.”

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One day, years ago, I came downstairs to find my son engrossed in a Philadelphia magazine story.  I'd written the story for him—the tale of his first official soccer goal—and I'd put him out there, in the world, with the likes of his heroes, Beckham and Ronaldo.  I loved writing the story, but I loved watching that goal far more, and today what I love most of all is this photograph that sits on my sill, the picture I snapped when I came downstairs to find the little guy bemused by the words I'd written.  Sometimes we're not sure if we're publishing the right book, or the right story.  I never had doubts about this one.

Another reward:  Finding a review like this one, on the classy blog, Stiletto Storytime.  I love being included on a blog that boasts stilettos, and I am so grateful for this reader's appreciation of The Heart is Not a Size.

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Ahem, the note begins, An official announcement:  Nothing But Ghosts was picked by the postergirlz to be a recommended read in the newest issue of readergirlz, to accompany this month's featured title, Absolutely Maybe, by Lisa Yee. 

Being chosen by the postergirlz is like coming home to a place that embraced me more than a year ago, challenged me to become the first readergirlz author in residence, and continues to bring enduring friendship into my life.  Thank you, then, to all of you, for this and more.

Elsewhere....  It is because Becca at Bookstack writes such incredibly intelligent and thorough reviews (and because her site is so gorgeous to look at) that I am so often there, learning from her.  Today I tuned in only to discover this moving review of The Heart is Not a Size.  Becca, thank you so much.

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A few weeks ago, Bethany Furkin of Presbyterian News interviewed me for a story about The Heart is Not a Size and the trip many of us had taken to Juarez.  I was aware of myself talking too much and too fast, and I thought, after I hung up, about how hard a job listening can sometimes be.  I am deeply moved, then, to read Bethany's story, which focuses as well on the great work that Amy Robinson of Pasos de Fe continues to do down on the Juarez border.

I am also deeply grateful this morning to Bermudaonion.  That's all I'll say.

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With thanks to Elizabeth Mosier (author of My Life as a Girl and party thrower supreme), Christopher Mills, and their wonderful girls; Jay Kirk (author of the upcoming Kingdom Under Glass) and my dad; the fantastic people at Children's Book World, who provided not just the space and time, but this fab pinata; and all of those who took time from their busy schedules to join us for a memorable evening.

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In The Heart is Not a Size, Georgia and Riley have a tradition of visiting the Devon Horse Show each year. As always, the event is held at the end of May. Today, I went and took a walk around, while craftsmen painted and big trucks spread their new white snow of sand.

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I don't, as many of you know, look for reviews of my own books, but every now and then one will filter in, and sometimes I'll be reading a favorite blog and come up short against my own name.

That's what happened a few minutes ago, when I was checking in with Chasing Ray, where I've had the privilege of appearing from time to time in a truly wonderful series of Colleen Mondor orchestrated think-a-thons.

I was reading along, about wish lists for Navajo and Apache teens and other typically important topics, when I happened upon this:

After finishing Beth Kephart's latest, The Heart is Not a Size, I have decided she is becoming almost her own little sub genre - a writer who creates stories around, and perhaps also for, a particular sort of teenage girl. The one who seems to have it so together but has numerous little worries, and concerns. Not the drama of violence or addiction ala Ellen Hopkins but of quietly going a wee bit unhinged while trying to hold it all together. Not that Georgia goes crazy in the slightest in Heart, but she worries. And in Nothing But Ghosts there was quiet worrying as well. This all strikes me as something that is perhaps more common than anything else among teenagers - the worrying about holding it all together, doing the right thing, not being a disappointment.

I am taken aback by the perceptiveness of this. It's true. This is what I've been up to. I just didn't know anyone had noticed.

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Inkpop, the tres cool HarperCollins aspiring writers' and book lovers network, asked me a few questions about writing from the heart. I answered them here.

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A dear soul from a Colorado bookstore sent me this image yesterday—a gift of many proportions and a reminder that today The Heart is Not a Size is officially launched on the market.

Those who know far more than me—about how to share word of a book in a bookstore, about how to throw a book party, about how to create a Facebook fan page, about how to design a blog tour—are helping me in countless ways with this release, and I'll be forever grateful. Heart is my eleventh book. My second was the memoir, Into the Tangle of Friendship. Were I to return to Tangle after all these years, you better believe I'd be making room for a few new chapters.

Today the cover story for Heart is posted over at Melissa Walker's blog. Today Anna Lefler, that wild and crazy, smart one over at Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder informs us (which also means me) that there will be a Heart contest in her neck of the woods. Today I learn that there's a badge for Heart Facebook fans and a big blog tour planned. Last night I learned that Elizabeth Mosier has not just planned a Children's Book World party (in the Haverford book store, April 20, 7 PM), but like a party party. With watermelon juice and a pinata and salsa and Mexican chili-chocolate cookies (did you know there was such a thing?) and even a Beth Kephart trivia quiz as designed by her two brilliant actor/singer/writer daughters. (I hope I know at least two of the answers.)

Like I said, and I mean this:

I need to write a long addendum to Into the Tangle of Friendship. For now, this blog will have to serve as its proxy.

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When I titled my fourth young adult novel The Heart is Not a Size, I was referring to my characters, Georgia and Riley—each so different from the other, each tested by their experiences in Juarez, each finding their way back to a friendship.

Since publishing the book, however, I have learned (again) about the unbounded hearts of others—so gracious, so generous, so true.

Em of Miss Em's Bookshelf is one of those hugely hearted people. I'm guest blogging there about my love of all things Spanish today. A copy of Heart will be sent to one who comments. Please do stop by.

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