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Within every story there are stories, and this morning I am deeply blessed by the chance, in Shelf Awareness, to remember my grandmother and to reflect on the passion I have for creating young adult stories in which time works differently. Jennifer Brown, the children's book review editor for Shelf Awareness, opened this door to me. Her kindness toward me and Small Damages has been remarkable.
Pictured above is my beautiful grandmother, whom I lost on Mischief Night when I was nine. She sits beside my grandfather, who holds my brother on his lap. I am sitting with my beloved Uncle Danny. My mother's family. Sweet memories.
Thank you, Jenny Brown and Shelf Awareness. These are the opening words of my Inklings essay. The rest can be found here:
My books for young adults are frequently shaped by relationships between those who have so much wanting yet ahead and those looking back, with pain and wonder. Time works differently in books like these, and so does memory.
5 Comments on In Shelf Awareness, remembering my grandmother and reflecting on stories in which time works differently, last added: 9/8/2012
I loved this so much. Both your relationship with your grandmother and Kenzie's relationship with Estela show me something I wish I had more of, but really helped me appreciate the one relationship I had like this. Reflecting back on it sheds a bit of light on perhaps why I tend to gravitate toward friends who are in the generation of my grandmother's age group. There's a knowledge and kindness from these incredible women that you simply can't find elsewhere.
Loved your piece. So much. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to reflect on so many great memories. xo
I was nearly destroyed by my ten-year-in-progress manuscript yesterday. The pacing was off, and I couldn't find a cure.
I sat with my old photographs, my boxes of books, my research. I sat with all 240-plus pages half on my lap, half on the floor. I sat, and I'm glad that I couldn't see my own face. Frustration? Bewilderment? Exhaustion? All three? You're all washed up, Kephart, I said.
But then last night I slept a little (sleep is something else, I tell you), and when I woke I knew just what the problem was, a problem I should have guessed at first off (this is me writing, I reminded myself, me, with the same built-in flaws, the same go-to tendencies, the same great love for landscape and sky when the point is, the point is, the story). I threw pages away, pages and pages. I was ruthless with every excess word. I blue penned the book like its life depends on blue penning, and, in fact, it does. The pace is back on. The tension has tightened. So much more is at stake. I'm losing sentences like I always do. I'm holding onto a new kind of story.
Novels get harder as we push ourselves beyond what we know, my friend Alyson Hagy wrote to me earlier today, after listening to me go on about this book I won't give up on. She's almost always right, my friend, Alyson. She's definitely wiser than I am. Because even though I've been writing this book for almost all of my published writing life, it is the book I've not known how to write, the book I've had to grow into.
5 Comments on Losing sentences, holding onto story, last added: 6/10/2010
It sounds like you have a really important story to tell and that you're taking the time and care to tell it. The fact that you use only your last name to yell at yourself must mean you've become the tough-as-nails football coach you need to be right now :-)
Miguel heads for the jeep.I climb in beside him and slam the door and he drives—past the house into the fields of bleached-out grass, over earth rising and collapsing, into the thick of the dust.There are check points—that’s what he calls them—and at each, Miguel hops out, turns the key in a lock, swings open the gate, hops back in, drives forward, stops, then locks the gate behind us, until finally we are out among the bulls, jerking along like some African safari.He tells me the facts as he thinks them up, and when he has the English to explain:The bulls fight when they are four.They weigh 480 kilos.They wear the brands of their birthdays on their back, the cortijo logo.They have nice, straight backs and horn geometry.
We scatter the herd, break them out of the shade until they are near, running beside us—fast in a straight line, awkward on the turns, annoyed.Miguel keeps talking about the finest horns, the best backs, the beauty.In a few weeks, he says, he will take the six bulls that he loves best and pack them into a truck and send them off to a bullring.Bullfighting is poetry and mind, he tells me, and when his bulls die well he does not feel the sadness; he feels the pride.
1 Comments on All day, in this winter rain, writing of heat and Spain, revising this, last added: 2/23/2010
The heat is less than it was.A breeze has blown in, and in Stella’s kitchen I stand with a bowl of artichokes flicking off stems, lopping off tops, yanking the tough outer leaves, and now I set a pot of water to boil and toss the naked white meat in.It takes a while to tender the artichokes with heat—that’s how Stella says it, tender with heat—so I wait, and when the artichokes are boiled and drained and cooled, I slice them thin, and with a smaller knife remove each furry choke—cut around and snap them free, toss them away.In a separate bowl I mix the lemon, oil, and garlic, add the sage and marjoram, the shreds of parsley and mint, and pour the whole thing over the chopped-up artichokes, then cover the bowl with a rag.I clear the counter, wipe my hands.Stella gives me the eye under the bridge of an eyebrow.
“Good enough,” she says.“Now start on the pears.”
“The pears?”
“Peras al horno.”
She tells me to wash the pears and peel them.To halve them, thumb out their cores, keep them fresh with orange juice.“Paradise,” she says, and she fits the knife to my hand, this one thin knife, and shows me what she wants.I have trouble near the stem, but now that trouble’s done and the pear snaps into two parts, clean.
“Pay attention.”
3 Comments on Excerpt from a novel (long) in progress, last added: 1/27/2010
Except there's this: I have two extraordinary women and bloggers to thank for noticing the work that I seek to do here, the stories I try to tell with images and words.
First, might I thank Barbara, whose beautiful, thought-provoking blog was the subject of last Sunday's New York Times article on "slow blogging." I was moved by Barbara's comments in the story, logged onto her blog, discovered the value of her mind, and said something. She took the time to visit me here, and to mention my work on her site. I thank her.
Then, last night or this morning (I didn't sleep; this day has blurred), I discovered somehow (I really don't know how) that a clearly generous, quite popular, and talented blogger soul named Amy had mentioned my blog on her site.
Well, what can you do, when the heavens open up and sweetness rains down?
One thanks one's lucky stars. And the stars themselves.
Speaking of stars—this photo montage was created by my artist husband/business partner years ago, when I was working on a novel that takes place in southern Spain. Something Lenore posted a while ago has me thinking about that novel again. I have something I'd like to write into it. And I just might.
6 Comments on Thanking my Lucky Stars, last added: 12/9/2008
Hello, Beth! I made my way here, via Amy's blog, and must commend her for her wonderful taste and you for composing such a beautiful blog! I look forward to following you in the future. :-)
You are so kind! I ordered your book House of Dance today. Can't wait to read it. :) (this post gave me courage to comment...I get intimidated sometimes on new to me awesome blogs)
Lovely, Beth. I cannot wait to read Small Damages.
Wonderful. My nana was my inspiration and I miss her still after 15 years
I very much look forward to reading this!
I'm on my way to read your essay. It's so special when writers share their root passions!
I loved this so much. Both your relationship with your grandmother and Kenzie's relationship with Estela show me something I wish I had more of, but really helped me appreciate the one relationship I had like this. Reflecting back on it sheds a bit of light on perhaps why I tend to gravitate toward friends who are in the generation of my grandmother's age group. There's a knowledge and kindness from these incredible women that you simply can't find elsewhere.
Loved your piece. So much. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to reflect on so many great memories. xo