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By:
Beth Kephart ,
on 10/19/2014
Blog:
Beth Kephart Books
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Italy,
Florence,
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One Thing Stolen,
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University of California-San Francisco Memory and Aging Center,
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I have a single copy of ONE THING STOLEN, my novel about an impossible obsession set against the backdrop of Florence, Italy, available to a U.S. reader.
I invite those who are interested to leave a comment indicating one thing you most associate with Florence—a building, a landscape feature, an icon, a dish, a way of walking, a kind of weather, anything. I will then attempt to write a blog post referencing every single comment.
(I anticipate a mean mind twister.)
The winner will be randomly chosen on November 15th.
Perhaps you wonder why I have just one copy to give away? The answer is that I've been busy creating packages for the many people who helped make this book a reality.
Dr. Bruce Miller, for example, of the University of California-San Francisco Memory and Aging Center, who shed light on the disease that my young Nadia faces.
Emily Rosner and Maurizio Panichi, whom I met in the Florence bookstore, Paperback Exchange, and who helped me understand the 1966 flooding of the Arno and the Mud Angels who came to the rescue; Maurizio's own experiences are woven through this story.
Laura Gori, who directs the Scuola del Cuoio, and where I learned the art of leather working from a master.
Mike Cola, a dear friend and Renaissance man, who talked to me about birds.
Kathy Coffey, who sent, through the mail, the book that I needed, following her own trip to Florence.
My brother-in-law, Mario, who helped me with translations.
Wendy Robards, who read early on and kept me grounded.
My students Katie Goldrath and Maggie Ercolani, who deeply inspired me.
And a few others.
Leaving me with one galley for posterity's sake and one for one of you.
I hope you'll let me know of your interest.
By:
Beth Kephart ,
on 3/29/2014
Blog:
Beth Kephart Books
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Next spring, Tamra Tuller and Chronicle Books will be releasing a novel set in Florence, Italy, and (to a lesser extent) West Philadelphia. It took me a long time, and many drafts, to get it right, and it is only recently that we have settled on a final title.
I share that here, with an early book description:
Something is just not right with Nadia Cara. She’s become a thief, for one thing. She has secrets she can’t tell. She knows what she thinks, but when she tries to speak, the words seem far away. Now in Florence, Italy, with a Master Chef wanna-be brother, a professor father, and a mother who specializes in at-risk teens, Nadia finds herself trapped by her own obsessions and following the trail of an elusive Italian boy—a flower thief—whom no one else has ever seen. While her father tries to write the definitive history of the 1966 flood that threatened to destroy Florence, Nadia wonders if she herself will disappear—or if she can be rescued, too.
Set against the backdrop of a glimmering city, ONE THING STOLEN is an exploration of obsession, art, and a rare neurological disorder. It is a story about the ferocious, gorgeous madness of rivers and birds. It is about surviving in a place that, fifty years ago, was rescued by uncommon heroes known as Mud Angels. It is about art and language, imagining and knowing, and the deep salvation of love written by an author who is herself obsessed with the beguiling and slippery seduction of both wings and words.
My students Katie Goldrath, Maggie Ercolani, and Stephanie Cara inspired me as I wrote. Emily Sue Rosner and Mario Sulit helped me get the Italian right. Alyson Hagy, Amy Sarig King, and Kelly Simmons kept me going. Patty McCormick and Ruta Sepetys listened. Lori Waselchuk gave me her West Philadelphia. Wendy Robards gave so much of her time and heart during desperate days. And Tamra Tuller stood by.
Always grateful.
who took the long drive from her home in Northern California to join me at Book Passage in Corte Madera, where we gathered around a table with other talented writers and talked about truth. It was a remarkable morning. Wendy produced wonderful work. And when were done, we spent some time with Izzies and bruschetta, with mounds of garlic cloves.
Today, on a day that has so many of us thinking back, I am grateful to Wendy for taking the time to come see me, to read
Handling the Truth, and to write
this extraordinary review. Wendy is set to go to Florence, soon. I've been working hard, but perhaps not effectively enough, to get my Florence novel to her in the nick of time.
Hence my silence, mostly, here.
Right now, I can only say how grateful I am for this, and for the friendship.
A few (but just a few) of Wendy's words. Which made me cry on this day, when writing feels like such incredibly hard work.
Maybe you don’t want to write a memoir, so you think this book is not for you. But I encourage you to read it anyway, because within its pages are truths, “aha” moments, and beautiful writing. And if you only read it to get to the appendix of book recommendations – that is also worth your time. The research for this book was huge. Beth culls her formidable list of titles she read down to the best – many of which I have read and loved myself.
It was hot in Marin this past weekend – the day was heavy with sunshine, thick with an intense heat that had people rushing into shade – but sitting in the air conditioned environment of The Book Passage, the day fell away behind me. We were a small group, each of us there for different reasons and at different points in our writing abilities. We sniffed spices, shared photos, and scribbled down bits of memory and detail in short bursts of time. We shared. And we listened. We had the opportunity to get a glimpse into a writer’s soul and her passion, and reap the reward of doing so. It is not an experience I will soon forget.
Many thanks to Beth Kephart – to her willingness to share herself so completely with others, to fly through the dark, starry nights in order to touch the lives of her readers, and for her beautiful words of which I never tire of reading. You are a treasure. And so is your latest book – Handling the Truth.
And not many words, for I am exhausted. (They don't call them Red Eyes for nothing.)
But, in order: Amber, Lara, Tamra, Stephanie, of Chronicle Books, who made my day there so special. Huge thanks to all four floors of the Chronicle team—so many working so hard, and so kindly, on behalf of a book we all believe in. I held
Going Over in my hands for the first time. My friends, the packaging of this book is spectacular. The people behind the book are spectacular. And Tamra Tuller is more dear than she will ever know. Thank you, too, to Ginee, for hosting a dinner I will always fondly remember, and to Summer and Esme, for being first readers.
And then, at Book Passage, where I conducted a memoir workshop with truly talented writers, and where I spent extra time with Wendy Robards, who drove hours to join us. A beautiful moment. And then the opportunity to meet Linda Joy Myers, memoir workshopper supreme, in person. I'll be having a live tele-conversation with Linda (who is also the president of the National Association of Memoir Writers) later this month. Details to come.
Later that day, at Books, Inc., another memoir workshop, and time with my first Penn student (and muse from my corporate fairytale,
Zenobia), Moira Moody Kuo, who is glowing as a new mom. Moira grew up and became a great teacher herself. She also became my first student to make me a pseudo grandmother. Moira, how could you? And also: I am honored, and thank you for your gifts and card.
Early the next day, I walked miles upon miles, to see (again) parts of this city I love. The fog had rolled in. The wild sea beasts were sunning. A dog had put on its shades.
And finally, a long ride to wine country, Santa Rosa, with Brian, the best driver ever. A man who has, as it turns out, driven many friends of mine—Ruta Sepetys, Jayne Anne Phillips, D.J. MacHale, Buzz Bissinger, among them—and who makes us all feel special. I spoke to a packed room of writers at the Flamingo Resort. I also met Vicki of Copperfield Books who had, she told me, laid the groundwork for my trip out west, by making one very special request of Gotham.
I'll be forever grateful. Thank you, Gotham team, for making the trip possible.
We celebrated New Years Eve with truly beloved friends, as we now do each year. We choose a restaurant halfway between our homes, in a town called Skippack. We talk students, dance, Hollywood, art, travels, books, life as it is and was.
The bounty of friendship.
In so many ways the year now gone terrified those of us who love this country and care about the rising class of dreamers. I am vulnerable and incapable, often. I have not learned what I can do in the face of national and personal tragedies, congressional cacophony and faulty machines. I have lost my faith in the sanctity of theaters and classrooms. I have worried about weather. I have felt sickened by conversations that stopped far short of anybody actually listening.
I have wanted to make room. I have asked myself how. I have asked myself questions.
Why are we screaming so much at one another? What is the payoff of cruelty? How can we push a man into the path of an oncoming train? How can we survive the gunning down of children, of teachers, of people watching Batman? What can we do for the friend who has lost a brother far too soon? What can we say when illness happens, and when it returns, when jobs are lost, when everything is so preposterously uncertain, when the storms sweep in? When we don't know and we need to know? When there are people relying on us?
We can, I think, be kinder to one another. We can be more trustworthy. Less self-indulgent with our anger or our needs. Less quick to correct or accuse, humiliate or shame. More aware of the connections between people and things, and how easily—pushed too far, intruded upon—they're broken. We can surround ourselves with the bounty of friendship, and it is this bounty, and the love in my own family, that sustains me, that shows me how. It is this bounty that I am particularly grateful for, on this first day of this new year.
Earlier this year, Wendy Robards, a daughter, a sister, a wife, a caretaker, one of the smartest readers of books anywhere, a quilter, read an early copy of
Small Damages and began to make a quilt that captured the colors in the story. When it arrived I was astonished. Since it arrived, I have shown it to every single person who comes, sometimes I show them twice. It is symbolic, this quilt—bright, particular, personal, and made and given out of love.
Today Wendy has posted her favorite books of the year, and, Wendy being Wendy, first provides incredible reviews of a truly stellar collection, then finally names
Small Damages as her favorite read of the year.
A tree grows for you in my heart, Wendy.
Love to all of you in 2013.
After more than six weeks of acute pain and terrible fatigue, after many holes in my arms and too many tests, the doctor has called with an explanation of what has gone wrong with my body. It seems utterly curable, but it will take a while (specialists must be seen, things must be verified, before I can start on any course of treatment).
I am just so grateful, tonight, for a probable answer. And I am especially grateful for
the quilt that arrived here on Monday, from my dear friend Wendy Robards, who must have known, all those months ago, that I would need her goddess comfort.
Oh, how I have been blessed by her goddess comfort. As I am blessed by all of you.
Thank you for putting up with me all these weeks. I plan to soon return to full fighting form.
Less than an hour ago, I discovered a big box on my front porch. It was addressed to me. Return address: Wendy Robards, of Caribousmom. I had
written of her just yesterday. Called to thank her for her glorious words about
Small Damages. Listened to her wise counsel. We talked for a long time. She never said a word about the sensational, handmade, unbelievable, I have never received a gift like this, I am stunned
Small Damages quilt that she had already boxed and sent my way.
She never even
hinted. Look at this quilt!!!
Look at the colors, the care. "Use it!" she kept saying, when I phoned her just now to say (fumbling for words, breathless) thank you. But how can I? How could anyone? This is art and it belongs on a wall. This is an extraordinary gesture of friendship. This is color interwoven with love.
I truly am too speechless to write much more. But Wendy, on her blog, has described her process. She has photographed this quilt throughout its making. Please, I implore you, visit her
there.
And celebrate her heart, with me, today.
I agree with all of those great words from Wendy. I cannot wait to hear about her travels to Florence.