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Over the course of the past several days, my Twitter feed has bloomed with posts from the good people of Abrams & Chronicle. Chosen lines from One Thing Stolen, posterized. Words of encouragement and hope. It's been a quiet, miraculous thing. This sense this UK publishing arm has provided of a story fully seen.

And so, when Abrams & Chronicle (through Lara Starr) asked me to write about how my travels have influenced my stories, I was more than happy to comply, writing the story that appears today, here. Please take some time to review the many lovely posts on A&C blog. I promise you good reads and eats.

But while I'm at this, I'd like to thank my dear friend Ed Goldberg, who has been such an exquisite companion through my many seasons as a writer of books for young adult readers. I was standing in the lobby of an Atlantic City hotel years and books ago when I first received an Ed email. I was standing in Books of Wonder when I first (a surprise) met him. And here he is again, reading One Thing Stolen and offering his support in his beautiful blog, Two Heads Together. I am forever grateful.

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My cup is overflowing.

On this rainy afternoon, I would like to thank the one and only Ed Goldberg for reading Flow, my Philadelphia river book, and having so much good to say on his spectacular, shared blog, 2Together.  Ed, you are so integral to my writing life.  I am blessed by your kindness in so many ways. 

Through Twitter, a tool I have yet to master, but a tool through which I have made new friends, I learned of two spectacular new reviews of Small Damages.  One, by the bloggess, Love Is Not a Triangle, made me smile in so many ways, and had me sharing, with the bloggess, my thoughts about the Small Damages sequel I hope to someday write.  The whole is here.

The second is by the good people of teenreads—or, I should say, by the super duper Terry Miller Shannon of teenreads—who wrote, among other things, "Characters are so fully realized, they could walk off the page.... Small Damages is on the short side but is nothing short of a glorious triumph for Kephart."  Those words will put sun into anybody's rainy day.

Finally, today, I want to thank Susan Barnes, Lauren Marino, and a certain publicist named Beth—all on the Gotham team.  I had called Susan with a concern not at all of Gotham's making.  She listened and took action at once.  With tremendous compassion and care, the team relieved me of a percolating anxiety.  They didn't have to do this.  Some publishing teams might not have.  But Gotham did, and I will always be grateful. 

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I had a weekend of goodness—friendship, books, and sun, a crowd of azaleas on a woodsy path, the film "Kolya," (oh!), the book Inside Out & Back Again (breathtaking), simple meals that turned out just fine, the weeds gone from (most) of the front garden.

Enough for anyone.  Enough for me.  But this morning the overwhelming goodness continues, as I discover the ineffable generosity of Ed Goldberg, who read Small Damages one day after he received it, and wrote these stunning words the following day on Two Heads Together, the blog that he writes with his Susan.

Ed, you have buoyed me from the very start of my young adult writing career.  I am and will always be so grateful.

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Whether I'm writing about a river or a young woman confounded by corporate America, about a marginal high school poet or a girl trying to survive the loss of her mother, I am, with my books, writing what I know, what I have felt. The Heart is Not a Size is no exception. Georgia, the narrator that Ed Goldberg describes so well in his review, is very much like I was and am—plain and responsible, known for taking care, and, at times, debilitated by anxiety and panic attacks. Georgia worries about most everything. She lives her life on high alert.

It was with tremendous interest, then, that I read "Understanding the Anxious Mind," this week's New York Times Magazine cover story by Robin Marantz Henig. It's a story that looks at the hard-wiring of prone-to-anxiety folks like me and at the longitudinal studies now under way to detangle questions about the actual physiological brain state, the words subjects use to describe their anxiety, and the behavioral aftermath.

There's much to recommend the story. There is also, on its final page, some hope, or, perhaps, a reason for those afflicted with this condition to come down a little less hard on themselves. I quote from the piece:

"People with a high-reactive temperament—as long as it doesn't show itself as a clinical disorder—are generally conscientious and almost obsessively well-prepared. Worriers are likely to be the most thorough workers and the most attentive friends. Someone who worries about being late will plan to get to places early. Someone anxious about giving a public lecture will work harder to prepare for it. Test-taking anxiety can lead to better studying; fear of traveling can lead to careful mapping of transit routes."

That's not all bad, from where I sit. Or at least, I'm going to try not to worry that it is.

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How do we meet people? How do we continue to know them? Years ago, it seems, Ed Goldberg, a Syosset, NY-based librarian and an avid reader/reviewer, asked if he might have a copy of one of my books. It was sent. He wrote a gorgeous review; it was posted. There was, after that, another book. Ed asked. It was sent. He read carefully and dearly once again, sharing his thoughts with me, then with the world, and in the meantime advocating my work to others. He became—over Facebook, on the blog—a constant presence and friend.

A few weeks ago, Ed asked if he might read Heart. It's a different book for me, purposefully so. I held my breath. I knew Ed was going to speak his mind, say whatever it was that he truly felt; he's that kind of ethical reader. Here, now, just as my dinner guests arrive, is Ed's review of Heart.

Kephart, Beth. The Heart is Not a Size. HarperTeen. 978-0-06-147048-6. 2010. $16.99. 256

Georgia, a high school junior, needs a life altering event, something that might end her frequent panic attacks. Described as plain and responsible, she is an avid reader of fliers tacked to shop bulletin boards. The flier from Goodworks about spending two unforgettable weeks in Mexico, “planting a seed” so that some small, impoverished community can begin to improve, intrigues her. She convinces her artsy best friend Riley, who overheard her own fashion-plate mother once describe her as average, to join her.

Anapra, Mexico, is an arid colonia on the outskirts of Juarez containing one-room huts pieced together from scraps of tin and cardboard. It is a land of dust storms and las muertas de Juarez, girls who mysteriously disappear, never to return. Georgia and Riley join nine other teens, whose goal is to construct a community bathroom for the Anapra people. A small seed, indeed.

In The Heart is Not a Size, Beth Kephart has written an engrossing novel contrasting the ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’, both groups surprisingly in need. The Anapra people need life’s most basic elements. A people with nothing, their hopefulness is evidenced in the way they dress their children in bright colors and the care they take in digging out after dust storms. Georgia and Riley, two girls with bright futures, are equally in need. Georgia’s panic attacks are debilitating. Riley’s reaction to her mother’s indifference is to stop eating. As Georgia watches Riley waste away, as Riley’s health is seriously endangered, Georgia can no longer remain the silent friend.

Kephart has veered slightly away from her usual poetic prose, although the care she takes with her wording is still quite evident. Heart is a faster paced novel of self exploration. Hearts know no size limit. They can encompass five year old Socorro searching for her missing sister’s spirit or the entire Anapra community. They can enfold Riley, an extraordinary person whose mother is blind to her wonders, or Georgia who must realize how smart and capable she really is.

The writing in Heart is so descriptive that after reading about a dust storm, I felt the need to wash the dust off my hands. The characters are wonderful, from the teens performing the community service to the Mexican men who sit on a roof watching them. The poet that Kephart quotes has prompted me to read Jack Gilbert’s poetry. Reading some books can be considered an enjoyable pastime. Reading others is more of a “reading experience”. The Heart is Not a Size falls into the latter category. Beth Kephart has not disappointed her current or future fans.

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At the close of his review of Nothing but Ghosts, Ed Goldberg P.S.ed: And what/who is that finch that keeps pecking at Katie’s bedroom window? I have my ideas!

The finch of which Mr. Goldberg speaks is ever present, introduced in the book's second sentence:

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. You would think that the glass would break, or else that dumb bird's beak. You would think that I could think myself right on back to sleep, because I am sixteen, a grown up, and I know things. But this is the start of every day: being rattled awake by the world’s most annoying bird.

In Ghosts, Katie is searching for answers in the wake of her mother's dying. Ultimately the world's most annoying bird shows her the way. In real life, the finch arrived shortly after my mother's death—pounded at my office window until I finally began to pay it some attention. There hadn't been finches in these parts before. Certainly I'd never had a bird drill at my window; have you? But my mother was gone, and there was this bird, and suddenly it occurred to me that spirits return in gilded feathers. I hung a feeder by the window, and more finches arrived. I wrote Nothing but Ghosts in a fevered spring and summer, accompanied by the birds.

Today, in the New York Times, Lori Gottlieb writes an important essay about the choices writers make when they are writing about their mothers. The reverberations, the ramifications, the rights, or not, of a writer. With Ghosts I chose to honor my mother by not writing about my mother. I wrote, instead, about the overwhelm of loss, about love in the aftermath of dying. I wrote toward the spirit of my mother without using a single scene from her real life. I wrote fiction, in other words, and left it there, for fiction, I've discovered, after many books and many genres, often takes us closest to the uncompromised, unreprimanded truth.

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Today it stormed, then it stopped, then it rained while the sun streamed down, and during part of this fury I was dancing. I was freeing my mind of all the worries that crawl in and threaten to stay, save for when there is music.

And now I've come home to sun and to the loveliest note from Ed Goldberg of YAbookscentral, who has given Nothing but Ghosts a most exquisite, thoughtful, meaningful review. I excerpt from just the final paragraphs here, encouraging you to travel over to the site, where so much gets done on behalf of so many fine books.

... There is so much to like about this book. Kephart has penned an engrossing, engaging suspense story. Miss Martine is shrouded in mystery as much by the vision of her literally hiding in her upstairs bedroom peering out her window as by the indescribable way she disappeared 55 years ago. Old Olson’s actions add another layer of intrigue to the story.

But to stop at the storyline, in my opinion, is to miss the point. Kephart, better than anyone I’ve read recently, describes the loving relationship between a husband and wife and between parents and child. Jimmy clearly adored his wife as she did him. Katie has an easygoing relationship with her father. However, Katie idolized her mother and conjures up her image when in need of help or support. But most importantly, Kephart makes the point that living life in the fashion of those we loved is infinitely better than disappearing.

Nothing but Ghosts has great characters, action, romance and splendid writing. You can picture every character and every location. Any of you who has lost a close friend or relative will immediately identify with Katie. If you are lucky enough to not experience a loss, you will be treated to a wonderful story. You can’t lose by reading any Beth Kephart book. She’s a favorite author of mine.

P.S. And what/who is that finch that keeps pecking at Katie’s bedroom window? I have my ideas!

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