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With Behind the Beautiful Forevers, Pulitzer Prize winner Katherine Boo does more than merely bear witness in Annawadi, the slum that grew up in the shadows of the Mumbai airport and features a sewage lake, horses painted to mimic zebras, and every possible form of corruption.

She does more than sit with the trash pickers, the schemers, the envious, the hungry, the souls who conclude that death is the only way out.

She tells a story. She involves her readers in the intimate dramas of an open-wound place. She compels us to turn the pages to find out what will happen to the prostituting wife with half a leg, the boy who is quick to calculate the value of bottle caps, the man with the bad heart valve, the "best" girl who hopes to sell insurance some day, the "respectable" rising politician who sleeps with whomever will help her further rise, the police who invent new ways to crush crushed souls.

She engages us, and because she does, she leaves us with a story we won't forget. Like Elizabeth Kolbert, another extraordinary New Yorker writer, Boo takes her time to discover for us the unvarnished facts, the pressing needs, the realities of things we might not want to think about.

But even if we don't think about them, they are brutally real. They are.

A passage:

What was unfolding in Mumbai was unfolding elsewhere, too. In the age of global market capitalism, hopes and grievances were narrowly conceived, which blunted a sense of common predicament. Poor people didn't unite; they competed ferociously amongst themselves for gains as slender as they were provisional. And this undercity strife created only the faintest ripple in the fabric of the society at large. The gates of the rich, occasionally rattled, remained unbreached. The politicians held forth on the middle class. The poor took down one another, and the world's great, unequal cities soldiered on in relative peace.

Like the photos featured in this earlier blog post, the picture above is not Mumbai; I've never been to India. It is Juarez, another dry and needing place on this earth.

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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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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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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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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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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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The news from Juarez grows ever-harder to bear. This week, three U.S. Consulate Workers were murdered. Two were Americans, a couple shot down while returning from a child's birthday party. Their brutal murder left their own child orphaned in the back of their car.

Why?

I am eager to talk about this place, Juarez. Eager for The Heart is Not a Size to be released on March 30th. Eager to raise more awareness about what is happening, south of the El Paso border, where every life means something, where every life should be safeguarded.

I am grateful, therefore, to Maureen Montecchio, the community relations manager at Barnes & Noble Devon, who invited me to join her wonderful group of educators and librarians at her store on April 13th, at 3:30 PM. If you can, I'd love for you to be there.

I am grateful, too, to writer and teacher (and mom extraordinaire) Elizabeth Mosier, who reached out and said, We should have a party. She'd been saying that for months, but I'd been deflecting. Finally, she went ahead, she talked to folks, she circled back. We're having the party on April 21st in Haverford, at the beloved Children's Book World, 7 PM. We are going to have cake, because we love cake. We are going to talk about Juarez, because it matters, and about teens, like the two in my book, who hide dangerous secrets from each other. We hope that you will find time to be there with us.

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These beautiful words about The Heart is Not a Size conclude a week that was, for me, full of both tumult and deep graces.

Every writer living is grateful to sympathetic readers. I am particularly grateful today.

Thank you, Susan Uhlig. My box of Heart arrived this week. On March 10th, I'll be announcing the winner of the Heart giveaway contest.

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Yesterday, Ruta Rimas, who has been seeing The Heart is Not a Size through its pre-publishing days at HarperTeen, wrote to say that an early copy of the hardback has arrived at her office.

Contest, I thought.

And so here is a question for any of you who might like to win a copy: Where in the world do you hope to go next, and why? Leave your answer in the comments section here, and I'll choose a name at random by March 10th.

Heart, for its part, takes place partly in Juarez, a place I visited in 2005. Here's a scene from the novel:

Despite the sun and the uptilting slope of the hill, these kids didn’t walk. Even the brother who was carrying his baby sister never slowed for a second, his body bent forward at the waist. There were brothers who came with brothers and clusters of girls and those who came from what must have been east by themselves, all of them dressed in parakeet colors, and I remember a pair of shining patent leathers, throwing the sun back up to the sun. I remember taking that photograph. Sun like bleach, like stain.

Riley’s sapphire eyes were platters; for one bright instant they turned and took the me behind my camera in—took me in, and I snapped that portrait. The loose hair at the back of Sophie’s neck corked, anticipated, seemed ready to flee, but it was Drake who went to tell Mack, and Mack who brought Roberto, and Roberto who called out to the children by name, waving them up the hill faster. The first to reach the top of the hill was a pair of brothers with bright blue eyes and red paisley bandanas that tied back their thick, black hair. Some buttons on their shirts were missing. Their pants were light and loose. When they got to where we were they hung their heads a little bit, but that didn’t disguise their smiles.

The others were right on their heels. A boy in a strawberry-colored sleeveless shirt who had lost his front teeth. The girl with the black patent shoes. Several children—both boys and girls—wearing the same red paisley as the bandana boys. There were streaming colors in the hair of the girls—crimson bows and silver strings, wide navy blue bands striped with mango—and I kept thinking how much those kids must have been loved, how beautiful they

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They were in high school. They were in college. They were between the ages of 13 and 42, post-partying after a soccer game and celebrating a birthday. They were shot down in cold blood this past Sunday by gunmen who barricaded the street with their cars, infiltrated a concrete house, moved from room to room with guns held high, and let the bullets fly. Some 14 are dead; more are critically injured. One was named Adrian Encino, 17, a recently state-honored academic light, who died in his grandfather's arms.

Someone was looking for someone who perhaps testified in a recent trial. That's how one version of this story goes. Someone was looking, and so, of course?, a murderous rampage.

They call Juarez one of the world's most dangerous cities. The bloody border city, they say. The murdered women of Juarez, they remember.

Five years ago, I was there. Five years ago, the children of Juarez gave me some of the greatest happiness I've ever had—the greatest sense of purpose. They gave me the beginning of a book I'd write, a book about finding unexpected beauty in cities far from home.

I am sickened and saddened by the never-ending bad news of Juarez. 2,600 people murdered there in 2009. And what does this most recent massacre bode for 2010?

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The Reading Junky received an early copy of my fourth novel for young adults, The Heart is Not a Size, and begins her review with these words:

Beth Kephart fans are not going to be happy with this review. Don't get me wrong...

To be honest, that left me hanging, too. And then I read on.... I hope you will, too.

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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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"In Ciudad Juarez, young women are vanishing." It's a front-page headline, LA Times, a story reported by Ken Ellingwood. "The streets of Juarez are swallowing the young and pretty," the story begins, and then, young woman by young woman, we are told the details. Of a studious, reliable college freshman who simply did not return from exams. Of a 17-year-old Brenda and a 16-year-old Hilda last seen downtown. Of girls as young as 13 simpy not coming home.

This breaks my heart. This is more bad news for a place beseiged by a viscious drug war. A place I loved after spending long, enriching days there with nearly two dozen teens a few years ago. Today I am remembering lost sisters, daughters, friends. I am hoping for an end to the madness.

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My friend Nancy stopped by yesterday—unexpected, unannounced. The glads in the vase were past their prime, I was overdue for a date with Windex, a spider had been busy whitewalling the post rails outside, and the geraniums were sadly ill-attended (I'm not going to talk about the dust). The house looked neglected, and frankly, this past week, it has been. I have been in another world. I have been writing. The boys have eaten. The bills have been paid. The clients are happy. But the house? Not so much.

Nancy had come to return an ARC of The Heart is Not a Size, the Juarez novel due out next March. I'd wanted Nancy to have the story early, for her husband and daughter were among the many with whom I'd traveled to Juarez a few years ago. They had been there, and Nancy had not, and it seemed to me that the book was a way to impart to her some of what we had seen and felt in that faraway place. We talked about many things yesterday, Nancy and I, but at the end we talked about what was real and what was not in this novel elixir called Heart. The dust storm was real, I promised. So were the men who sat on neighboring roofs, watching us from above. So was the morning honk of an old woman's old goose. So was the half skull of a horse in the street.

And so, as well, was the little girl, pictured here.

Some brands of beauty we simply cannot make up.

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Three Cherries products at zazzle

Well, I obviously tried to tackle far too much last month ... what with so much extra work and the arrival of my shipping, etc, I ended up sacrificing my daily walk with the dogs, stopped eating healthily, stressed out completely -- and as a result my defences went down and I ended up being taken by ambulance for an emergency operation as I was attacked pretty viciously by an extremely happy internal bacterial infection.

Won't mention the gory details but I essentially suffered from quite massive blood poisoning and am now still recovering though I'm finally home from hospital and what a relief that is. Still have to keep my feet up for another couple of weeks but at least I finally found the energy to start drawing again!

So here is my interpretation of Life is A Bowl of Cherries. Not a bowlful perhaps but I am truly appreciating every little bit life has to offer, so a trio seems apt enough :)

I was able to work slowly on a few text designs as well ... primarily requests for names, and here are the ones I've completed so far:

Shireen pink products at zazzle

Juarez blue products at zazzle

Angela hot pink products at zazzle

I'd like to thank very much everyone who sent me prayers, good wishes and positive thought. I've been too tired to write emails or respond to messages personally (general anesthesia truly leaves one exhausted) but I shall now slowly go through them all so that I can personally thank you.

Meanwhile, I have a close friend who has also landed up in hospital after an accident so if any of you reading this know Ida Nerina please please send her all those wonderful prayers for a speedy and FULL recovery.

Wishing you good health! Cheers.

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I have drawn the brilliant conclusion that all important messages are sent to me while I am at the dance studio being tossed about, from partner hip to hip (do they really call that move the back breaker?), or when being encouraged to go high on the tango kicks (really? you want me to kick that high?).

For today while being asked to scorpion my legs while being spun but a quick half turn (okay, you try it), the red phone light was blinking with this news: The Heart is Not a Size is now available in galley form.

There is so much, for me, that is bittersweet about this book, and so much that, quietly (can I say this?) I am proud of. Not proud in a hang-the-ribbons-on-the-wall fashion, but proud because this book required me to push through issues with which I have struggled for nearly a lifetime.

In any case. And so it is. And someday, maybe, I'll execute that scorpion kick in a manner that does not cause Scott Lazarov to gently roll his eyes.

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Next March, my fourth YA novel will be released by HarperTeen. The Heart is not a Size was inspired by a trip that I took, along with my husband, son, and two dozen others, to a Juarez squatters' village called Anapra. It features a girl named Georgia (who just happens to be an anxiety-prone photographer) and her best friend, Riley. It asks the question, What difference can one person make?, while plumbing buried, dangerous secrets.

Today the cover for Heart was approved. I thank Jill Santopolo and Carla Weise for seeing it through, and I share it with you here. I share as well this small excerpt:

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. All the way to the top of Anapra, to where we were standing in our second-hand scrubs, and where Riley said, “They might as well be flowers, blown right off their stalks,” and Sophie said, “This is so completely wild,” and The Third said nothing at all. The Third: He wasn’t talking yet. He was all size and silence.

“I should tell Mack,” I said, but I didn’t budge, didn’t even turn and glance back toward where Mack and the others were digging in, hanging tarp, toting two-by-fours from one angle of sun fizzle to another. Because the kids of Anapara might have been chunks of blown-off petals, like Riley said, but they mostly looked like wings to me, flying and flying in their bright, defying best, their yellow cotton shirts, red fringy skirts, blue trousers. They looked like something no one should lose to a single instant of forgetting.

It was only our second day.

We’d pinned everything on nothing.

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Years ago, Alane Mason introduced me to Gioia Timpanelli, through her exquisite Sometimes the Soul. A few days after Christmas this year, a package, wrapped in pink, showed up at my door. Another gift from Alane—Gioia's newest, signed. What Makes a Child Lucky.

This is the slim volume I read early yesterday morning while the sun rose over the kicked-up ocean and the wind blew the gulls from from green-slicked rock to rock. A perfect book in that it is an ageless book, timeless, too (the two not being the same thing at all, I realized, as I read on and through). Lucky is the story of a boy whose best friend is murdered by the very gang of thugs who soon absorb the boy into their strange circle. The setting is rural Sicily. The hills are ripe but also lonely. There is a shepherdess who tends her flock and then there's Immaculata, the old woman who keeps the boy alive amidst the murderers and kidnappers. She teaches him to cook and to hunt for wild asparagus. She whispers a saving grace into her ear and teaches him the meaning of compassion.

Lucky feels like fable, except that it's so immaculately told. It is saturated with the patient knowing Gioia has marked out as her own. "A great poet said that we make all art from memory and hope," her narrator says toward the end. "Memory is a funny companion. I myself love and trust it. And hope? It is stranger still. Both qualities are essential in my everyday life, as essential as seeing that thin red bird that stitches the high branches of a fir tree with its flight."

Joseph, who tells his story after he's grown up, reminded me of the children I met in the squatter's village of Juarez a few years ago. Of this boy, pictured here, who had nothing but his own great happiness and a borrowed baseball cap, and who would not be defeated.

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