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The Devon Horse Show grounds are empty, but the gates are open. No, not empty, we discover; there is a single contractor working within. With his permission we walk, in and out of the stables, the new buildings, the old ones. I find a ladder and Bill climbs it into a secret place. I think an abandoned sink is lovely. Also a discarded, woven hat. Also emptiness as countered by the milk of contained light.
In the sun it is hot. In the shade it is perfect.
What are we searching for on this Labor Day?
I have been reading Olivia Laing. I have been reading (I seem to endlessly circle her) about Virginia Woolf. Her ecstasy. Her mourning. Her river and her pocketful of stones. I have been reading, too, about artists, jealousies, rivalries. Bacon and Freud. Manet and Degas. I have been thinking of the panel I was on, just yesterday afternoon, at the exquisite AJC Decatur Book Festival, and all the things I didn't say, and the friends who came to see me, and the ease of our stupendously fine moderator, Terra Elan McVoy, who brilliantly coined perfumes for us and wove a silk thread between stories for us and wondered about our books as films and decided
This Is the Story of You isn't really a film, not yet a film, though perhaps it is an Indie. Yes. Always. I am, will be, the Indie. Slightly out of step and over to the side and stewing inside the next act of making something, my preference, always, for the thing that is not yet made, as opposed to the thing that is.
Do we read our books after they are published (beyond when authorial responsibility calls us to), we were asked. No, I said. No, emphatic. For there is no fixing the book then, no new chance, and I always wish that my books were better than they were, and I am always trying, until they are printed (ask any editor of mine) to make them better than they are, than they will be, but yesterday, when I was feeling, I'm not entirely sure why, sad, there was a girl in the line after the panel who asked me to sign her books. "You are my favorite author," she said, and I was stunned by it, set back, this gesture of hers, this kindness extended. Words that pinned me to the present time, for that present time, in that moment. With me on one side of the table and this beautiful girl on the other, for just that moment or two, I was me, with the books I have made, in the present, in the moment. I was not looking past them.
Not yet, anyway.
Before the horses arrive, before the crowds set in, before the big hats and the prance of dogs.
I like to be alone inside the tantalizing before.
Sort of like writing a book before the critics weigh in.
Every since I was a little girl, the Devon Horse Show has swept me in. It has been gray here, misty, but that hasn't daunted the horses or those who love them.
Last night was the Grand Prix. Leading up to all of that was this—anticipation in the stables, an entertaining cowboy, Clydesdales on the grounds. The first jumper of the night was Georgina Bloomberg.
My deep affection and admiration for Bruce Springsteen is well known. I won't repeat myself here, not tonight. I simply wish to say this evening how happy and proud I am to be joining April Lindner, Jane Satterfield, Ned Balbo, and Ann E. Michael for Glory Days: A Bruce Springsteen Symposium, to be held this coming September. Our proposal (April planted the seeds) was accepted. We'll sit together to reflect on the impact this great artist has on the way we think about words and storytelling. And we'll listen to what others have to say (and how they sing).
I also wish to say that I had the privilege, hours ago, of standing at the rails at the Devon Horse Show and watching Jessica Springsteen, Bruce's daughter, float above her gorgeous horse. She is a distinguished rider and person, this Jessica Springsteen. She made it to the jump off, rode last in a tough, brave field. Here she is in a bold attempt to best a toweringly fine time.
Early this morning I slipped out of the house and down the quiet of the street toward the horses.
They were waiting for me.
They will be gone in a few days.
I miss them already.
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.”
I am now taking time from my regularly scheduled blog life (which is never regularly scheduled and which is not technically speaking a life and which is still, four years in, trying to figure out what it is meant to be) to share with you two photographs taken one summer ago at the horse show extravaganza that happens once each year two blocks from my home.
A blue ribbon to those of you who recognize the rider as Mr. Carson Kressley, who gained fame on "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" and is now defying the odds with Anna Trebunskaya on "Dancing With the Stars." But in between those two TV appearances, Mr. Kressley rode this horse to first Devon Horse Show placedom with considerable style. The horse itself, a majestic creature, was stabled in the back corner of the show grounds, and after the win, Carson kindly entertained the crowds and signed a fistful of autographs. What struck me at the time was how incredibly serious he was about his riding—and how stand-out gifted with a horse.
Which means, I'm saying, that, though he has us laughing on "Dancing," and is in fact the reason I tune in, there is much to him that the cameras do not see. He's gracious in person and he cares about what he does. And see how the horse listens to him.
and my thanks to those of you who have so kindly commented on the photographs these past few days. I am a peaceful person, when I have a camera in hand, when my only responsibility is to see. To wait for the horse to find me, to wait for the child to laugh, to wait for the sun to fall to just the right place. Photography slows me down. It forces patience. And I love having an outlet for it here, on the blog.
Many exquisite things trundle and waltz by my home on Memorial Day weekend. There is, for example, the annual carriage parade. There are the dogs of the famous dog cotillion. And then there are my fabulous, witty, smart, and loving neighbors—so entirely and brilliantly in love.
Exquisite things waltz into my world as well, and this morning I would like to send my heartfelt thank you to Florinda, for
this especially moving post about our time together at BEA. Caribousmom, I thank you, too, for including
You Are My Only in your
Book Buzz: Fall Reads; you've assembled an immaculate list of titles, and I'm so grateful to have my book included on that list.
I am stealing a meme from dear, so-talented, and missed
Eating a Tangerine with this up-to-the-moment report on what is making me happy.
First, the cherished memories of
my trip to the BEA this past week. Thank you, so many of you, for being such an integral part of my adventure, thank you Armchair BEA for the love, and thank you Florinda for
the conversation.Second, the news that
Dangerous Neighbors has been chosen as the summer read by a lovely local private school. I have so wanted that for this book of mine, and I am grateful.
Third, the happy reality that, after allowing myself to stall for a few days (as I imagine most authors waiting to hear about circulating manuscripts do), I have found my way back to my prequel-in-progress to
Dangerous Neighbors. Research proved to be the key. I have lucked onto something astonishing and juicy—a little known fact that will give my story heft, suspense, momentum, and (I'll toss the word in there) thrills. I have myself a riveting something. Now I just have to write it.
Fourth, spending time at the Devon Horse Show, taking photographs of
horses,
children,
riders, and
the big jumpers. Today I'll be photographing the carriages that are rolling down my street (two just did, so I interrupted this blog to catch them) as well as the famous puppy contest.
Fifth, spending an hour with
Kim, my former student, at the show yesterday. There she is, petting a three-month-old mini. Both are, I think, beyond words.
Finally, receiving and reading the richest imaginable e-mails from my son, now in his fourth day in London. The Brits are treating that great guy of mine exquisitely well, and he is turning most every hour into something worthy of a story. In exactly two weeks I'll be there, in London, too. Laughing, I'm certain. And listening.
Scenes from the Devon Horse Show.
and there are the grounds, off in the distance. I walked through the open gates yesterday afternoon. Sat on a bench, waiting for horses. One lone soul with a big truck was moving the mountains of new white sand around. Like snow beneath a magnolia sky.
I was afraid of losing the light. She sat up high, against the sun, gave me one photo more.
It was her first trip to Devon; she'd only just begun riding a few months ago. And this was her horse, braided by a friend, saddled up, readied for adventure. "Will you take our portrait?" they asked, and so I did, beneath the greenish light of the secondary stables, where I have spent many hours this past week, leaving my own life for all of theirs, which is the first lean back toward fiction.
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.
I had this photo, but I had no supporting quote, no supporting anything, until I discovered these words just now in Dwight Garner's
New York Times review of Christopher Hitchen's new book,
Hitch-22.
The photo (this dog, so done up, so seemingly gentlemanly), the words (so possibly true, so cautionary): they seemed an inevitable pairing:
“An autobiography is only to be trusted when it reveals something disgraceful,”
George Orwell, one of Mr. Hitchens’s literary touchstones, wrote. “A man who gives a good account of himself is probably lying, since any life when viewed from the inside is simply a series of defeats.”
In the high heat of the afternoon, I took my father to the horse show, where we watched dogs parade and horses leap, where we took refuge in the shadows of the stables. When we stopped to watch a traveling magician and his rope trick, I turned at once to this girl who proved herself still capable of surprise, still wholly equipped for astonishment.
I like that in a person.
Again, early this morning, I retreated to the stables. Slipped in, unquestioned. Watched. Suddenly: a panic. A three-year-old stallion—this three-year-old stallion—wanting out. With his back hooves, he kicked away at his slatted stall, unhinging the wood, pacing, splintering again. He reared and he whinnied, and up and down the stables, the geldings, the mares, the one-year-olds answered.
I stood just this side of the stallion with the perfect neck, watching him ache for his freedom.
Later, as I made dinner, my son said, in response to a story I had told him. "Mom, have you considered doing fewer favors?"
I remembered the stallion, kicking the slatted wood down.
He'd come from Florida to shoe the horses, to wield 28 years of knowing. I asked him, Did he mind if I watched? He said he didn't mind much. I asked him, How is it that the horse does not flinch as each of those six, long, sturdy nails are driven into that one hoof? He said, Think of the tip of your fingernail. Would you feel it, if a nail were driven through?
By:
Beth Kephart ,
on 5/20/2010
Blog:
Beth Kephart Books
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I'm headed into the Big Apple today (though not by way of clydesdales, sadly) to talk about the power of the Kelly Writers House program at Penn, to read with Kimberly Eisler, one of my truly talented students, and to witness the indomitable Al Filreis teach a poem (that should be something; hope he doesn't call on me). Two days later, I'll head back down into Philadelphia to see my first Penn student, Moira Moody, say I do to the man she loves. I'm banking on Dr. Filreis showing off some highly ecclesiastical moves at Moira's wedding. I'll take hip hop, too. Or even the cha cha.
By mid-week next week, I'll be spending the day at Chanticleer (the site of
Ghosts in the Garden and
Nothing but Ghosts)—teaching memoir to the aspiring writers of Agnes Irwin, thanks to the invitation of Julie Diana, who is not just the head librarian at Agnes Irwin, but the wife of the fabulous writer, Jay Kirk. Thursday and Friday, back in New York, I'll spend some time with editor Laura Geringer and the glorious Egmont team; the book bloggers I have come to love; Amanda King, Gussie Lewis, and Jennifer Laughran, booksellers extraordinaires; and maybe even grab a few moments with Amy Rennert, my west-coast based agent with whom I often speak but whom I rarely see.
I am not, by nature, a sustainably social person, and so, when I return home next Friday evening, I'll be grateful that one of my very favorite events of the entire year—the Devon Horse Show—will have rolled into town. We moved here in large part because the fairgrounds are just down the road, because these horses do trot by just after dawn, because I like few things more than walking through the shadows of stables, fitting my hand to a sweet mare's nose. I like the sound of clop and whinny, the tinny music that accompanies balloon dart games and Ferris wheels.
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.
I have written of how much I love my home—not just the tiny tudor where I work, cook, sleep, read, dream, entertain, but the neighborhood itself, which is history and horses, big trees and the cracked urns that show up in neighbors' yards, recalling an era past.
Last weekend I went to the bookstore twice, and among the many books that I carried home was Devon (Margaret Depiano and Stephen Diaddezio), a self-published photo history of my hometown. I live on the grounds of The Devon Inn, pictured above—once "the social center" of the Main Line. It was here where the wealthy came to "summer." Here where they played polo and hunted for fox and played golf (my own house sits on the former 40-acre golf course) and participated in a horse show ritual that ultimately became The Devon Horse Show. I went to that horse show as a little girl. We bought our house here because I wanted to be near it as an adult. I write about it each May when it comes to town, and it is featured in my forthcoming novel, The Heart is Not a Size. I lean on history, in most everything I do. I am forever hunting down ghosts.
And so it was with enormous pleasure that I sat yesterday leafing through the collected sepia photographs in this lovely book and reading about man-made lakes and 20-acre farms, piano recitals and a maple-wood ballroom floor that measured 50 x 70 feet. Fire would haunt this inn. Times would change. The massive structure would be other-purposed, until it was deemed no longer relevant. But in my mind's eye, the Inn still exists. And still the horses clop by.
This past Memorial Day Weekend, I took the short trip down the road to the local bookstore and spent some meandering time. At the high school reading list table (love those tables) I pondered classics I hadn't yet read and picked up Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. At the popular paperbacks I found and collected a book long on my list—Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog. My agent, Amy Rennert, had suggested Marianne Wiggins' The Shadow Catcher (about the American West and photography, among other things; how could I resist?) so I went and hunted that down. Next I asked the sales clerk what literary book is currently selling well, and she suggested Broken for You by Stephanie Kallos. I like to be in the know, every now and then, and so I added that to my pile.
Finally, I went to the YA shelves and collected Melissa Walker's newest, Lovestruck Summer. I have a thing about owning all of Melissa's books—she's so cute, to begin with, but also, just as important, I learn a lot from her each time I curl up with one of her teen novels. This time was no exception, for Lovestruck Summer isn't just a compelling tale of summer romance and indie music. It's also a novel that showcases Melissa's tremendous ear and her ability, from the first sentence on, to juice a book with momentum and voice.
Listen, for example, to the book's first paragraph: "I live my life in headphones. That way I can control what I let in. If kids at school are being idiotic and perky, I put on a mellow track and tune out their spirit rally. If my parents are nagging me, I play a fast song and rock out in my mind while smiling and nodding at them."
That's good. That's very good, and here are some reasons why. First, rhythm. This book is about music and from the start, Melissa's language has jazz. From the start, too, the words surprise. Kids being idiotic and perky? Clever coupling. Tuning out a spirit rally? Wait. A spirit rally? Let me take another look, you think, at that. And do we not, in just a paragraph, get who this narrator is? Can we not already picture her, caught up in the medleys she's got tracking through her mind?
There is a reason that those who have big followings have garnered that affection. In Melissa's case, she knows her audience, she knows what they think (Sex and the City characters are old, for the record, and there are just some things that people shouldn't wear), and she knows how to write a credible romantic tale that will keep teens on the edge of their seat.
the most important thing is stop your work, get in your car, and drive to your father's house, when he's not expecting you. To find him out back, watching the birds in the trees and at their well-stocked feeder. To sit with him through mourning doves and orioles, woodpeckers and finches. To leave a book, a new one, behind.
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Congrats on the proposal being accepted! Very exciting.
In other news, I wish I could see you this week but I know you'll have a wonderful time. :)