Celebrating Violet

Melissa Walker: I've raved about her here before. Mentioned how we were first paired in the pages of Family Circle magazine, then crossed paths again in a New York Public Library publication, and, always, spontaneously intersect on many (for me) delightful occasions. She's someone I'm perpetually rooting for, as are we all out here. She's combined talent with savvy, and she's been embraced—by myspacers and facebookers and bloggers, by The New York Times and NPR, by runway models and by people who just love a good, involving book to read.

This past weekend I had the pleasure of reading Violet by Design (for, having read Violet on the Runway, I just had to know how things were turning out for our home-loving, good-hearted, slender beauty with a viciously usurious agent), and I'm turning today's blog over to a Melissa Celebration. You really can't put these Violet books down. With flair, with panache, with a moral center, they take you places—Brazil, Madrid, Barcelona. And then they bring you home.

A million bouquets for Melissa.

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New Life

It's happened again: The nest outside my door has been feathered into and entrusted, and babies have been born—the sharp triangles of their silent beaks tilted earthworm-ward, indulgent and needy. The mother hollers at me not to touch, and of course I'd never touch. But I feel somehow knighted and new again, proximate to wings and to accumulating dreams of flight.

The very terrific Keris Stainton has posted a review of HOUSE today on her popular and fashionably pinked Trashionista blog. I hadn't been sleeping, came downstairs, clicked on her blog, just because I love reading her blog, and there, amazingly, this was.

http://www.trashionista.com/2008/06/book-review-hou.html

Thank you so much, Keris.

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The Art of Happiness

I made the mistake, the other day, of watching myself dance on tape, and there, inside those 90 seconds, were all the demons that have forever chased me. I still don't quite yet believe in me on a stage. Don't believe that I belong beneath the lights, or that my turn has come.

But yesterday, while taking a lesson with the ever-brilliant Jean Paulovich (who will tomorrow be dancing with his very beautiful and equally talented wife, Iryna, on the Music Pier of Ocean City), I did my best to listen to what he had to say. And the thing is: He was not talking only about the spine and the chin and the arrangement of the head, not just imploring me (again) to wait. He was saying the simplest thing—that happiness counts, that joy has its place, that when you really love dance, the way I believe I love dance, passion alone should settle one's frame into the escalation and hush of music. It should be the story your face tells.

It's something I should have known myself, of course. Something, certainly, that the kids of Dancing Classrooms have taught me. My photo today is of Philadelphia's most recent winners, a glorious team taught by my friend and fellow dancer, Linda Camardo.

I'm writing about vulnerability and storytelling on the HarperTeen blog, a fabulous myspace site, today. The link is here, below. For giving me room there, and for being tremendously responsive, I thank Lisa Bishop.

http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=72210576&blogID=409718323

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Bereavement

This poem, Jamie, is in memory of. This poem is not enough.

What Time Does

To leave you there,
brine in your hair from the sea,
wind on your skin from the car you drove fast,
the radio on,
until we each had named
our incompatible woundedness,
was one thing.
To walk by the room where we’d almost loved
years afterward,
holding my son’s hand, holding my husband’s,
was, is
what time does.

But to hear your name
in a story someone tells
about a man trapped within
the hostile circumstance of his own skin,
is to hear you not dance,
is to see you not say,
is to understand the word
irrevocable,
and the coming feint of autumn.

The trees have been splitting from themselves
where I live.
Whole crowned limbs going down.

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K.

I'm going to be honest: I was warned. Against taking on a high-school internship student, a writer, they said. Against getting involved, again. Didn't I know that I'd run out of hours? Didn't I see the stuff (meaningless, yet demanding stuff) piling up around my house? Didn't I know what happened to me when I let myself care, and I cannot manage not to care. Not ever. I'm all blood and bones with caring.

I knew. I saw. I said yes to K. anyway. It was only a month-long internship. One month, I said to me. One month, because when I asked him what he was reading at the time, his answer was all the persuasion that I needed.

Thing is, this K., this once-high school student, now graduate, this enormously greedy, never fatuous reader, this writer, and let me tell you, what a writer—this K. was no one-month internship deal. He was, how do I say this? A person with a massive heart and a way with words that broke my heart, even as I sat there, all Mentor-like, and attempted to suggest improvements. Will you read this little book about poems, I asked him, and he did. Will you read OUT STEALING HORSES, and he declared it brilliant, because it is brilliant, and that's K., the real K. He knows from brilliant.

And just now, when I was supposed to be interviewing a client, supposed to be pricing a project, supposed to be doing a bunch of ordinary, grown-up, work-a-day things, he sent an email, containing this quote, which was the thing, just then, that I needed to read. So I give it to you. Because hoarding just won't do.

"All right. He would write a book when he got through with this.
But only about the things he knew, truly, and about what he knew.
But I will have to be a much better writer than I am now to handle
them, he thought. The things he had come to know in this war
were not so simply."
-Ernest Hemingway
For Whom the Bell Tolls

K., maybe you'll read THE CELLIST OF SARAJEVO next. Because sometimes the hardest, most complicated, most wrenching of stories have to be contained inside the smoothest of shells. Because your patience with this book will be rewarded. Because it's about war, and not simply.

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Introducing Tasha

Goodness abounds out here in the land of the blog (goodness, thy name is Miss Em, Melissa Walker, Little Willow, Jenn, Toby Bloomberg, Grete, Keris Stainton, Ink Mage, Miss Erin, and, oh, you know who you are), and I remain astonished (grateful) that we who love books find one another, and, also, that those who love books so often love them out loud.

Take Tasha, for example, the thoroughly talented force behind andanotherbookread.blogspot.com. You might think that her blog—rich with author interviews, reviews, and contests—would consume her full time, but the thing is: She's still in high school. You might think, well, then, okay: She's a steeped-in-literature English buff, but math is actually her thing, and, oh yes, she doesn't just play piano, she teaches it. She's in about a million clubs (just for something to do, I suppose), and she may well race at Indy and swim the English channel on alternate Sundays, but she didn't have the time to fill me in. Tasha's been generous beyond measure with me. I wanted to learn a bit more about her.

This photo, by the way, is not of Tasha, but of a beautiful doppelganger I snapped at the Devon Horse Show. You can, however, find Tasha this weekend in the Philadelphia Inquirer, and that's because the equally dear writer Karen Serfass took the time to interview her for a story about young adult novels and HOUSE OF DANCE. Innumerable thanks to both of you, for caring.

http://www.philly.com/philly/entertainment/20447184.html


Tasha, you began book blogging in December 2007. But: You're a student. But: You have a million homework assignments to take care of. But: Blogging as frequently as you blog is an enormous responsibility. What made you decide to start your own blog? Did you want to fill a perceived gap? Leave a mark? Open the door to conversation?

For me part of the joy of reading is being able to share what you read and let others enjoy it. Where I live there is none of that. Not many of my friends enjoy reading and find it a task when it is assigned in English class, but me I love every minute of it. Starting a blog enabled me to tell the world what the books I was reading were about and then what I thought about them. In a way this was like opening the door to many book related conversations. Through commenting and email I've been able to pass along recommendations and discuss books with other readers and even a couple authors, which I think is just the coolest thing! Now that I've created a blog, I love how it has given me that push to actually contact some of my favorite authors and opened my eyes to new books that I never would have tried would it not have been for a reviewer friend suggesting it or me or receiving it in the mail. Creating my blog has definitely opened so many doors and I love each and everyone of them.


Tell us a little about you as a student—what subjects you love, what activities you are involved with.

Well I am a total math and science geek. Math makes complete sense to me in every way. I love that everything falls into place and everything just works together. I mean this past year I took three math classes...I know I'm totally weird!! I also love science. It fascinates me how everything works and I'm always one to wonder why. Needless to say it too fits me perfectly. Since I'm a total bookworm you may think that I love English, but actually it's my least favorite subject at this point in time. Honestly my biggest miff about English is that it's so subjective. I am definitely the type who likes right and wrong answers, not answers in the middle, which is why English just doesn't work out for me. As for activities there is never a dull moment in my life. I participate in a bunch of clubs and swim for my school. In between all of that I teach piano, take piano lessons, and of course read!!


How long have you loved the feeling of a book in your hand? What is the first book you remember loving?

I have loved that bookish feeling for as long as I can remember. My mom tells me that she's read to me from the day I was born and I have always loved it. I even remember (with the aid of my parents' stories!) being two and having the chicken pox, but still adamently protesting that I wanted to go to the library!! See I was 2 and sick and was still determined to read as many books as possible! The first book that I really remember loving is Good Night Moon. I think my mom had to have read that book to me at least twice a night if not more. I was enthralled with the story. I also remember loving the Erneste and Celestine books as well as Richard Scary. Now I have so many favorite books (House of Dance is totally in one of the top spots!!) that it's hard to even list them all. At one point I had a designted shelf on my bookcase just for favorite books, but now it seems I have too many favorites and they are now just scattered amongst my other books!


Can reading really change a life? Has it changed yours?

Reading can definitely change a life. It can take you on an adventure to another world or teach you a new way of life. It can open your eyes to new things and help you relive others. It is truly amazing and I cannot even begin to imagine what my life would be like without reading and books. Reading has definitely changed my life. Through reading I have learned about faraway places and places close to home. I have learned what it would be like to be rich and famous and what it would be like to live with nothing. I've even found within the last couple of months that even TV can't catch my attention like reading can. There is just so much more you can imagine when you read, unlike TV where it's imagined for you.


What makes a book outstanding in your eyes? Are there books you begin but cannot finish, or does every book intrigue you at some level?

For a book to be outstanding it has to capture me and whisk me away to a new place. The characters have to feel real and they have to show me their story. I also love it when the author is able to pull emotions out of me so that I'm not just reading the book with a straight face. Many books make me laugh, but there are few that make me cry. Those that make me cry I will always remember because if they made me cry (which takes a lot) means that the book was truly amazing. I also love a book that will make me think. I recently read The Adoration of Jenna Fox by Mary E. Pearson and I loved how it really made you contemplate what life could hold for us in the future. I always try to finish a book even if it's major sucking!! I think it is only fair to the author who has put their time and effort into creating the book, to finish the book. Hey I have come across some great books that I was so unhappy with at the beginning which turned out to be a really good.


What sort of post-high school career do you imagine for yourself?

I have the rest of my life pretty much planned out!! That's just the kind of person I am. Since I was five years I have always wanted to be some kind of doctor. At one point I wanted to be a vet, but then I realized I wanted to help people more. Now I know that I definitely want to be either a pediatric surgeon or a neonatologist (like Addison on Grey's Anatomy). I have always loved little kids and think it would be the neatest thing to be able to give them a second shot at life or just keep them strong. As for where I actually want to go to college I have no idea what so ever!! I think I have a list with about nine or ten schools on it including UNC Chapel Hill, Johns Hopkins, MIT, Duke, and so many others!! I honestly don't know where I'll end up as next year I'm going to the North Carolina School of Science and Math which will open up so many doors for me that who really knows what will happen in two years time! All I know is there will be school, lots and lots of school:)


If you were to write any kind of book, what would that book be?

Hmm.... There would definitely have to magic in the book. Don't get me wrong I love realistic fiction, but I have always loved, loved, loved anything that has to do with magic. I also love historical fiction so the book would definitely have to combine the two. I think combing the two would create a spectacular book -- granted I'd have to have the talent to actually write it! One question Beth.....if I ever write a book will you help me?!?!

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Jack Gilbert (again)

"If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world."

"A Brief for the Defense"
Jack Gilbert
REFUSING HEAVEN

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? Yes.

"The question that obsesses me at this moment of mortal peril is perverse in the extreme, and one that goes against all the strictures and nostrums of our time. I feel silly even thinking such a question, for it is evidently only the product of a greatly distressed mind, but I must put it into words.

"Is there life after youth?"

Richard Flanagan
Death of a River Guide

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A Man Can Dream

It's the foot I'm wondering about, the upright, steel-toed, silver one. Medicinal or nautical? Awkward or somehow comforting?

Because I understand how a man can lie by the inlet sea and dream. I understand how, behind his shades, he cannot imagine me, looking down imagining him, and the places that he takes that foot, when he dreams.

But, the foot?

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Perfection, Thy Name is James Blunt

I wish today, as I find myself wishing many a day, that I could write a sentence (okay, greedy, I admit, a paragraph, a story) that seared and sung and stuck and broke and cast in James Blunt style. To write like that guy sings. To rip the air apart with lyrics such as his.

If I could.

Just. If.

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Callas

I send this bouquet of callas out to my agent, Amy Rennert, who took the time to read, again, the novel I've been writing. Who said: There are places left to darkness that might be flamed to light. Who said: There is an almost in these pages that you might render more absolutely right.

To have been taken in. To have been heard. When writing is the fierce thing inside yourself, the thing you cannot quell. When the book you are churning just this moment feels inevitable and elusive—both things at once, and necessary, and nearly within reach.

Reach.

Slip the flowers from their stems.

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Weather

We hovered on the tarmac beneath a storm. We flew through a thicket of clouds. Far past midnight the plane came down, and the winds have blown, and the clouds have gathered, and every now and again there has been sun.

While in Iowa, a terrible tragedy. While in Wyoming the air is angry. While we all go on, living as we have, watching the skies, wondering what it means for now, what it means for all the days from now.

In between looking up, I have been looking down, at some of the most extraordinary, nearly brutally brilliant books I've read in a very long time: DEATH OF A RIVER GUIDE. THE CELLIST OF SARAJEVO. THE GATHERING.

We go away to get away from our own smallness. To be awakened again. By books. By weather.

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HOUSE OF DANCE, Starred PW Review

House of Dance/Starred review
Beth Kephart. HarperTeen/Geringer, $16.99 (272p) ISBN 978-0-06-142928-6
Distinguished more by its sharp, eloquent prose than by its plot, Kephart’s (Undercover) second YA novel probes the fear of loss by introducing a heroine who overcomes it. Abandoned by her father years ago, emotionally distant from her mother, who is caught up in an affair with her married boss, 15-year-old Rosie spends much of the summer before junior year with her terminally ill, widower grandfather, helping him sort through his belongings, all of them stuffed with mementos. As his health rapidly declines, Rosie realizes: “You cannot buy a man who is dying a single meaningful thing. You can only give him back the life he loved and awaken the memories.” Determined to retrieve the time her grandfather misses most, when music filled the evenings and he could watch his wife dance, Rosie sets about throwing a dance party at her grandfather’s house. Poetically expressed memories and moving dialogue both anchor and amplify the characters’ emotions. Ages 12–up. (June)

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Point of View

These two paragraphs caught my eye in Lucy Ellmann's NYTBR review of SNUFF, the new Chuck Palahniuk porn novel.

I wondered what the rest of you think:

"What the hell is going on? The country that produced Melville, Twain and James now venerates King, Crichton, Grisham, Sebold and Palahniuk. Their subjects? Porn, crime, pop culture and an endless parade of out-of-body experiences. Their methods? Cliché, caricature and proto-Christian morality. Props? Corn chips, corpses, crucifixes. The agenda? Deceit: a dishonest throwing of the reader to the wolves. And the result? Readymade Hollywood scripts.

"So not only has America tried to ruin the rest of the world with its wars, its financial meltdown and its stupid stupid food, it has allowed its own literary culture to implode. Jazz and patchwork quilts are still doing O.K., but books have descended into kitsch. I blame capitalism, Puritanism, philistinism, television and the computer."

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Heroes

The Conestoga baseball team played its final game yesterday—out on the green fields of Hershey against a dignified, blue-shirted opponent. But it's not the heartbreaking, 4-3 loss I'm thinking about today. I'm thinking about the pitcher who took a smacked-out line drive to the ankle, and yet stood to deliver the ball to first base. I'm thinking about the quiet—yes, masterfully quiet—leadership of the team's co-captains. I'm thinking about the coach who yells and the coach who watches, the coach who suggests and the one who insists, and how it's all one language in the end—how it comes from the same deep, honest, admiring, coaching because they love the game but also coaching because they care about the dreams of young men place. I'm thinking of the parents and girlfriends and siblings who all drove hours so they could be there while the ball got pitched and scuffed and powered and snatched. I'm thinking about how lucky I was to sit among them.

My son has helped to manage this glorious team for the last three years. In choosing to sit in that dug out and mark down those pitches, to wear that white shirt when he wasn't wearing the orange one, he has given something deep and good to me. A reason to stand by, and, finally, to join in.

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Quiet?

I have been puzzling over the word "quiet" of late, as in, "the book is quiet," or, more truthfully, "but the book is quiet." That but. That but is what I've been puzzling over. For when I consider some extraordinary YA books—ANNE OF GREEN GABLES, for example, THE SECRET GARDEN—I think of books so impeccably quiet that one can hear a river running, one can hear one's own breath in a shady knoll. A sort of magical, human, alive quiet that never feels but-ish to me, just distilled, searching, pulsed.

Can quiet matter, still, on a page?

Can quiet be heard?

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Anne with an E, and Dance

It took me all these years to read ANNE OF GREEN GABLES, and now I am wondering how I ever lived without. I feel her on my shoulder, wherever I venture to now. I hear her insisting on the imagination, think of her faced with a newly bloomed peony, run off to the street, as I'm sure Anne would have done, whenever the Clydesdales are brought down my way at dawn, set free from their tents at the transitory horse show. Anne with an E seized upon the possible. She insisted on living each day as a last. She went about her world enthralled—looking for, hoping for goodness.

Saturday Anne was with me, too—with me and a few hundred others as Dancing Classrooms Philly conducted its Spring 08 finals competition at Drexel University. The foxtrot, the merengue, the rumba, the tango, the swing had transformed these young dancers from West and North Philadelphia. The glitter on their skirts and ties, the sunset peach above the young girls' eyes, the flowers perched, the shirt tails in, the reverberatory cries of the crowd as Pierre Dulaine urged the spectators on. The teaching artists, too: They had transformed these kids—they had changed the way they walked and stood, the way they honored one another, the way they dreamed. It was hot, and it was crowded, and the whole place throbbed, and as I took photograph after photograph of angled arms and intertwined hands, I felt Anne near—the irrepressible pulse of her.

Dance is a gift given. It is the self, rising.

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On Gifts

On my sill two apples and a pale blue leaf floated on a blue-black sky—the leaf floated all the way here from California, thanks to the generosity of artist Kris Cahill.

http://www.kriscahill.com/kriscahill.com/Home.html

Two days from now my son will be a high school graduate. Family comes in, reservations are made, but still, and yet: I can't imagine what I might give my son that could speak of all he's always and forever given me. That could reflect or honor it. Calm, and how often I've needed his brand of calm. Wisdom, because his comes strictly undiluted from the heart.

No word big enough.

No poem.

Just to be here in the afternoon, when he saunters into my office, slides into the Corbusier chair, fits the back of his head into his fingers (long fingers), and says, Hey, you have time to talk? Just to be here, for whatever time is left. That's all.

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