I forget, often, about the words I've left behind

My dear friends Elizabeth Mosier and Chris Mills sent me this photo last night, following their excursion to Radnor Memorial Library.

We writers live in the forest of doubt, or at least this writer does. This photo startled me—this idea of a dear librarian (Pam Sedor) taking the time to locate my books and to place them all on one wall. This idea of a celebration going on while I've been going on elsewhere.

I forget, often, about the words I've left behind. I focus, too often, on what must be done right now, on what isn't done yet.

I neglect to pause. This celebration at Radnor Memorial Library—discovered by friends—is cause for a pause.

We'll be celebrating Going Over at this very Radnor Memorial Library on April 30, 7:30. This will be my only formal reading from the book, and this party is open to all; cake will be served. Please join us.

In the meantime, today, I am celebrating the work of Michael Sokolove and editor Avery Rome at the University of Pennsylvania's Kelly Writers House. My class has read Sokolove's fantastic Drama High. We have questions. We look forward to reflection, to a deep and true conversation.

Read more...

The DeWitt Henry Evening, in photos and introduction

Radnor High graduates of the class of '59 came out in force last night to welcome DeWitt Henry home.  Pamela Sedor, the ever-young, always-beautiful mistress of the Radnor Memorial Library, did what she does to make the evening seamless.  Elizabeth Mosier and Chris Mills brought Ben Yagoda, Kelly Simmons, Cynthia Reeves, and me to their warm hearth; Kathye Fetsko Petrie brought her most ineffable self. And I was given the honor of introducing a man who has given stories—his own, those of others—a place of permanence. 

This was his evening.

When DeWitt Henry turned 30 years old, he wrote the following in a journal he was keeping:

“I can’t get a job.  I can’t have the things that normal people my age enjoy.  I can’t afford a family.  When I was twenty-five, that was clearly a matter of choice.  I was trying to be an artist, and I could always give up that ambition and still succeed by worldly standards.  But here I am skilled, educated, and living alone on $4,000 where any stiff can make $10,000.”

It’s classic DeWitt.  Self-effacing.  Never murky.  Sentences built of particulates.  It’s also preamble.  Because DeWitt Henry wasn’t actually just moping around in his thirtieth year.  He was on the verge of a next great thing, a brand new future—not just for himself, but for all us readerly stiffs.

So he was frequenting a bar called Plough.  So, in the early fall of 1971, $2,000 were played against 1,000 copies of what would become the first issue of Ploughshares, now one of the most esteemed literary magazines in the world.  What writer doesn’t know Ploughshares, or lust after a Ploughshares page?  The intention was, to quote DeWitt quoting Gordon Lish, to make “a distinct contribution to the national adventure in writing” and, to now quote DeWitt quoting Ted Solotaroff, “to convey the bright hope” of contemporary writing.

DeWitt has brightened the bulb of hope in many ways throughout his career—teaching at Harvard before becoming the Chair of Writing, Literature, and Publishing at Emerson College, and publishing his own essays and stories, pieces that the great Tim O’Brien called “flat-out wonderful.”  He has made a career of launching careers while steadily tending his own.

Through the thickness and the thinness, DeWitt Henry never forgot his roots.  The house on Bloomingdale Avenue.  Howard, the butcher at Espenshade’s.  Kay’s Dress Shop.  The Anthony Wayne Theater.  St. David’s Golf Club. St. Martin’s Dam. The halls of Radnor High.  These memories are the stuff of Sweet Dreams, the memoir he’ll be sharing tonight.

In an essay called “On Aging,” about running the Boston marathon, DeWitt writes “There is the lesson of self-awareness and acceptance, beyond unrealistic ambition....” and then:  “There is the lesson of celebrating, from your individual limits, the glory of full human possibility.”  Tonight we celebrate DeWitt Henry—self aware and wholly accepting, the absolutely full human.

Read more...

Peaceable Kingdom (2)

You might think this is a tilted picture, a mistake, but look again: That's my friend Elizabeth Mosier, just beyond a most delicious platter, beyond a candle decorated with a page from her first book, beyond flowers, artfully arranged. And in between it all—caught, a sliver—is her dear husband, Chris Mills. I was there to celebrate the impending release of Elizabeth's novella, The Playgroup, which I had the privilege of reading early on.

It was a cool night. There was a sweet breeze. Elizabeth and Chris's beautiful girls were just inside. The moon was rising over the backyard theater. A roof of blooms nearly cushioned our heads. Every now and then, I'd glimpse beyond Libby, to the kitchen, see Chris at the sink arranging flowers or there by the counter, scrubbing things down.

This is all I want to say (beyond please buy The Playgroup when it's released; Libby has a fierce and intelligent voice): There is something very beautiful about being with a family whose members love each other, are happy for each other, support and nurture each other.

Read more...

In which I am blown away by Seussical

All I had to do was look to my left and see my father's full-on smile to know that "Seussical" had put a little magic into every last soul in the sold-out Radnor High auditorium today.  I have my friends Elizabeth Mosier and Chris Mills to thank for including me in this utterly remarkable afternoon at my alma mater.  Alison and Cat, Elizabeth and Chris's two brilliantly talented (and, as you can see for yourself, beautiful) daughters, lit up the stage alongside nearly 100 other impeccably dressed and rehearsed actors, singers, and dancers (including the daughter of my former squash mate at Penn).  Pictures can't really say it all about a production as first-rate, fluid, and endearing as this one.  But they're all I have to give.

Read more...