does the entire book lie within its first two sentences? Herman Koch and a Kephart experiment

The only thing benign about Herman Koch's The Dinner is the title—which, like almost everything else about the story, is designed to throw the reader off. "My Dinner with Andre" this is not. Politics, culture, morality, and childrens' lives are at stake (only the first three were at stake in the movie). The questions: What would we do to protect a child who has committed a heinous act? What would we do if we had somehow (implicitly, explicitly) encouraged or modeled or genetically produced an evil creature? Who do we love and why do we love them and what does familial happiness look like? At what cost, secrets?

All this unfolds over the course of a meal in an expensive restaurant. Two brothers and their wives have come to High Civility to discuss a horrific, seamy event. Paul, whose jealousy and creepiness are transparent from the start, tells us the story. He tells us who he is, even as he repeatedly cautions that many parts of the tale are not our business.

It's a brutal, brilliant book (compared to Gone Girl, I think it greatly supersedes it). It's not the kind of book I typically read, it oozes with contemptible people and scenes, but I was riveted by Koch's ability to see his vision through—so entirely relentlessly. And then I got to the paperback's extra matter and an essay by Koch himself called "The First Sentence."

For me, a book is already finished once I've come up with the first sentence. Or rather: the first two sentences. Those first two sentences contain everything I need to know about the book. I sometimes call them the book's "DNA." As long as every sentence that comes afterward contains that same DNA, everything is fine.

Koch's first two sentences, in case you are wondering, are: "We were going out to dinner. I won't say which restaurant, because next time it might be full of people who've come to see whether we're there." And absolutely, yes. The entire book is bracketed within them.

I believe in the power of first sentences, too. I think about them as setters of mood and tone. I wondered, though, whether I could say, about any of my novels, that the entire story rests within the first two sentences. I decided to conduct a mini-experiment. I grabbed a few books from my shelf. Opened to page one. Conducted a self-interview and assessment. I had to cheat in one place only (Dr. Radway), where more than two sentences were required. Otherwise, I'm thinking Koch is onto something here. (And if it is true for my books, I suspect it is true for yours, too.)

From within the fissure I rise, old as anything. The gravel beneath me slides. — Flow

Once I saw a vixen and a dog fox dancing. It was on the other side of the cul-de-sac, past the Gunns' place, through the trees, where the stream draws a wet line in spring. — Undercover

In the summer my mother grew zinnias in her window boxes and let fireflies hum through our back door. She kept basil alive in ruby-colored glasses and potatoes sprouting tentacles on the sills. — House of Dance

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. — Nothing but Ghosts

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. — The Heart Is Not a Size

 From up high, everything seems to spill from itself. Everything is shadowed. — Dangerous Neighbors

My house is a storybook house. A huff-and-a-puff-and-they'll-blow-it-down house. — You Are My Only

The streets of Seville are the size of sidewalks, and there are alleys leaking off from the streets. In the back of the cab, where I sit by myself, I watch the past rushing by. — Small Damages

There was a story Francis told about two best friends gone swimming, round about Beiderman's Point, back of Petty's Island, along the crooked Delaware. "Fred Spowhouse," he'd say, his breath smelling like oysters and hay. "Alfred Edwards." The two friends found drowned and buckled together, Spowhouse clutched up tight inside Edwards's feckless arms. — Dr. Radway's Sarsaparilla Resolvent

We live with ghosts. We live with thugs, dodgers, punkers, needle ladies, pork knuckle. — Going Over

If you could see me. If you were near. — One Thing Stolen

Sidenote: In every case, the first two sentences of my books existed within the book in draft one. Sometimes they weren't posted right up front in early drafts. But they always eventually got there.

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Juarez. Mumbai. The children with whom we fall in love.

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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Remembering the great poet Jack Gilbert

It is with such a heavy heart that I learned today of the passing of Jack Gilbert, a man whose words made me feel infinitely alive.  Tangled, declarative, beastly, gentle, raging, wanting—Gilbert's poems were everything.  I would teach them to the boy who would come to my house seeking solace and proof that the world was worth surviving.  I would read them to myself.  They sit before me now, across the room, the Jack Gilbert poems.

I wrote Jack Gilbert into The Heart is Not a Size, my fourth novel for young adults.  In the novel, I send my Georgia into Juarez, Mexico, with her best friend Riley.  Georgia is anxious, trying to prove courage to herself, trying to find it.  Just before Georgia leaves for this life-changing trip she remembers learning a Jack Gilbert poem in sophomore year and is steadied by the memory.

Later that night I woke up sweating from a dream, those black wings inside my ribcage beating, my mother’s words, Apply your intelligence to every living thing, snaking through my blood.  Because again my heart knew what my mind had avoided:  Juarez was probably a hare-brained scheme; what were the chances—really—that I’d fly all the way there and come home stronger?  I fought with the dark to free myself from my bed, struggled to wrest the weight from my chest.  It was after two, and the house was quiet, and I headed for the stairs, my right fist against my heart to quiet the fury, to survive it.  I needed the night beyond, which finally I reached, stumbling out onto the porch and into the streets and heading for the fairgrounds, which were empty now, the horses long since talked back into their trailers and driven off, Riley’s stories floating somewhere in the caverns of their heads.  I hadn’t had a panic attack in two months.  Each one was bigger than the last.

            We find the heart only by dismantling what/the heart knows.  The words are from a poem Jack Gilbert wrote and Mr. Buzzby read toward the end of my sophomore year, when I finally stopped minding the class so much and settled in to learn.  I walked the streets last night with that line in my head—walked until I could breathe again and stand up straight without collapsing.  I was going to Juarez because I needed some perspective, some place where I could let the big bird free.  My head knew things that my heart didn’t yet.  I was privileged.  I was smart.  I had a future.  It was time to believe in myself.

Peace, Jack Gilbert.

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the horses are back in town (and a small bit from THE HEART IS NOT A SIZE)

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.”

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Seville, Berlin, Philomel: At long last, I am meeting Tamra Tuller

In the summer of 2010, I was at the American Library Association meeting in Washington, DC, when the ever-fashionable Jill Santopolo (who had worked with me on several Laura Geringer/Harper Collins books and had herself edited The Heart Is Not a Size) slipped a copy of Ruta Sepetys's novel to me and said, "I read this on the train and cried.  I think it's the kind of book you'd love."

I did.  So did the world.

Reading Between Shades of Gray made me wonder about the editor of that book, Jill's Philomel colleague Tamra Tuller, who had taken on Ruta's literary exploration of another time, another place.  I had been working on a Seville novel for years at that point.  I had come close—very close—to selling it more than one time.  My heart had been broken, but I hadn't given up; if I believed in anything I believed in that cortijo, that cook, those gypsies, those Spanish songs.  I wrote a note to Tamra—brazen slush pile person that I have often been—and asked if she might take a look.

She did.  The rest is history.  Two years to the month after my first reaching out to Tamra, Small Damages—far the better book for the conversations Tamra and I had—will be released, on my son's birthday, to be exact.  A year or so from now (the timing isn't fixed) my Berlin novel, a book born out of a phone conversation Tamra and I had one afternoon, a book that reflects both our love for that city (Tamra having gone there first, Tamra having sent me thoughts about where I might go, what I might see), will find its way into the world.

And today, for the first time, I meet Tamra, a young woman who has changed my writing life immeasurably in ways both big and small.  Two trains, a long walk, a conversation—in person.  If I'm lucky, Jill herself will be in sight (and the very dear Jessica).

It feels like going home.

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The Heart Is Not a Size/retold and illustrated by a dear reader

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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THE HEART IS NOT A SIZE is headed to Germany

I made oblique reference the other day to an unexpected gift from the land of publishing.  My agent now says that I can now specifically share the news:  THE HEART IS NOT A SIZE has been sold to Hanser, the German publishing house that also kindly acquired NOTHING BUT GHOSTS (due out this summer) and YOU ARE MY ONLY.

To say that I'm thrilled would be a giant understatement.  HEART was, for me, a very special book, given that it was based on experiences I actually had in a squatter's village in Juarez (the little girl above, for example, is a character in the book) and that it explores as well both anorexia and panic disorder, conditions with which I have had more than a passing acquaintance.

Many thanks to the Harper Collins team, to Jill Santopolo who edited the book, and to Amy Rennert.  And many, many thanks to Hanser for having such faith in my work.  I spend many hours of my days researching Germany as I write my Berlin novel for Philomel.  Hanser's kindness makes Germany feel even more like home.

Nothing substitutes for faith in the life of a writer.

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Dr. Radway's Sarsaparilla Resolvent (and other fun things)

After playing a much-needed bit of hooky at the Jersey shore yesterday (not that Jersey Shore, believe me), I came home, woke early, and wrote the final pages of Dr. Radway's Sarsaparilla Resolvent, the Dangerous Neighbors prequel.  I rarely write with a book's closing pages in mind.  This time, always, I knew where I was headed.  I've printed the whole thing out now and will take it to a quiet place to read.  But since I have reworked all thirty-three chapters (save the last one) at least a dozen times each, I think I'm in a pretty good place.

This, of course, is William's story—that boy who rescues animal for a living and, in 1876, in the pages of Dangerous Neighbors, befriends Katherine during one terrifying day at the Centennial.  The year this time in 1871, and a primary scene takes place in the room above.

I have loved every single second of researching and writing this story.  I cannot wait to share it with the world.

In the meantime, I've got corporate work to do and, thanks to the number of schools that seem to be assigning my Juarez novel, The Heart Is Not a Size, to their students, I'm about to put together a teacher's guide for that book.  It is extraordinary—and extremely reassuring—that books do find their way in this world, even if we're not entirely sure how to help them get there.

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Crossroads School for Arts and Sciences and The Heart Is Not a Size

I admit, I've had one of those what-am-I-doing-with-my-life? days.

So when my friend Anna Lefler sent me this photograph just now from all the way across the country with the words, "It was just like this at B&N—I didn't touch the display," I decided (a nano-second) that I would put the picture on my blog.

I had no idea that THE HEART IS NOT A SIZE is a summer reading choice in sunny California.  But I am glad and very grateful to know now that it is.

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Meet the Dear Reader Giveaway Winners

I knew Dear Reader was a happening place months ago, when I was invited to stand in as a guest columnist for Suzanne Beecher.  Dear Reader is where a book-reading community gets built, where book clubs find their inspiration, and where conversations gather speed and force.  For my own guest column, I wrote about the young people I've met in my time as a young adult novelist—the passions they stir and the things they teach, the many ways that I am hopeful for and with them.

It was a special opportunity, and so I did something I've never done before—offered all six of my young adult books (the seventh,the Seville-based Small Damages, won't be out until next summer) as a summer giveaway.  And oh, what a response we have had.  I've heard from school principals and librarians, grandmothers and moms, fathers and grandfathers, uncles and aunts.  I've heard from young writers and young readers, students on the verge of college and students on the verge of applying to master's degree programs.  I've received notes from all across the country and all around the world.  Many readers have asked for YA books featuring a male teen; I'm 6,000 words into writing one of those.  Many described their particular passions, their favorite books.

I had originally thought that I would give all six books to a single winner, sweepstakes style, but as I read these notes through and considered the huge volume of mail, it occurred to me that there were some very right and particular titles for some very particular readers.  Here, then, are the winners, with the lines or thoughts that triggered my own "I have just the book for them" responses.  Please know, all of you, that I read and considered and valued and had a very hard time choosing winners.  I hope you'll look for books that sound interesting to you and let me know what you think.

Undercover, my first young adult novel, about a young, Cyrano-like poet and her discovery of her own beauty, to 14-year-old Kyla Rich, who wrote, "My 12-year-old sister and I love to read. .... you can never read too much, especially with how much you can learn from reading: Learn about the world, about scholarly things that you'd learn in school, or, sometimes, about yourself. I never really knew why I read so much or why I liked it but, as I read your Dear Reader, I realized why. I read to understand, to know beyond myself. Exactly what you said in your Dear Reader. I guess that might be another reason I write. My sister and I are writers, unpublished of course, and we write to craft the kind of books we like to read, to give someone joy, to help someone, maybe even start a craze. We write for even that ONE person who likes our books, even if it is just one. At least someone cares enough to read." 

House of Dance, about Rosie's quest to find a final gift for her grandfather (and her discovery of a wonderful cast of ballroom dancers), to Patricia Corcoran, who wrote, "I'm 63 years old and have read for as long as I can remember. Except for when I was growing up, I didn't read Young Adult books. I don't know why, but I didn't. About 3 years ago, I started reading them and thoroughly enjoy the ones I've read so far. I have 2 grandchildren, Gregory who is 9 and Emily who is 8. Both of them like to read and, of course, I encourage them to do so. I've set a goal for myself to learn more about the young adult books, their authors, the book awards, etc so I can be more knowledgeable in this genre of books. I'm so pleased you have the relationship with these young people that you do.What an enrichment they are to your life and how fortunate you are to realize this. Thank you again for sharing this most enjoyable column. The way you described these young people will help me understand and enjoy the young adult books I will be reading in the future."

Nothing but Ghosts, a mystery that stars a bright young woman named Katie, who has recently lost her mother and is trying to understand how one survives loss (a journey that takes her into the garden of a recluse and into the care of a fine and fashionable librarian), to Lisa Moss, a librarian who wrote, "Our department, technically, covers up to 8th grade. But so many of our kids don't ever leave! Oh, sure, they move on in school and read bigger, not better, books from the adult department - but so many keep coming back to us. They volunteer in our Summer Reading Program. They visit during Spring Break.  They tell us stories from their first jobs. And the first thing they all do is go over to the new YA display to see what's there! Once a connection is made, it is there forever."

The Heart Is Not a Size, about Georgia and Riley, whose bestfriendship is tested when they travel to Juarez, Mexico, to build a community bathroom for a squatter's village, to Janet Valentine of Orlando, who is contemplating joining a teenage mission trip and wrote, "You portrayed teen-agers in such a positive light, my husband will be so happy that I read your column and it makes me lean more towards accepting this ministry.  Maybe I will learn a lot more from them than the other way around."

Dangerous Neighbors, about twin sisters, set against the backdrop of Centennial Philadelphia, to Jean Brady, who wrote, "It is so uplifting to see life from someone else's viewpoint, to walk beside someone solving a mystery, though often fiction; to learn more about decorating, recipes, and the like."

You Are My Only, the alternating stories of a young mother who loses her Baby to mysterious means and a teenaged girl breaking free from a reclusive home, to Pat Harmer, who wrote, "I just read your column that you wrote to fill in for Suzanne Beecher. I was so moved by how you expressed the young people. And I am going to recommend your books to my granddaughter, who will be thirteen this fall. She has yet to find an author that she really enjoys, and therefore does not read as much as I would like her to. And perhaps your books will be the ones that drawn her into the wonderful world of reading. Thank you so much for the inspiration."

My thanks to Caroline Leavitt, the wonderful novelist and friend and Facebooker, who suggested Dear Reader to me in the first place.

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Astonished by 1st Daughter's year-end wrap up

These waters are blue rearranged by pink, the colors of sea and sky, and I thought of this image when I learned this morning of all the very kind things book blogger 1st Daughter has done and said about my books this year.  She is one very special and cherished reader.

In her year-end wrap-up of her blog, There's a Book, 1st Daughter named Dangerous Neighbors one of the top four books of the year as well as the most beautifully written book of the year, named me her favorite newly discovered author, and listed The Heart Is Not a Size as the book that had the greatest impact on her in the year. This is high, high praise from a blogger named Best KidLit Book Blogger by the BBAW of 2010 (congratulations to 1st Daughter for that!!).

I am deeply privileged, and very blessed.  Thank you.

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Author of Florinda's Year

I took this photograph from the fourteenth floor of an Atlantic City hotel two nights ago and said to myself, You won't be using this one until something really special happens.

This morning I woke to a note about something that is, to me, so very touching and special:  Florinda of The 3 R's Blog has named me her author of the year and cited The Heart is Not a Size as one of her two top young adult reads of 2010. 

Hearts are not, in the end, a size.  But mine is very full.  Thank you.

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The Heart Is Not a Size: The Washington Post Review

A dear friend is the one who whispered, this evening, that a very generous Mary Quattlebaum had penned these words about The Heart Is Not a Size in this past weekend's The Washington Post Book World, alongside reviews of new releases from John Grisham, Candace Bushnell, and Art Corriveau.


Nuanced characterizations and lyrical writing distinguish Beth Kephart's oeuvre, including this third YA novel, The Heart Is Not a Size (HarperTeen, $16.99; ages 12 and up). Reliable Georgia and her artistic friend Riley volunteer through a GoodWorks building project to help a Mexican village. Being away from their privileged American homes, though, brings out secret issues: Georgia's panic attacks and Riley's eating disorder. How Georgia learns to help herself and Riley goes to the heart of this sensitive exploration of self-acceptance, friendship and teen-galvanized social change. 


Thank you, my friend, and thank you, Ms. Quattlebaum, and thank you Washington Post for giving Heart this moment.

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The Heart Is Not a Size: The Traveling Arc Comes Home

Do you remember how, in high school, you learned so much about yourself, about who you were and how you were seen, from the notes others wrote to you in the pages of a yearbook?

Today, thanks to the generosity of Sara and Drea at travelingarc.blookblather.net, and thanks, too, to Word Lily, Readergirls, Nomad Reader, Hope Princess, Bookworming in the 21st century, and Read What You Know, I had one of those moments when I opened my mail to discover the traveling arc of The Heart Is Not a Size come home.  In addition to their generous blog reviews and overall kind readerliness, these readers took the time to write me these notes on the book that had traveled from one to the other. 

I have a special shelf for special things.  This will now go there.  My favorite copy of Heart by far—made bigger by all of you. 

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The Heart is Not a Size: a truly lovely review

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.

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There's a Book reviews The Heart is Not a Size

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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In which I answer the question...

What have you been up to?
(a question posed by Readergirlz)

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Winsome Media Communications (the new, best thing)

Long-time followers of my blog know this story:  On the day that Nothing But Ghosts was launched, a mysterious note was sent my way.  A you-may-want-to-check-out My Friend Amy's blog message. A Happy Launch Day teaser.  A pre-dawn puzzler. 

A couple of mouse clicks later I found myself stunned by the news that an NBG virtual launch party had been engineered by the extraordinary Amy Riley herself, who had taken it upon herself (in her secret, daring fashion, and with no little help from Presenting Lenore) to encourage bloggers from near and far to send NBG out into the world with their collective, blogthusiastic blessing.  She'd organized an online book club.  She'd organized a chat (which, might I add, was attended by many dear friends and new readers as well as my new publisher, Elizabeth Law).  I still cry when I think about that day—that effort, that goodness.

Amy, I have learned since, is endlessly doing good—making the most of social media, discovering and elevating new artists, and bringing an old song back into our collective conscience, not to mention coordinating the massive Book Blogger Appreciation Week and helping to launch the first-ever Book Blogger Convention (which is such a cool and important thing that it is sharing space with the BEA).  It takes a certain kind of heart, for sure, but it also takes the know-how that Amy has about how media work, how book bloggers think, and how culture gets perpetuated.  Ask her a question, any question, about an RSS feed tweak, and she'll offer to walk you through it, screen shot diagrams and all.  Ask her whether there are bloggers who only blog about historical novels, and she'll sub-divide the category into Tudor and Victorian.  Ask her how the independent bookstores interact with the electronic world, and she'll have an informed opinion on that as well.

That is why I am so incredibly proud (and lucky) to be working with Amy and her partner, Nicole Bonia of Linus's Blanket—to be one of the very first authors to be tapping into a new Amy-Nicole venture called Winsome Media Communications.  Winsome builds brands, optimizes websites, expands social networks, and manages targeted social media campaigns.  They bring books like The Heart is Not a Size and Dangerous Neighbors to readers who might not have heard of them before.  They help techno-fearing authors like myself navigate the possibility of relaunching a (much better organized) blog (stay tuned for that one, folks).  They are the company we want to keep when we're navigating publishing waters.

I can't recommend them highly enough.  I hope you'll recommend them, too, to authors and artists you may know.

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Bookalicious and Heart

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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The Heart is Not a Size and the BCCB review

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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