bekah brunstetter
Bekah Brunstetter I care deeply. About a lot of things. Like really, really deep. Ow
playwright in brooklyn, NY

preferred classic literature

December 28th, 2017 by Bekah Brunstetter

Leo Tolstoy WHO? After years of trying to read dense books before bed, I hereby, going forward, only ever want to read seasonal romance novels about beautiful round british baker women who’s bakeries hit crisises at Christmas time, as do their relationships with their beekeeper boyfriends. I don’t care if my brain turns to sprinkles and croissant dough, reading should be an escape, and so THIS IS ALL THAT I WANT.

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books on books on books

October 17th, 2017 by Bekah Brunstetter

I have procured Harold Bloom’s ‘How to Read and Why’ for reading purposes, because I have a feeling that while I read, I’m don’t read well enough / retain enough of it (probably because I’m either skimming articles so that I can say that I’ve read them or reading right before bed)  but mostly so that I can SAY THAT I AM READING A BOOK ON HOW TO READ and just snuggle deep into the folds of those layers.

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Home Library

April 18th, 2017 by Bekah Brunstetter

Usually when I come home for a visit, my Mom has left me a series of books in my room that she thinks will be good for my soul.  I am usually so consumed by the undulating dramas of my own life that I rarely read them. But no part of me could resist this trip’s offering, the love story of Chip and Joanna Gaines, stars of HGTV’s Fixer Upper:

Basically the show just follows this adorable married couple as they flip houses for other adorable people, while he does things like ram his head into walls and put spiders in her hair and she just laughs with the shy beauty and grace that only a half-Korean half-Texan could bear. Perhaps a book ONLY to be read snuggled into bed at your parents house, drifting off on a soft sea of Melatonin, but a charm of a  book, just the same.

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February 4th, 2017 by Bekah Brunstetter

I was re-reading the Boxcar Children last night, like you do. I came across the part where the kids find the old broken dishes in the dump, take them home, clean them off, create a quick makeshift shelf in their boxcar, and arrange their new dishes on the shelf so that the boxcar might feel like home:

And it filled me with SUCH FEELING. I remember reading this part for the first time years and years ago. I remember how it made me long for a house with shelves that I could arrange things on. And I realize, that perhaps every time I can’t leave my house without making my bed or every time I put flowers on the table or stack dishes accordingly, and then do this psycho thing where I just kind of pause and look at the Order, appeased, I am living out this very boxcar children moment over and over.

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waits for it….

January 31st, 2017 by Bekah Brunstetter

I’m reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s Brave Magic, a book on ‘Creative Living Beyond Fear,’ which makes me feel like the like the largest white girl cliche there ever was, like I’m covered in greek yogurt and surrounded by moleskin journals, but still, it’s got some fantastic nuggets about how a creative person ought to view their creativity. She stresses that we must hold this paradox in our heads: that what we’re creating is the single most important thing in the world, and also, the least. It has meaning, but also, it does not. The stakes are high, but also low. What we do is beautifully unnecessary.  She pulls this quote from Tom Waits: “I realized that, as a songwriter, the only thing I really do is make jewelry for the inside of other people’s minds.” Is that not the most wonderful description of a piece of art that you have ever heard? For me, it is. OKAY, OFF TO MAKE SOME BRAIN BRACELETS!

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what food once was

December 6th, 2016 by Bekah Brunstetter

I’ve been abandoning all extra-curricular creative responsibilities the last few days, and spending every waking non-work moment reading this dear lady’s book:

It’s part memoir, part cookbook, which is my new favorite kind of book. Vivian grew up in Deep Run, a one stoplight town in Eastern NC. Rejecting her country upbringing, she high-tailed it to NYC, started working in restaurants, and eventually moved back down south to open a restaurant (the now award-winning Chef and the Farmer in Kinston, NC / JULIEN AND I HAVE RESERVATIONS FOR JANUARY / OMG / oh PS also she has her own TV show A Chef’s Life, Peabody award winning, so maybe check that out too end of sentence no really, she’s great.) Once back home, she went through this beautiful transformation, embracing her and homeland and its foods. It’s a beautiful story that I hope it emulate with my own life and writing. You often don’t appreciate what formed you until you’re older. I just want to write NC plays and pair them with her regional bread puddings forever. Chapter by chapter, local food by local food (sweet corn, summer squash, butter beans, etc.) She takes us through her family’s rich history of farming, and shares family recipes. Here’s my favorite, Hoarded corn:

Hard to read, but the first ingredient is an afternoon. She recalls her family harvesting sweet corn together in their tiny kitchen, working together and quickly to get it off the stalk and into bags in the freezer before it spoiled, saving both the kernels and the sweet corn milk. This corn would them feed them throughout the year in a zillion different forms. She really hits this point home:  families used to have to prepare their food together. They were forced to gather, to be together, out of necessity, but then, as Vivian also points out — this is the time when families used to talk to each other. Hands busy with activity, then talking, sharing to fill the air. I’m not saying anything that hasn’t been said 100 times before, but isn’t it sad that because our food became simpler, easier to access, we talk to each other less? That makes me sad. And Hungry. And sad. But flip side: because we spend less time preparing food, our hands and brains are free for innovations that save lives and expand the universe and invent customer care robots that will eventually dominate us A LA SPOILER ALERT SEASON FINALE OF WESTWORLD BUT NO EVERYTHING’S FINE OKAY BYE OFF TO PRETEND IT’S STILL 1943 / SHUCK SOME SWEET CORNS.

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July 14th, 2016 by Bekah Brunstetter


Forgetfulness, by Billy Collins.

The name of the author is the first to go

followed obediently by the title, the plot,

the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel

which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor

decided to retire to the Southern hemisphere of the brain,

to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye

and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,

and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,

the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,

it is not poised on the tip of your tongue

or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river

whose name begins with an L as far as you call recall

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those

who have even forgotten how to swim

and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night

to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.

No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted

out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

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This Spell will make us Gods

May 13th, 2016 by Bekah Brunstetter

I love my Young Adult literature from the 80s and 90s book club nearly more than I love myself, and so I must share these.  Remember Scholastic books?  You used to pretend to read them when staring at boys in the library, then you would take them home to actually read and find the stories to be flimsy and so you would instead relish in the long descriptions about the character’s cuffed acid washed denim or full wavy hair and you would stare at your own hair in the mirror, wondering if it would ever grow down to your butt so that one day, you might use it as a rope ladder. REMEMBER? A brilliant person named Dominic Moschitti is altering the covers of these books, and it’s just delightful:


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Everything is Copy

March 23rd, 2016 by Bekah Brunstetter

As revealed in the VERY FANTASTIC GO WATCH IT THIS SECOND new HBO documentary on Nora Ephron, Nora’s mother used to tell her that everything is copy. Meaning: everything that happens to you, no matter how devastating or terrible: it is a story that is yours to tell. And if you tell it, you control the laugh. Isn’t that brilliant? If you put yourself in front of your own angst, your own tragedy, get ahead of it, announce it in your own way — it no longer controls you. Among the 900 other fascinating things about this resplendent woman, the doc (made by her son, after her sudden death from leukemia at 71 in 2012) hits home how, after making a career out of writing movies and books and essays about her personal life, with scathing honesty — she managed to make her death private. She told no one except for immediate family that she was dying. When she could have capitalized on her own illness, her own confrontation of death, she kept it to herself — so that in a way, she could control it. Isn’t that amazing? An old friend interviewed for the movie asserts that ‘Nora was not a genius.’ But he meant it as a compliment. If she were a genius, she would not have been as human and accessible as she was. I have often worried that I’m not a genius.  Or rather, I very much know that I’m not. But thanks to Nora, I officially embrace this. If being a not genius means pulling people closer and closer towards you with the truth that you tell about how sad and wonderful and insane it is to be alive at all,  then I am all in.

Posted in a lot, books, famous people stuff, hmmmmm, how interesting, i have peace, life, trying too hard, women, worrying, YAY | No Comments »

The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart

January 2nd, 2016 by Bekah Brunstetter

I am going through my books to make room for more books so that I can read more books and actually read some of the books that I’ve had but never read books books books books HURRAY BOOKS, and I finally broke into this one that I got for Christmas last year from a producer:

In which I read about Elizabeth Gilbert’s favorite poet, Jack Gilbert, no relation, which led me to this beautiful poem of his:

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.

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