Flower garden on a misty morning

The novel is the affliction for which only the novel is the cure. Joyce Carol Oates, The Faith of a Writer

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Follow your bliss... Joseph Campbell

My Blog about bliss and my artwork:
http://ohdrat.blogspot.com/

Updated 7/20/08 The importance of "play" in the creation process...and some gobbilty-gook musings about Beethoven's 9th and Bliss...

Whimsy in The Contemporary Gallery, 230 Harrison Street, Syracuse NY

Visit the blog for the Contemporary Gallery in Syracuse NY, a nifty little place full of really cool art...and Sinfully Sweet sweets http://contemporarygallery.wordpress.com/visit/

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http://suart.syr.edu/

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I'm always brilliant after the fact

July 20, 2008

Whatever...

Rain this morning, Max and I got our walk in before it started, it's a gentle rain...there's some birds in our pine trees knocking pine cones off (grackles, I think), I had a time keeping Max from running over there to go see what was going on, he was likely to get knocked on the little coconut by one of those, they certainly made quite a noise when they hit the ground...I'm glad it's raining, although I have a lot to do in the garden, I have lots to do inside too, and a brunch to attend at the Contemporary Gallery where some "deep pockets" will be there to see the show...I got word yesterday that my painting River of Fallen Stars has sold at the Contemporary Gallery...I'm happy, yet it's bittersweet because I will miss my friend...I loved looking at her (yes, I assign genders to my artwork, it's better than saying IT all the time), she was peaceful in spite of the busy surface, and although my eyes never really rested in one spot, it was fun to look at her, she's light-hearted and whimsical. Thankfully, I have documented the creation process and pretty much photographed every edge, corner, and the stuff in the juicy middle (which I intend to burn this documentation onto a disk to give to the new owner)...well, I have a new "blue one" in progress, in a matter of time, I'll have a replacement...now I must frame up something to fill the empty space on the gallery wall...

I've immersed myself into Dusty Waters one more time, scrolling through looking for anything that's 'off'...I found another chapter with the last bits missing, they're there, but not there, the words are in a limbo in which they need a page to land on...oops. I found a paragraph that needs to be indented and a sentenced that needs to be flush left instead of indented, and I found a sentence without a period at the end...you'd think the 'checker' would've at least caught that, I can't tell you how many times I've gone over and over and over this manuscript, this is the fourth proof...how can I leave off a period? Put your glasses on, you goof...or blow it up to 120% or more if you can't find your reading glasses...or too damn lazy to put them on...before I do another thing, I need to update Bliss and then back to Dusty Waters...

July 19, 2008

Hazy morning with a purple and gold sunrise, pretty stuff...Max and I startled a doe and buck on the northeast corner, the buck has a nice velvety rack in progress, a very pretty sight to see...we had an orange moon last night...the garden is producing the first yellow beans and the first zucchinis, the asparagus ferns are toppling over, I need to stake them, there's always weeding to do...I need to pick more lettuce...

I worked on reviewing Dusty Waters last night, I had previously caught where the tail end of a chapter was lost at the bottom of a recto page because there wasn't a verso page set for it to dip into (it was occupied by the next chapter)...I'm making sure there isn't another occurrence of that...I like being my own editorial department...at this rate, I might as well be my own publisher (she laughs) as if I have time to do that...

I need to get outside before it gets too hot...

Later (noonish, but I have been working on this for a while):

This business with the New Yorker cover...I know I’m late, everyone else has already beaten it to death before my copy came in the mail on Thursday...you know the one...Obama dressed as a Muslim and Mrs. Obama in Angela Davis duds doing the "terrorist fist bump" while burning the American flag in the Oval Office fireplace, and we can’t forget the portrait of Osama...well, I have my inalienable right to have my say about it. I appreciate the satire of the image, as a regular subscriber of the New Yorker, I ‘get it’, okay? Yes, I do my weekly wallow reading in between the covers and enjoy every word. I guess there’s some people who don’t ‘get it’ and that’s because they take things too literal...like they do other things...maaaannnn, literal people scare me...they’re the “Look it sez so right here, see?” I’m sorry, but these people really get my goat. Considering the source, I know this image is not making a statement about Mr. & Mrs. Obama, nor do I find it disrespectful or offensive (tho’ I did say ‘ouch’, but with a chuckle, immediately followed with an "Are you kidding me?") because I know that it’s making a statement about the fears of a group of American people who believe (or rather, are lead to believe) that Mr. and Mrs. Obama are secretly like this, but I also realize that some of them are perfectly innocent in their fears. Then there’s a certain smaller group of Americans who are “marketing” Obama’s image to foil his White House aspirations. What I’m offended by are these people who are creating the “spin” in that direction, they play dirty, they’re destructive, and they take advantage of fear — hey, you know, every tool is a weapon when you hold it right. They’re working to construct the image that Obama is the boogey man lurking in the threshold of the unknown future after eight years of our country being run through the wringer, so naturally, people are on edge — Obama is a big ole question mark, who knows what that guy is going to do when he gets into the White House — ain’t that just scary as can be? This fear mongering makes me want to scream my eyeballs out of my head when I think about it too much. These people who come up with this crap have no honor, and I think our country has had enough of that mentality for a lifetime and more...yeah, it’s a free country, and they have their inalienable right to think and feel their way, just as I do — God bless America, the good ole melting pot US of A.

Whew!

It’s a hot summer day in Lafayette New York, and I’m trying to stay cool...I’ve picked lettuce, beans, and spinach before the heat of the day chased me inside...now I’m plotting to find a shady place where I can sit with my various implements of creativity and spend the rest of the day enjoying this all too brief time of year, thawing the winter from my bones...but first, Max has a date with a bath...he’s going to get fuzzy!

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The Novels

This book is for all of us who pursue the phantasmagoria of personality. Wonderland by Joyce Carol Oates

Although I have always thought of myself as a writer, and loved the act of writing, I studied painting first. As a painter, I learned from my pallet experience that in order for light to exist on the two-dimensional canvas, there must be dark. It always fascinated me how human nature is rife with these tonalities, the comedy and tragedy mix in a intense tempest of emotions until a resolute calm befalls, concluding with the end that is actually a beginning; life goes on even after the final page. My novels are slices of life—lives—I have created a community of characters who share histories, and they overlap in a contact that leaves after affects that last a lifetime as they forge ahead toward a wide-open future in which anything can happen because of the present convolutions tormenting them.

There isn’t a linear ‘first, second, third, fourth’ book in a series, there is only the order in which they’ve been written; they are individual. I strive to write intelligent stories that will endure with time, and I also want to entertain; therefore, my novels possess a ‘you have to laugh at yourself or you’d cry your eyes out if you didn’t’ sense of humor in spite of the grim themes concerning the human condition such as mental illness, addictions, obsession, and crimes of passion. These books are human documents written in a plait of words from the perspective of a character’s dreams and realities, and then delving into the psychological and philosophical fabric of life.

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THERE IS NO DEATH, THERE ARE NO DEAD

Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel Awards participant, coming soon through Create Space...

Dusty Waters

372 pages, approx. 128,100 words.

Synopsis

Years of taped conversations between Katharine and Dusty have accumulated enough material for a memoir, it is through this arduous process that Dusty Waters comes to terms with events in her life that have made her who she is in the present.

Dusty Waters, the ugly duckling with big feet, frizzy hair, and a big nose grew into a swan of a different feather. This unassuming woman standing at six foot three is a striking figure as she belts her socially polarizing songs in a folk-punk fusion that resonates with compassionate rage and a distinctive sense of humor. Born at the tail end of the Baby Boom generation, Dusty grew up during the Vietnam era with a different perspective than her older siblings (she is the second to the last in a brood of seven). This difficult history affected her psyche and her edgy point of view about the human condition places her as a distinguished bookend for her generation; her fans cheer her honesty.

Dusty believes in ghosts because she can see them. When she was almost four years old, her father died from a brain aneurysm; his ghost lingered at the kitchen table long after the body left. Although no one believed her when she insisted that he was there, no one sat in that chair. Eventually, she learned not to talk about the “no such things”, only her best friend, Emmett James, wants to believe in ghosts.

After her father’s death, her mother inherits the family legacy “Tanglewood” from Aunt Mabel Lamoureux. The sprawling mansion was built by her great-great-great grandfather the eccentric architect, Cornelius Lamoureux. The history of the Lamoureux family lingers as spirits trapped in their final moments; Aunt Mabel’s ghost sits by the window in the parlor. Dusty asks her: “Why do I see these things—I can’t touch anything in this house and not have it talk to me—” But Mabel refuses to answer. Upon finding Mabel’s diary, Dusty learns that her “gift” is inherited, Mabel could see ghosts too, and had run away from Tanglewood several times to escape the hold the house had on her.

When Emmett drowns in a fishing accident, his comatose body becomes separated from his spirit, but Dusty finds it difficult to confront his damp visage that haunts her, and upon Emmett’s declaration that she needs to live her life, she leaves Tanglewood with her boyfriend, Percival with whom she shares a passion for music.

After years away from home, and separated from Percival, she returns to Tanglewood to take her place in preserving the family legacy. Emmett James’s family finally removes his body from life support, but his ghost remains a fixture in Dusty’s life.

When Katharine finishes the memoir, Dusty says it needs an ending. “But it’s a memoir, life goes on after the book.” Katharine laughs. “Just humor me,” Dusty says as she follows one final dream to come to terms with Emmett’s ghost, and the flesh and bone existence of Percival.

This is from the first page:

Chapter 1: A Family Legacy

[Transcript from Tape #1, dated: 28 February 2002]

[Laughter and muttering, something falls with a clang/bang, girlish giggling.]

DUSTY: Shhh-sh-shit, let’s just wake the dead why don’t we?

KATHARINE: Come on, let’s be serious, this is an interview.

DUSTY: Oooooo, an INTER-VIEW—eeeuuuuu—that’s why I can’t be serious. You know, Rolling Stone did this gig with me once, and I was just bein’ so polarizing, you know—the dude couldn’t follow me, even though he loved listening to me go on and on spewing politics, he finally got frustrated, and said, “See ya, you lightning rod freak!” I think there was an ego conflict going on with that guy. [Snorting giggles.] Sooooo they ended up just taking my picture, writing up my bio, and doing a review about my album. Interviews make me feel silly, I just can’t deal with the fuss over li’l ole meeee, it’s just ricockulous. [Snorts and a hearty “ha-ha-ha!”] Can we — you and me — just have a conversation and let it go at that?

KATHARINE: We’re doing that, we’re talking about how you can’t stand doing interviews, we’ll just keep going and see what happens, okay? First let me do this — this is Tape Number One, it’s the twenty-eighth of February two thousand and two.

DUSTY: Well, that makes it official — now I’m just all flustered.

KATHARINE: Why are you flustered? Stop fucking around; let’s just talk about shit.

DUSTY: Shoot the shit.

KATHARINE: Whatever.

DUSTY: Wait, there’s something missing, I know — hold on, I’ll be right back.

[The thundering clop clop clop of booted feet taking off into the nether regions beyond the microphone.]

KATHARINE: Wait — what, where — arrgh, what the fuck, give me strength.

[The tape is turned off, and turned on again. Guitar strumming, tuning up, Dusty humming and strumming.]

KATHARINE: Feel better now?

DUSTY: Much, I gotta have my gui-tar with me, it’s like an extra limb, I make more sense with it than without it — it gives me foc-ussss.

KATHARINE: This is going to sound like a lame question, but I’ll ask anyway — What is your earliest memory?

DUSTY: Well, since we’re talking about my life for the authorized biography you’re writing, that’s a good question to ask — a lame question would be something queer like what’s my favorite color. To answer your ‘not a lame question’, I’d have to say the day my Dad died is right up there in the early memory department, even tho’ I can remember things from before that — way before — but his death was a real big one — I was almost four—

* * *

“I don’t feel right,” Dad said as he poured a liberal amount of maple syrup over the stack of warm pancakes that Ma set in front of him.

While stuffing my mouth with a sticky fork-full of drenched pancakes, I cast a long, adoring glance at him and thought he looked just fine — strong and handsome as ever. As I recall, he was making the ‘doctor face’; it’s a diagnostic look that he gets while trying to figure out a particularly elusive ailment, when those three little vertical lines in between his dark eyebrows deepen, and his mouth scrunches up, making his lower lip practically disappear underneath his upper lip. I could tell it troubled him that he didn’t feel right—the doctor wheels were turning, analyzing his symptoms, listening to his body, trying to figure out what it was trying to tell him.

“You probably picked up that bug the kids had this weekend,” Ma shrugged with a casual flip of her shoulders. She only looked at him for a minute, maybe a second, then turned away satisfied with her visual assessment that he appeared ‘okay’ — her expert opinion agreed with mine, he did look ‘okay’. ‘Okeedookie, Pokey’ as we used to say, though I still do sometimes.

While her attention was turned to the pancake sizzling on the griddle, he said nothing to deny the possibility that he may have picked up a bug, which was odd; he didn’t even make his perish-the-thought noise to protest at the suggestion that he might be vulnerable to such a pathetic little virus that made us upchuck all day Saturday. We all knew that he was immune to such things. If Dad were alive during the time of the Black Death, he would defiantly wade into a pit full of disease to cure the sick without a bit of concern for himself, and then emerge alive and well, shepherding the survivors. He just did not worry about getting sick. But today was different; he stared at his pancakes without appetite, his robust face pensive as if he was seriously considering the idea that he — Dr. Wendell J. Waters — could be S-I-C-K. It was absolutely, positively unthinkable.

When Ma turned around again, he was already gone.

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“To live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life and to see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived...” Thoreau, Walden

“Follow your bliss” is the hopeful decree that begins the journey of the three main characters, Georgia, Eugene, and Bailey. The novel is in essence a soap opera with a quirky sense of humor that explores the tangle of a love triangle, the inherent human frailties that lead to unhealthy vices, unfortunate mishaps, and the misguided choices that turn an intended path into a winding cross-country trip of diversions because of obligations and the best intentions. Georgia and Eugene honestly spar throughout the manuscript about their mutual friend, the schizophrenic novelist, Bailey; the complexity of their friendship and love, which leads to intense conversations about sex (whether or not to indulge); their emotional breakdowns, therapists, designer drugs, old B-horror flicks, and the fine line difference between nude and naked.

Drinking from the Fishbowl

543 pages/180,225 words (1/5/08)

From the first page:

Chapter One: Anticipation

“So, tell me, why do you want to be a poet?” Mortensen Boyd asked, suddenly taking a professorial posture behind the desk. Right up until this moment, my interview was going very well, I had just stopped feeling self-conscious about the way my homegrown brogue accented my words a wee bit more than usual, probably inspired by the professor’s strong Dublin burr; he looked the part of an Irish poet, garnished with wavy red hair and a thick wool sweater. His easygoing manner had initially allowed me to be myself during our causal chat, but I felt impinged upon by this simple question because the answer is simple.

“I just do — it’s a part of being alive, like breathing,” I replied. While his gray eyes did not betray what he thought of my answer, I knew as soon as I made this heartfelt explanation that he’s heard it before. What I just said made me no different from the rest; hundreds of fresh-faced poets have sat in this very seat, each and every one declaring that forging words into poems is their life’s breath. How can he choose from those who sit before him with their hearts on the line — how can he say ‘no’ to their dreams? Taking a deep breath, I raised my gaze to look at Mortensen Boyd — a poet whose work I have admired for many years — and now I feared that he will no longer take me seriously for saying something as trite as: “I just do — it’s a part of being alive, like breathing.” He’s waiting for a better answer, because he expects more from you.

“It’s hard to explain why I do it because I’ve always done it — you probably know what I mean,” I said with a laugh, hoping to smooth over my naïve awkwardness, but I internally cringed — nothing is coming out right. He smiled, nodded, but said nothing, patiently waiting to hear more. Of course, this should be simple — but it isn’t simple. It shocked me that I haven’t given the “why” much thought — I’ve only focused on the “this is what I want to do” and “this is what I’ve done”, and now his question has created a big hole in the middle of the well trodden path that I have made for years.

Synopsis:

Georgia Sullivan, an aspiring poet, is the perfect innocent; she grew up on a self-sufficient Upstate farm that was based on the philosophy of Thoreau’s Walden. She leaves the security of home to attend the university to study at the prestigious creative writing program. While there, she befriends Eugene Riley and Bailey Muldoon. Eugene, the son of a documentary filmmaker from Jackson Hole Wyoming, longs to make movies in Hollywood. His roommate, Bailey, a brooding young novelist, is the spoiled and schizophrenic son of two literary giants from Manhattan. Even though Georgia and Eugene are aware of Bailey’s selfish manipulation, the two friends willingly cater to his whims. Georgia suffers with an internal conflict as her friendship with the two young men tempts her to stray from her simple ideals of writing poetry and buying the Christmas tree farm that she has had her heart set on since she was a little girl.

After graduation, Bailey and Georgia move to Manhattan and eventually get married. Georgia finds her hands full keeping Bailey’s spirits up while his first novel goes through several rejections and rewrites until it is finally published. Meanwhile, the ambitious Eugene blunders into Hollywood with his pregnant wife, Millie, and finds fame that immediately takes on a life of its own beyond his control, and like a chameleon, he adjusts himself to “fit in” to fulfill what he set out to do for himself. The consequences of his personal negligence leads him down a self-destructive path strewn with short-lived marriages, addictions, rehab, and the steady stream of bizarre tabloid gossip that twists his reality into sordid tales about who he’s sleeping with. He was once declared dead after a car accident (he only had a broken wrist), but he is disappointed that he was never exposed as an alien from outer space, nor did they genetically link him with Bat-Boy (dang).

Bailey’s private ambitions drags the three friends back together into the high-profile life in Hollywood after he and Eugene agree to form a production company to make films based on Bailey’s novels. Georgia, plagued by depression since being transplanted to California, becomes isolated because the lifestyle repulses her; eventually, a tabloid paparazzo publishes rare photos of her to prove that Mrs. Muldoon exists (as if she were Big Foot). Rumors and truths flow and blend in the bizarre reality of the Hollywood fishbowl as the gossip tabloids advertise Bailey’s infidelities. When Georgia finally asks for a divorce, Bailey’s unexpected suicide sets her free.

Georgia moves back to Upstate New York where she purchases a Christmas tree farm and begins a self-sufficient lifestyle as she had originally intended. At first, it seems unlikely that she and Eugene will be able to pursue their longstanding love for each other because their dreams are as far apart as East and West Coasts. Once they learn to stand on their own, they finally make the commitment to be together.

(Rumor has it they live happily ever after.)

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“It is the first vision that counts. The artist has only to remain true to his dream, and it will possess his work in such a manner that it will resemble the work of no other man—for no two visions are alike...Imitation is not inspiration, and inspiration only can give birth to a work of art.” Albert Pinkham Ryder.

The Fractured Hues of White Light

522 pages/180,176 words (6/24/08)

Chapter 1

“...until death do you part?”

“I do,” I said with meek shyness, the words spoken barely above a whisper. At least, I think I said it — though I can never be too sure, so my gaze went roaming beyond the veil for a sneak-peek at Preston; he is smiling at me with so much pride, he might pop his shirt buttons. And then I slyly checked Judge Nadine Ardyce who had just made the inquiry regarding my promise that required me to answer “I do”; she’s still tying up the loose ends — uninterrupted by a Sammy disaster, so it seems I actually articulated the proper reply loud enough to be heard.

I dropped my veiled gaze to stare at our joined hands; Preston’s large, too perfect hands are damp with nervous energy as they gripped my small ones so tight that it nearly hurt. I wiggled my fingers just a little to ask for relief, but he didn’t loosen his grip, almost as if he was afraid I’d float away if he did anything to relieve my discomfort. Giving up, I struggled to remain quiet — to be good — my overwrought mind wandered with my gaze away from the intertwined pale pink flesh to look out the window just past Judge Nadine’s left arm. The imperfect old glass with the undulations and bubbles soothed me, I loved the way it distorted the daylight, making the landscape beyond into green abstract expressions. Relaxing, I’m glad that I didn’t fuck it up, I said what was required of me, and no one groaned, “Oh Sammy, blah blahblahblahblah blah.”

“You may kiss the bride.”

Silence. It seemed everyone sucked all the air from the room.

Preston raised my veil before I was ready for it; although I twitched, I stayed calm because I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me, this is what he’s supposed to do because we rehearsed it yesterday. What a happy man, he’s just so happy today — I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile so much as I have today; his thin, strangely pale pink lips drawn back from those perfectly white teeth, smiling — oh, happy day! His smile is contagious, so I smiled back. With the poofy illusion netting finally off my face, he bent forward and pressed that wide grin on my mouth. I relaxed just like I have practiced since I first let him kiss me, trying so hard — sohardsohard — so hard to be good as gold. I’ll just let him kiss me — he likes to kiss me.

Then there was applause — how weird, why are people clapping? I didn’t expect this. Are they clapping because I didn’t fuck it up, or are they just happy for us — I guess. Turing around, I nearly screamed—don’t clap, stop it! But I didn’t, I held my anxious tongue, and refrained from picking up my lace and hauling ass — I’m blowing this popcorn stand — I’m outta here, I want out of this dress — I want — I wantiwantiwantiwant — I want! Peace and quiet.

Smiling to disguise my unsettled guts, I focused my attention toward the window again, the wavy glass calmed me; I took a deep breath and sighed. Two tears dropped onto my cheeks.

People are surrounding us, laughing and smiling — Whitley, Helena, and Sylvester — they took turns hugging me. Sylvester caught my tears in a hanky that he pulled from his pocket — he understood — he knew — he knows me better than anyone. He said nothing as he dabbed away my emotions with tender discretion and tucked them in his pocket once he was sure he got them all.

I smiled. Happy day.

Synopsis

Samantha knew on her wedding day that her marriage to Preston was doomed because she feared that she would never learn to love him. She’s tried hard to garner an emotional interest in his being, but the excitement that his presence produces is just the same old need to please someone. Sammy’s always trying to please someone: Whitley, Helena, Will and Marie at the gallery, clients who want her to make pictures, even Sylvester, who asks very little of her. If Guthrie were around, she’d bend over backwards to please him too. It’s all part of the routine, adding Preston to that routine recipe should be easy-peasy, but things have gone wrong and turned scary, she can’t hide behind the excuse of her handicap, her survival relies on her full attention. “Pull your head out of your ass, Sammy.” She can hear this in Guthrie’s voice, and she can see him, deep - set blue eyes veiled by dark eyebrows and his frowny mustache that keeps his smile a secret. He might be physically gone since Whitley kicked him out, but his impression lives in her mind.

Once doctors diagnosed Samantha’s withdrawn temperament as autism, her mother and father, Lenore and Whitley Ryder, instilled routines into their daughter’s days with the hope that she would grow up self-sufficient enough to live as close to a normal life as possible, but Lenore never lived to see their daughter thrive. When Sammy was six, Lenore disappeared during her morning jog; three days later, her body washed up on the beach where she was last seen. Noah Valentine, a former lover she had jilted to marry Whitley, confessed to the murder because he didn’t want “him” to have her — everyone assumed “him” to be Whitley. The devastation of the loss seeps into the family grain, and pools below the surface of their lives.

After Lenore’s death, Whitley made use of Samantha’s savant-like artistic gift as a moneymaking scheme, which Lenore had forbid him to do. Eager to please him, Sammy willingly creates miniature copies of the art historical greatest hits, and she achieves an unexpected fame as wealthy clients clamor for the little girl’s novelty talent to give them their heart’s desire. At the age of twenty-eight, she feels enslaved by the constant demand, but the steady routine sooths her compulsive nature. It is her dream to create something from her own inspiration“…I will paint it big...” she declares with her arms held open wide; but so far she is unable to see it. “What I have in my head is much too big — I don’t think I can ever paint it...I might as well be blind like Beethoven was deaf...”.

When she isn’t painting commissions, she obsessively fills sketchbooks with stream of consciousness drawings that she calls “her doodles”, and within the random compositions, precise portraits of the people she loves emerge: Whitley, Guthrie, Helena, Sylvester, and Lenore. She never draws self-portraits, but her abstract doodles are more about her than what she sees in a mirror, which is what everybody sees, her uncanny resemblance to her mother. She fears that everyone compares her to Lenore; this infiltrates the way she thinks about herself, and it affects how she relates to others: Whitley, Whitley’s stepson, Guthrie, and her half-sister, Helena. Her long time friend, Sylvester Hayden, is the only person she truly feels comfortable with because he never knew Lenore, he accepts and loves Sammy for who she is. Sylvester finds her easy to love, but he wrestles with guilt for his poor judgment when she seduced him into an affair when she was sixteen years old. The secret affair lasted for three years, but Sammy turned it off with the same decisiveness that she started it. He continues to worship her from the other side of the Rose-of-Sharon hedge that divides their backyards where he currently lives with Sammy’s half-sister, Helena.

After she files for divorce, Preston’s behavior grows more erratic, and after he physically attacks her, she becomes terrified for her life, and leaves the routines of home to begin a journey of self-preservation that could be her undoing, but actually sets her free.

In the midst of this odyssey, her traveling companion, an emotionally and physically exhausted Guthrie, struggles to prevent Sammy from pitching a painting over the edge of a Utah cliff after she decided that painting plein-air wasn’t what she wanted to do. After this incident, they take the long way home where the uncertainties that she had left behind await her attention.

Upon her return, she finalizes her divorce, discovers Preston’s role in her mother’s death, comes to terms with her suppressed feelings for Sylvester, and learns to create a new creative life as images from her sketchbooks finally spread unfettered onto large canvases ignited by color.

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“How long ‘til my soul gets it right?”—Emily Sailers of the Indigo Girls, Galileo

Washed Glass

855 pages/260,000 words

From the first page:

I’ve painted a dream today—I wrote in the white margin below the hazy image. It looks like a Rothko, but not as melancholy—I thought while sitting on the cottage back step; I again contemplated the blue horizon, and held my watercolor effort up to its reality—it’s almost there—my concentration is off today. I start to hum Beethoven’s Ode to Joy as I tucked the painting into the musty leather-bound tome entitled The Mabinogion balanced on my knees. My fingers turn through the tissue-thin, gilt-edged pages in an absent-minded rhythm, my gaze scanning over the gothic type and engraved images; mostly I’m turning the pages because I love the frail crackling sound that they make. I fell in love with this old book at a used bookshop yesterday afternoon; it has the feel, appearance, and the smell of an ancient relic from biblical times. It is the original translation from the Red Book of Hergest of the legends of King Arthur from twelfth century Wales. The stories contained within the covers about brave knights, fair maidens, magic, battles of honor, treachery, and the romances of the heart are unmolested by the Hollywood vision of Camelot glamour.

Closing the book, I hug it to my chest; my desire to read is lost because of a low-grade distraction that is tempering my focus. As my bottom grows numb on the weathered wooden step, I twitch and shift, suffering from the restlessness of a young body that doesn’t know what to do with itself. My mind is too full of thoughts in which making a simple decision is impossible. Right now, it seems that sitting still is the only option I have, although it feels like torture; it would feel so good to explode to my feet and run like mad, screaming at the top of my lungs to disrupt the tranquility of the beach, but I remain paralyzed by indecisiveness.

Why on earth did I write this book?

This is a classic boy meets girl and everything and the kitchen sink love story. It’s the exploration of What if you can remember everything from your past lifetimes? I have to ask myself: what would that do to a person? I’m not a new age guru or anything like that (I don’t want to be) but I wanted to tackle the subject with sensible enlightenment and a sense of humor that sharply examines the comedy and tragedy of such a circumstance; there’s a blunt social commentary with a skeptical outlook that is balanced with the sentimentality of romance (NO, not the bodice-ripper type, my characters are much too self-conscious for that sort of nonsense).

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First draft of Wish (formally titled: The Portrait) is 156 pages, 50,600 words...just a wee bit of a book...

On September 3, 2004, I "officially" started writing my fifth novel, Wish (The Portrait was the working title), picking away at it when inspiration ticked my fingers on the keyboard to jot down whatever I wanted to say in it, then on March 26th 2006, I picked it up again, this time to make it happen. Sometimes starting a new book is a scary bit of business...you know, all that cool unknown stuff just lurking around, waiting to jump out of the dark corners of the brain and say "BOO!" It's always there and it's just amazing.

So, anyway, this guy I'm writing about, Aloysius is a character that I've carried around for many years...oh, since high school...I didn't really know who he was until I wrote my first novel Washed Glass where he made his debut. He arrived there with such vitality that my readers who have helped me through the formative years of becoming a writer told me how much they enjoyed him and wanted to know more. Of course, at the time, I only knew what they knew, Aloysius remained elusive until I sat down with my laptop and began the interrogation process. As of April 26, 2006, I have 88 pages, 26,000 words, and 11 chapters, lots of room to grow in this rough beginning...

What's it about? Oh, yeah...you might want to know that. Bear with me, this is going to be a little rough...he's a dying man, that is made clear in the beginning of the book as he is in his final days of his life and he's being cared for by Katharine Tierney and his butler, Jeffrey. In his life, Aloysius is an art historian, although he is a British aristocrat, he has chosen to estrange himself from his family's heritage to find his own way in the world. He makes a living as an fine art appraiser and a painting and paper conservator, he enjoys taking on the mystery of identifying works of art that are unattributed to an artist or misidentified. His work takes him around the world to museums great and small, and many parlors of wealthy collectors. The inspiration that led him into this kind of career bloomed from a portrait of his great aunt Lady Damaris Crawford by a little known Impressionist portrait painter, Annachie Powys. As a little boy he was smitten with the portrait, then as an adult he becomes obsessed with it. There is a messy history about the painting, a love affair, a murder, a suicide, and an execution...very grim circumstances for such a pretty painting entitled The Angel, an impressionist portrait of a delicate young bride full of the blush of life, holding a book in her hand, and a small painting drying on the window seat beside her, the sunshine blazing through the window behind her and he white gown give her a gossamer appearance. It becomes his goal to discover who the artist is, and to find out the truth about why she killed herself on the day the portrait was completed, and why the painter was shot, and her husband executed for murder. His personal life has it's ups and downs with women, several love affairs gone wrong, sometimes dangerous, some foolish whims of fancy, he even fathers a son with his friend's fiancé during a one night stand; the boy, Sylvester Hayden, is a character from The Fractured Hues of White Light. His final entanglement is with a young version of Katharine Tierney (her affair with him is briefly chronicled in Washed Glass). Although he has his regrets about her, he even considers marriage, but just as he thinks about settling down, his chronic headaches become more than that, he has a brain tumor that cuts his life short and he breaks off from Katharine to spare her his suffering. His final journey makes peace with all that he left behind in the past, and he finally resolves the mystery about the Portrait of Damaris once he obtains the journals of Annachie Powys from the great-granddaughter of the Countessa.

I can't begin to tell you how much fun this is...

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A little bit about me

Do you think the weather in Syracuse, New York has anything to do with the making of exceptional writers? So many distinguished authors have passed underneath the prevalent gray sky—many have moved on, but I have stayed here, though I chose to relocate to the southern hill country for a better view. There’s something unique about the profusion of overcast days that sparks inspiration, it is a bit moor-ish in a Bronte sense. Some times that suffusion of gray comes down as fog on my Upstate hill, and my world takes on an isolated quality; it is such a lush atmosphere that fosters creativity in cozy rooms by a wood stove fire. Sunny days are precious, and that’s when I turn my attention from the moody sky to the placid earth. I have worked out numerous plot knots with my hands immersed in the soil of my garden; my imagination tickled by the softness of a cat’s sweet tail as it brushes along my arm when it passes by me with affectionate curiosity. After hours of physical labor tending to flowers and vegetables, I return to my desk to write, contemplate—tinker and tweak; sometimes I forgo the desk to sun myself in my favorite chair on the front porch. While hummingbirds buzz at the sprays of bee balm, I rest my feet on a sun-warmed dog, and I read with a red pen poised, ready to stab at the manuscript lying in my lap. You see, I have a good life on my hill, it is so pastoral and peaceful—this is how I want you to envision me. It is important for you to incorporate this vision, because this is what I have worked towards for many years, without this quality of life and the extremes of weather, I wouldn’t be writing—I’d be stuck on survive otherwise.

Believe me, there have been times when I’ve cursed myself for waiting so long, being almost forty when I finally started all of this—but it has been worth the wait turning into the writer I wanted to become. Thankfully, I am wise enough to be patient.

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My list of recommended readings:

Donna Tartt, The Secret History. Breathtaking.

Mikhail Bulgakov The Master and Margarita, this is probably the funniest book I have ever read, yeah I know it's Russian literature, what could possibly be funny in there? It just is...but then I have a odd sense of humor. It's brutality is stunning, I can see an indie director like Quentin Terantino or Tim Burton doing something with this novel. What a treat...trick or treat in a way.

John Cowper Powys Porius: A Romance of the Dark Ages, this epic is what epics are all about, probably a bit excessive--perhaps self-indulgent on the authors part, but what a beauty! I absolutely love this book, especially the uncut tome that I have.

Herman Melville, Moby Dick, I'll read it again and never grow tired of its beauty.

Gustaf Sobin The Fly-Truffler, this book is written in very gentle language.

Joyce Carol Oates Bellefleur (I wrote a review for this at Amazon.com). It's awesome, it's on my read it again list, one of the best books I ever read.

Virginia Woolf, Night and Day, the sense of humor of this book is subtle and hilarious. I adore this book so much the darn thing is falling apart, I'll have to get another copy...or I'll make a new cover for it. I tend to give this one away as a Christmas gift because I love it so much.

Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird, I grew up with this book and with the film, what a beautiful gift this book has been to our culture. Not too many like this come our way, it is a once in a life time sort of novel.

D.H. Lawrence, The Rainbow, intense and gentle at the same time, this man had an amazing gift.

Anne Lamott, The Blue Shoe, sadly real and wonderful because of it's reality.

Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace, wow, that's just so cool.

John Steinbeck, East of Eden Gorgeous.

Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine, this book is a treasure!

Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient, one of the few times the book and the movie are in harmony and both are good.

Carson McCullers, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, a remarkable book.

Wally Lamb, I Know This Much Is True, fascinating.

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Education:
Syracuse University BFA in painting 1984.

My day job:
I am employed by the Syracuse University Art Collection (since 1989) and I currently hold the honorable position of Registrar.

A couple of other things:
I've done two illustrations for book covers published by Syracuse University Press, The Night Has A Naked Soul by Alan Kilpatrick and Deep Woods by John Burroughs.

I live in an old farmhouse on top of a windswept Lafayette hilltop with my Fred, our grown son, we're down to five cats and one dog Max.

There is more day to dawn. The Sun is but a morning star. Thoreau, Walden

This writer is looking for an agent.