My thoughts on reading "Wolf Solent" by John Cowper Powys

Powys is one of the greatest novelists that not everybody knows about—I always make an effort to press him upon receptive readers—I’m a believer, a bookish zealot—I’m always more than happy to spread the word of literary awesomeness, I do realize that not every reader is going to dig Powys. Books by Powys have a knack to haunt a reader long after they’re done. His writing is magical, beautiful, rhapsodic, breathtaking, meandering, timeless—very dense classic prose. He’s in the company of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Proust, Hardy, D. H. Lawrence—Powys (dubbed by some as the anti-Hemingway—which I find funny, I love “Papa” too—he is his own writing beast, Powys is another unique species of writer.) He’s a writer’s writer. With the generous spirit of Shakespearean shrewdness, he evokes an aged skepticism of everything, and yet a youthful gullibility about everything—it’s all very enchanting and lovely, and far too good to miss. In this contemporary world of instant gratification, it would be far too easy to neglect this master storyteller, and it would be a shame to forget him just because his way of writing is out of fashion.

One of the things that makes a Powys novel like Wolf Solent special is how he lays down a historical foundation that is based on legends. In all legends, there’s a grain of truth—the old hills and dells, moors and coastlines of Wales and England (in particular) have a history and mythology that have deep roots in the lives of the people who live within the covers of his books. The people—they are many and varied, the beautiful and ugly of humanity are all well represented. Pagans and Christians—philosophy and superstition overlap and separate—mingling and repelling—they co-exist with a feigned ignorance or have the willingness to overlook “the matter” out of politeness, and more times than not, they are blatant with their venom—gossiping the next chance meeting with an ear waiting to listen—creating their own legends from the bits of truth of what was muddied by their own perceptions. There’s an intensity of life that is palatable; life is complicated, yet it’s simple. The density of the writing is so absorbing, that’s what makes it so dang fascinating—he creates a sense of place and time, textured and sensual—decadent (in the best sense of the term.) The thing I love so much about his writing is that I have to be on my toes through all of it—my brain is slowly dining on every word, savoring every last bit to the end. I found it hard to put the book down some nights—and I was haunted by it until I picked it up again.

Wolf walks a lot (like the character Porius in another Powys novel of that name)—here, there, and everywhere—if I were his wife, Gerda, I would’ve slapped him silly for his random acts of disappearing—“Where the Hell have you been Mr. Solent? I gave you up as dead in a ditch somewhere along the road—get in here, sit, and have your tea.” (As it is long before the convenience of cell phones, give the nearest lad a ha’penny and have him run a message home at least! Ah, but he doesn’t think of doing that until near the end of the book.) I can’t blame Gerda at all for feeling as she did, a young wife finding herself married to this peculiar, distracted, but mostly harmless fool. He mentally wandered in a self-absorbed state, what he called “sinking into his soul”, also known as his “mythology” a secret name for his secret habit of daydreaming—it is a carryover from childhood that appalled his mother, but his father encouraged. Daydreams are a beautiful thing to have access to—they feed the creative mind all sorts of goodies, but it can be detrimental for an adult to go about in a fantasy world. Absentmindedness is quaint to a point, after a while, people can become pretty annoyed when your distracted manner is no longer entertaining as you are causing inconvenience—one day you have your head in the clouds, the next day it changes to having your head firmly stuck up your ass (there’s a time and place for everything, you see.) Wolf’s walking seems directionless, yet he follows his nose like a canine; examining his internal world and then becoming suddenly enamored by the world outside of himself— the verdant curve of a hill, the muddy stillness of a pond, the blue of the sky, and the golden meadow brimming with buttercups; body and soul, dreams and realities, within and without, life and death, good and evil—his thoughts often veering over the edge into the supernatural. The dead and buried (in particular, his father and the young Redfern) live on in memories and imaginings—laughing at the arrogance of the living.
Truth be told, the fool needed to grow up and get ahold of himself. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Wolf and his ‘mythology’, he cracked me up quite often—from the beginning, he got sacked from his teaching job in London for his “malice-dance” in which he just went off on an inappropriate verbal jaunt that had nothing to do with teaching History to the boys in his charge...

“He was telling his pupils quietly about Dean Swift; and all of a sudden some mental screen or lid or dam in his own mind completely collapsed and he found himself pouring forth a torrent of wild, indecent invectives upon every aspect of modern civilization.”p.2

This is the prevailing attitude throughout the book—he has something eating at him.

“He felt as though, with aeroplanes spying down upon every retreat like ubiquitous vultures, with the lanes invaded by iron-clad motors like colossal beetles, with no sea, no lake, no river, free from throbbing, thudding engines, the one thing most precious of all in the world was being steadily assassinated.” P.3

I agreed with him on most things, yet there were times I found his obsessive waffling over the flirtatious and sexy Gerda and the solemn and thoughtful Christie to be comical, bordering on absurd—he wanted his cake and eat it until it made him sick. The reality of Wolf’s life is invading and destroying his ‘mythology’—the being in a rut, teaching history to boys at the school for thirty years just irks him to no end—he longs to have financial independence to allow him to live comfortably and to have freedom. I certainly didn’t want to see him lose that lovely imaginativeness that was natural—instinctive, nigh innocent (yet not entirely), but it was clear that his behavior was becoming a concern by those who knew him. It isn’t every day that your father-in-law (a monument maker) indicates his concern by saying:

“Tis no comfort,” he remarked, “though I be the man I be for cossetting they jealous dead, to think that ‘in a time and half a time,’ as Scripture says, I’ll be chipping “Rest in the Lord” on me wone son-in-law’s moniment. But since us be talking snug and quiet, mister, on this sorrowful theme”—Mr. Torp’s voice assumed his undertaker’s tone, which long usage had rendered totally different from his normal one—“’twould be a mighty help, mister, to I, for a day to come, if ye’d gie us a tip as to what word—out of Book or out of plain speech—ye’d like best for I to put above ‘ee?” p. 466

As he moped around on his many walks, at times considering that maybe he should go drown himself in Lenty Pond as alluded by those who believed it to be his destiny, (I seriously felt concerned that he would!) I wished I could’ve advised him—“You should write a book of your own—you really need to.” If anything could possibly reset and settle his mind, it would be that—writing clears the decks of a busy mind that wanders. Writing is one of our most intimate acts of creativity, it can center one and it can unravel one—one can be rattled to the core by the act of writing, sometimes there’s nothing more startling than to write down the thoughts that haunt you to the point of something comparable to madness. Eventually, it does work out those bothersome bugs and gives focus. Then it’s nigh terrifying to share one’s own words on paper with anyone else because they are so personal—private. For example, when Wolf reads Christie’s writing that she had hidden away, she was pissed when she found out—his reading it ruined it for her, she wasn’t ready to have anyone read her thoughts. The eccentric poet, Jason Otter, shared his poetry with Wolf on many occasions, but when Wolf suggests that he should send them to London to be published, Jason became angry—feeling certain that the Londoners would laugh at his poetry. Anyway, I can only hope that Wolf came to writing later in life beyond the last page—that’s another thing that I love about this book, there is a sense that life goes on after the book ends. His walk through the meadow of buttercups was the most sublime event—he had changed, “grown up” in a manner of speaking—he may have lost his “mythology”, but he gained a new sight and insight. Once again, he reveled in taking notice of the smallest things such as the beauty of a snail as it went creeping along from a dock-leaf to the boards of the pigsty shed. Accepting the reality—“I am I”—“Forget and enjoy”—“ Endure or escape”—it was his body that saved him—for this, his spirit is grateful.

John Cowper Powys (I could not find a credit for the image, tho' I'll keep looking and will amend should I find it.)

“Millions of miles of blue sky; and beyond that, millions of miles of sky that could scarcely be called blue or any other colour—pure  unalloyed emptiness, stretching outwards from where he sat—with his stick and coat opposite him—to no conceivable boundary or end!” p. 10


I simply adored this book and could easily read it again—I have a few bits here from some of the many dog-eared pages, and then I’m done with my wordy testimony…

“Every time the hedge grew low, as they jogged along, every time a gate or a gap interrupted its green undulating rampart, he caught a glimpse of that great valley, gathering the twilight about it as a dying god might gather to his heart the cold, wet ashes of his last holocaust.” P. 25

“Nature was always prolific of signs and omens to his mind; and it had become a custom with him to keep a region of his intelligence alert and passive for a thousand whispers, hints, obscure intimations that came to him in this way. Why was it that a deep, obstinate resistance somewhere in his consciousness opposed itself to such a solution?” p 274

Reading Janet Frame, The Edge of the Alphabet

I’m continuing my journey discovering Janet Frame; The Edge of the Alphabet is yet another magical book of prose, experimental and challenging, a timeless narrative about the beauty and ugliness of the human condition. She plunges right in, starting on the first page:

Man is the only species for whom the disposal of waste is a burden, a task often ill judged, costly, criminal—especially when he learns to include himself, living and dead, in the list of waste products.

The creator of the world did not employ a dustman to collect the peelings of his creation.

Now I, Thora Pattern (who live at the edge of the alphabet where words like plants either grow poisonous tall and hollow about the rusted knives and empty drums of meaning, or, like people exposed to a deathly weather, shed their fleshy confusion and show luminous, knitted with force and permanence), now I walk day and night among the leavings of people, places and moments. Here the dead (my goldsmiths) keep cropping up like daisies with their floral blackmail. It is nearly impossible to bribe them or buy their silence. Page 3

…and it is non-stop to the last page:

The edge of the alphabet where words crumble and all forms of communication between the living are useless. One day we who live at the edge of the alphabet will find our speech.

Meanwhile our lives are solitary; we are captives of the captive dead. We are like those yellow birds which are kept apart from their kind — you see their cages hanging in windows, in the sun—because otherwise they would never learn the language of their captors.

But like the yellow birds have we not our pleasures? We look long in mirrors. We have tiny ladders to climb up and down, little wheels to set our feet and our heart racing nowhere; toys to play with.

Should we not be happy?  Page 303

It can leave one breathless...

Janet Frame’s books never cease to fascinate me — I have dog-eared several pages of this one (like others) marking where I want to return someday to explore a word-scape of unique beauty. The entire book is loaded with the most exquisite language — precious, priceless. She created geographical territory in which the borders of social inclusion and exclusion are investigated with an emphasis on language (communication or the lack of communication). The ghosts of the past are haunting, memories of lost relatives or events linger with a zealous desire to be remembered. There are surreal essences of despair, fear, failure — fragile dreams and disquieting realities—the human condition of those existing on the margins, marginalized — to be blunt, reality sucks. Sadly, this is a generous portion of our world’s population — life is not glamor, romance, and drama — to look away and deny it is negligent. Life is gritty with filth — our manmade rubbish, self-made madness, and life-long sickness. Some people are incapable of coping with life — some just do not have the tools to cope as they are flawed by disabilities (Toby’s epilepsy) or disabled by life (Zoe’s ignorance.) They are people easily discarded and ignored — yet Janet Frame writes in a way that makes the ugliness of life beautiful — and in all the trauma, there are comic pleasures that wink with a sweet wit that isn’t frivolous, if anything, the absurdity is very grounding.

A first kiss leading to the private research of identity, which leads to the creation of a sculpture from the silver paper of a cigarette pack, and then a life ended. A novel, The Lost Tribe, left unwritten because the writer is illiterate. Paintings destroyed, talent unrealized by an artist overcome by despair. And a life spent just getting by, going through the motions of life’s expectations to the point of not truly living.


“Just how much blank paper do you need, sir, to match your blank life?” Page 278

~

“He’s getting above himself, going overseas.”…there is an affliction of dream called ‘overseas’, a suffering of sleep endured by the prophetic, the bored, the retired, and the living who will not admit that it is easier and cheaper to die, die once and forever and travel as dust. But being dust how can you return and have your name in the paper and yourself pointed out in the street as having been “overseas” and your conversation filled with the names of places you have visited, your words received with wonder, as prophecies… How, if you are not Marco Polo or Herodotus? Page 49-50

~

Shall I write a book? Everybody is going to write a book. Memoirs on writing paper, toilet paper, café wall, pavement, or stone column in a city cemetery where borders of trees provide a trip-wire into silence. Shall I write? Shall I engage in private research of identity? Page 99

~

And then she laughed out loud to think that she had never known, that she had always believed that people were separate with boundaries and fences and scrolled iron gates, Private Road, Trespassers Will be Prosecuted; that people lived and died in shapes and identities with labels easily recognizable, with names which they clutched, like empty suitcases, on a journey to nowhere. Page 106

~

The day is patched with long silences between the communication of people, give rise to dread; as if the time itself held a reserve of opinion too terrible to express. In the cracks of the silence the people’s voices grow like bright feverish weeds whose stalks are hollow and whose shallow roots are separated from the earth (or water) with one tug of a hand or breeze; now and again people’s voices disappear in the gaps that open with the continual shock of Time. Page 215

~

“Did you make it?” he asked Zoe. “How did you think of it?”

Everyone admired the shape once again. Zoe was not used to being the center of attention; not for something she had made—when in her life had she ever made anything? It’s only a bit of paper, she said to herself, but she throbbed with warmth. How strange that it had so affected the others, had evoked in them feelings which they could only consider and explore by sitting there, as all three were doing now, silent, staring at the silver sculpture… How extraordinary, Zoe thought, that such feeling should be roused by seeing a conventional paper shape twisted at random, in idleness, among strangers whom I shall never meet again. Page 272

Janet Frame writes with this special vision about social identity, a textual borderland — a wonderland — an Is-land — the post-colonial experience, New Zealand and England—being an alien within one’s homeland and within one’s own skin, living in the margins — at the edge of the alphabet…

And sometimes it seemed too much like being excluded from the mystical long-division sum, like being the odd number at the bottom or at the side of the column, the mental afterthought, the carrying number put there for mere convenience and erased when the answer to the sum is worked out. Page 297

Honestly, who hasn’t spent time living on the edge of the alphabet…

Thoughts on writing...some advice

Me with Dusty Waters at my first book signing, May, 2009

I’ve always wanted to be a writer, since I could scribble, I wanted to write something that mattered—it took a long time to get there, I had a good deal of false starts. It’s been 15 years since I wrote the manuscript Washed Glass and saw it through to the finish. (Oh, I thought I knew what I was doing, but I totally had no idea.) This effort is still unpublished and certainly nowhere near ready to have a cover designed for it. It’s a densely written monster that has everything and the kitchen sink in it, and it’s rife with first-novel-itis, but I know the story is good enough to take the time to make it right—not every first manuscript is good enough. Even tho’ I do cringe a little when I think about going back to it, but now that I know more about what I’m doing, I know what I must do, so I will revisit where I started all those years ago—someday. I will always have a soft spot for it—it was my first, from there, the rest of my work with words followed, and they nod with reverence to what happened before them because without Washed Glass, Dusty Waters and The Fractured Hues of White Light wouldn't have happened. 

My "Girls"

For what it’s worth, here’s my advice for aspiring writers (young and old):

It’s never too late to start. Just do it.

Write. Even if it’s pure nonsense, if it’s there in your head, write it. Unfortunately, we learn from our mistakes, and you’re not going to learn by being afraid of fucking up.

Read—read a lot—especially read outside your comfort zone, if you have resisted reading the classics, read them—experience them and learn from them. Keep your mind wide open to receive knowledge, grow your mind, grow your vocabulary—read the dictionary (you know, one of those old-fashioned cloth bound books illustrated with line art, get one.) Familiarize yourself with the basic rules of grammar and punctuation too. Keep a Thesaurus handy.  Honestly, you’ll need something to do during those dead zones when you’re not staring out the window thinking.

Be humble.
Write and write some more.
No, you’re not crazy, you’re writing a book. Keep writing—just let it flow.
Be brave.
Write.

Here are the Don’ts:

Don’t listen to those dissenting voices within you or from the others who are on the outside looking in—for goodness sakes, don’t let anyone tell you “you can’t do that” because it’s hard. Damn right it’s hard and don’t you forget it.

Don’t rely on spell check and grammar check on your computer to catch your errors because words like dairies and diaries are both spelled correctly and if you’re a little bit dyslexic at all it’s easy enough to screw them up. The brain has this amazing self-correction thing it does when you’re too close to your writing and you know what you want to say, so beware when dealing with words, especially when writing tens of thousands of them.

Don’t be a hermit.
Don’t forget to live.
Don’t forget to breathe.
Write.

So you finished writing your manuscript—your first book. Do a happy dance, scream, laugh, and cry. Tell all your friends and family—celebrate. It’s a wonderful thing, it’s an accomplishment, and an achievement worthy of a pat on the back.

Don’t be surprised if you feel sad—because you will. You will “miss” being there, being in your head with your characters—it can be a little scary to feel depressed like that, but don’t worry, you’re all right.

Do you think you’re done with it?

"Done" means it has a beginning and an end with a bunch of shit happening in the middle. I know it will be hard to do it, but walk away from it—leave it for months—start something new or just write nonsense. Keep reading more books to pass the time. No matter how tempting it is to fool around with it, leave it alone. Forget it long enough to “forget it” in a sense that will allow you to be objective when you read it again.

It’s nice if you can find a first reader who can honestly tell you what they think of it—it’s nice if the first reader doesn’t sit on it for months and not read it. A book, especially a raw first draft isn’t easy to hand off to someone and expect them to read it—it’s not like showing someone a drawing you made—reading is an investment of time—and first drafts can be SO ROUGH it’s not fun to read them.  When you do go back to it, be honest with yourself—is it how you envisioned it? Aim high, raise the bar for yourself, take pride in your work, OWN IT. Edit the darn thing—make it bleed red ink—be prepared, this process can go on for several drafts. If you can find an editor that you can afford—one you can trust to work within your vision, go for it. But not everyone can afford one, not everyone has access to such creatures, so it’s good for a writer to learn how to self-edit.

I do my own editing partly because I’m a control freak, and partly because I love doing it—I love the whole process of revising and editing. I will read a chapter backwards, sentence by sentence just to take it out of the flow to make sure it’s what I want it to say. Then I will read the chapter forwards again to see if I catch anything wonky. I go through it until I make no more changes. Then I leave it alone to forget it, then read it again. If I make no changes, that’s a good thing. I’ve been known to take the scissors to a chapter that I had thought was perfect two weeks ago and reorganize the paragraphs, tape it back together, make the revision, and then start over reading it in the new configuration. I read it and revise it until I make it right.

Reading hard copy is always a good idea.

It does get better—trust me on this.

Final thoughts:
Keep writing. 
Don’t settle.
Make it right. Make it perfect.
Practice, Patience, Persistence.


(For the record, I won't edit anyone's work, so don't ask...you can't pay me enough to do it.)

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

“—if a painting really works down in your heart and changes the way you see, and think, and feel, you don’t think, ‘oh, I love this picture because it’s universal.’ ‘I love this painting because it speaks to all mankind.’ That’s not the reason anyone loves a piece of art. It’s a secret whisper from an alleyway. Psst, you. Hey kid. Yes you.” Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

Books can have this effect on a reader too, they get into your head and under your skin—make you itch in a pleasant way and they haunt you—yup, I’m joining the five star pile for The Goldfinch, okay? Donna Tartt has produced three novels in thirty years, which doesn’t sound like much, but damn they are BIG ONES. Books (in general) are like Dr. Who’s Tardis, small on the outside, big as the outdoors on the inside, then there are Donna Tartt’s books—OMG they are ginormous on the inside—more than just another world or a construct—holy crap, they’re big gorgeous monsters! You approach them not to conquer, but to understand, appreciate, to identify with—this is literature—a human document. To offer up my gut reaction about it—I loved The Goldfinch, plain and simple. Why do I love it? That’s not so simple, but I’ll try to explain it.

I read the first fifty pages at bedtime that first night and my eyes were as wide open as peeled onions from thinking about it long after I turned out the lights. The following nights, I took it in smaller bites to savor it—yes, I could’ve easily blasted through it, gobbled it up gone and done in no time, but I didn’t because I needed my sleep. In a way, I was glad that the book slowed down after those first fifty pages, I went with the flow and enjoyed the view. Indeed, there is so much detail and so much going on, it would be too easy to blink and miss something, but I didn’t miss a thing.

As an artist and a museum worker, I enjoyed the book on the professional level as well as the writer/reader part of me. As a reader of Russian Literature, I found the references made to Theo’s friend, Boris, reading Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot were appropriate in spirit (yet another multilayered psychological and philosophical study of the human condition.) I was glad that I had read The Idiot fairly recently (2008) so it was still fresh enough for me to recall it (loved it.) I’ve read reviews that compare The Goldfinch to various Dickens novels (David Copperfield, Great Expectations, and The Old Curiosity Shop.) It is, but it isn’t, more isn’t than it is—it’s Donna Tartt writing Donna Tartt, of her time and place—Dickens makes a good literary lighthouse to point to, I guess.

One potential pothole I watched for was how she handled the technology of cell phones and the Internet, because the gadgets and the access changed so much from the time she first started writing the book to its publication. She was wise enough to keep the use of these devices forgivably ambiguous enough to make it work for the span of time during Theo’s journey. (It’s a small detail, and writers do fret about these details, trust me on this.)

The Goldfinch is different from her two previous works, The Secret History and The Little Friend (If I hear one more whiner crying that it's not like The Secret History, I'll scream. Of course not! Idgit.) The Goldfinch has a personality of its own— a sibling of the other two. Like children, the first-born will be different from the second, and the third—or the last in a long line of children forming a new generation, each one different as much as they are related. They may look alike or sound alike; they are clearly from the same parents because of the color of their eyes or the curl of their hair, short or tall, blah-blah-blah. I love The Goldfinch for what it is—a long, complicated tome, intense, tragic, brutal, and heartbreaking—an unhappy tale; it’s just how things are for Theo Decker. It has an unsettling atmosphere, so finding lighter moments became restful—these were the gems of forgetfulness that arrived to make things feel “okay” and “safe” for a little while (anyone who has lost a loved one, will relate to that temporary amnesia, trust me on that too.) Yet, the nagging anxiety was always within reach, hidden in a shopping bag, or a pillowcase taped to the back of the bed, or tucked away somewhere locked. The repetitive nature of the narrative, in my mind, shed light on the mental state of Theo as he attempted to cope—obsessive and compulsive, dangerously so—the book truly had very unpleasant moments. A young man whose life was forever altered in an instant, there is no being “normal” after that sort of experience—the psychological damage is done—the kid is broken, and becomes a broken adult wearing a veneer of normality; he’s always hiding something. I admire the work, the research, the years put into it. It has everything including the kitchen sink in it—it’s well-crafted and every word accounted for—it all mattered. Tightly wound, molded, modeled, constructed—polished, polished again, and then polished some more. (The Secret History as the “first born” possesses that magical raw beauty of being the first of its kind—The Goldfinch in comparison may have been “spoiled” with too much love, but turned out just fine in spite of it—it is a work by a mature author, that’s the difference.) It is gutsy and classic—not too many write like this anymore, dang, the depth of description at times was dense—lovely. At times, I was truly amazed that it was let through at such a stunning size and as verbally extravagant as Dostoyevsky (or Dickens), yet, I could not find reason to cut it to pieces. The digressive philosophical ending at first glance felt a bit off when I waded into it, but the water was temperate, I understood it as being an epilogue, returning to the beginning—Theo looking back from a safe distance of time to review and absorb—to purge it one more time. I found it satisfying.

Books like these don’t come around often enough, I took my time with this one—treating myself to a story that I have waited a very long time to read. I was not disappointed—only that it ended, and who knows when the next one will come into being…LJWR, 2/1/2014

Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story

Four years ago I was editing, proofreading, making changes, reading, making more changes, having my Fred run it through InDesign, the font was selected, formatting line by line, chapter by chapter, and then a PDF came into being. Which of course meant more reading, more fussing over formatting, more proofreading, more changes... somewhere in the midst of all this, I dug out old photos I took of the Fox Sister's house in Hydesville before they tore it down, and used them for the book cover... then finally, a file was created and the first paperback came in the mail a few days later. Of course there was more to do to it...other odd formatting problems, a couple of misspelled words...a word that wasn't misspelled, but was just the wrong word...and then eventually a block of ISBN #'s were purchased, and one more file created, another proof came, it was examined page by page, and then, it was done. I never looked back, never regretted that I didn't try one more time to go the traditional route...


Four years after its publication, I still love this little book of mine, and have found the reactions of readers very interesting—no surprises—it’s one of those ‘love it’ or ‘hate it’ sort of books, I guess. It still amazes me that I wrote it, and I'm always grateful when someone tells me they loved it and what their favorite part was, or what made them cry...

It just makes me cry that I was able to write it...it took years to write it...I carried much of it within me since I was quite young, before I knew what to do with any of it...they were stories I made up, told to my friends, and then got into trouble over them because...well because they weren't true. I was called a liar for making such things up. (Imagine that.)

Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story is a literary fiction novel, it is not the usual ghost story with a haunted house—oh, yes, Tanglewood is very haunted—but it’s a ghost story as much about life as it is about death. It’s a coming of age story and a story about coming to terms with the past. Dusty Waters, as a little girl with a gift of seeing ghosts, is haunted by the spirits drifting in the hallways of her ancestral home, and haunted by the past encompassing a family history, a nation’s history, and a generation’s history, as well as her personal story. Dusty Waters, as a woman, standing well over six feet tall, wild curly blond hair with big feet and a big nose, is a folksinger in the tradition of folksingers of the Boomer generation with a growling voice like Janis Joplin, but her guitar is tuned with the Punk edge of the Gen-X kids who show up at her concerts looking to hear songs about the truth of “what was” and presently that “it goes like this.” She pulls no punches as she belts out her songs, but in her own personal life, she’s barely scratching the surface of being honest with herself. She’s scared to go home to face the ghosts that haunt her there, and scared to live without them. Coming home at last, she has steeled herself to sit down with her friend, Katharine, to tell her story for the official biography of the folksinger—but there are parts of that story she will never tell a soul—except maybe one, but she lost him along the way and needs to go find him.

Me at my first book signing on May 2, 2009 at Fat Cats in Johnson City, NY

Look at that smile—and those poor old tortie glasses bit the dust long ago, I loved them until they fell apart and were beyond repair—oh, they got me through many hair-pulling edits of that little ghost story I’m holding in my hands—I just loved writing this book and have enjoyed meeting people to talk about it and although I'm so small time being an indie on my own, I can't complain, she sells one book at a time.

Four years later...here is a lifetime I can hold in my hands and share.

Expectations, the readers reviews of Dusty Waters: A Ghost Story

It’s been two years since I published Dusty Waters: A Ghost Story, being an independently published author is a lot like being a stray cat out looking for a home or going about their independentness scrounging for what they can get, usually very little... some people don't want you around and throw shit at you to scare you off, some come at you, cautiously cuz you might be overzealous with rabies, while some welcome you with open arms, give lap time, food, and warmth. I’ve been quite pleased with the result of my experiment as an independently published author—my little ghost story is finding homes, being read—most of them like it (even better, some say they love it!) Some tell me that it made them laugh and cry, some start reading it again because they loved it so much. Some say they will tell everyone they know about it. Some have felt a little middle of the road about it, it was good, but there was something that didn’t sit well, and a few downright hated it. Throughout this process I’ve experienced the highs and lows emotionally, have taken care to develop a thick skin, and a c’est la vie attitude, I can’t please them all, and above all, it’s business -  a subjective business.With that said, here are the reviews, thirteen of them…

Reader #1***** (5 stars) What a story!
This is a darn good book, gifted to us by an accomplished storyteller. We're treated to an extremely satisfying array of characters, from the quiet, marred Asher, to raucous, sequined Dede; and guided by the quirky, gravel-voiced, 6 feet, 3 inch creator of Dusty Boots Records.

I read fiction to be absorbed, to move into a house with people I don't know yet, to sit in the chairs in the parlor, or disappear into the library behind the secret panel and see the dust on the book jackets and smell the air from the open window. I want to hear the creek bubbling past the broken down willow, and taste the heat from the Taos desert. I want to smile, laugh, fear, suffer, love with the people on the page.

Dusty Waters delivers.

This is a memorable book. The plot devices are adroit, and there are admirably adept methods Ms. Ryan uses; how does a writer convey to the reader that it's hard to get a single message separated from a litany of ghostly memories? The way Laura does it.

There are words and phrases that delight - "suchthings," and "nonstop raspberry."

I'll read Dusty Waters again. Happily.

Reader #2 ***** (5 stars) Not at all what I expected...Wow!
Dusty Waters is a 5 star read. We meet Dusty in her 40s (I think?) and she is somewhat of a hippie in that she stands up against the government through her songs and her unashamed preaching. She is smart and has lived a life. Her childhood friend, Katharine, is writing a book about Dusty (now that Dusty is a famous folk singer) and "Dusty Waters: a ghost story" is a mixture of the interviews that Dusty and Katharine share, and the back stories that Dusty tells in first person narrative. Always intense, realistic conversations, fully-body characters and I loved every one of them.

Dusty sees dead people. No, not in a "Sixth Sense" sorta way, but just in that she can see the ghosts of people who have yet to move on with their "lives". Many of the dead will live the same last moments over and over again, dying over and over. Or some will wait in a certain place where they felt most comfortable in their living "life"... for someone, or something. Dusty sees these spirits- ever since she was a child (of about 4 years) and her father suddenly died of an aneurism at the breakfast table. After he died, she could still see her father sitting at the breakfast table for 3 years, until they moved back to a family heirloom of a house that got passed down from generation to generation.

At the "new" house where Dusty's mother grew up, Dusty can see all of her ancestors trapped inside the house. But, it's not in a scary way. Some of them died brutal, mis-informed deaths, but none wished ill-will to Dusty. The ghosts were so trapped inside their own misery or solitude, that most didn't even notice that Dusty could see them.

Dusty Waters is about self-discovery, trusting one's instincts, true love, growing up in war, losing family members, growing up, and being true to oneself.

The only issue I had with the book was it seems to be marketed as a Ghost Story- as in a horror book. Even the cover art looks a little creepy. "Dusty Waters" has ghosts in it, sure, but it's not ABOUT the ghosts. It's so much more than that. If I could change anything about this book, it would be the cover and the marketing strategy. Because "Dusty Waters" is not scary... it's beautiful.

Reader #3 **** (4 stars)
This is a story about the life and loves of Dusty Waters. She is a folksinger with an attitude, but if you had lived through what she has I guess you would be the same! Dusty can see and communicate with ghosts. This gift is found out when her dad tragically died one morning and never really left. After this the family moved into Tanglewood (a mysterious mansion-like place) and with even more ghosts to keep Dusty busy. This biography of Dusty and her life living at Tanglewood is an interesting one. Reading this book you feel like the nosey neighbor peeking into her life...not a lot of books can make you feel like you there and observing.

Reader #4 **** (4 stars)
I loved this book! I was going into it expecting something really supernatural, focused on spirits/ghosts. Instead I read a beautiful story about living life. Dusty's ability to see ghosts is just a part of her, like being tall, or having curly hair.

Dusty's voice carried me along on a gentle pace through the story of her life. I laughed, I cried, and I put the book down feeling better for having read it. I can't wait to pick it back up and read it again!

Reader #5 **** (4 Stars)
I totally enjoyed this one and for so many different reasons. Laura's writing style is just really awesome and has a unique flow to it. She really managed to make the story feel intimate.

'Dusty Waters: A Ghost Story' was certainly a unique book. I initially got interested in this one because it was a "ghost" story, but it turned out to be so much more than that. Yes, there are ghosts in the book, but I think this one really dug deeper. It really hits on the "ghosts" of our past and how they shape the person we are today. I loved the sometimes nutty main character, Dusty, and the stories she told. They were each unique and again, I think it showed how the ghosts of our past affect the person today.

I have to mention the format of the book because I really thought it was great. Each chapter starts out with a transcript of an interview done with Dusty while working on a biography...it then switches in to what I would call a flashback.

Overall, I thought this one was enjoyable. No matter what kind of ghost story you're looking for you may just find it here. I'd call it a relaxed and easy-going book.

Reader #6    **(2 Stars) Note: added to reviewer’s personal “losers” list
Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story, is not a ghost story. It's a people story with ghosts on the sidelines. Dusty is a folksinger, who just happens to be able to see and communicate with ghosts. The book is about Dusty having her memoirs written by an old friend. That was interesting enough to make me immediately want to read this book. Sadly, for me, the result was rather boring. Imagine if Forrest Gump was female, and could see ghosts. Not that Dusty was challenged in any way other than her second sight, but she was, like Forrest, overly calm and accepting of the ghosts around her. Kind of like "Ohhhh-Kaaay". A very ordinary story about an ordinary family. The settings and historical events that provided the backdrop for this growing girl and her family could have provided enough interest to save the book, but it simply failed. The historical family mansion, for example, complete with ghosts and hidden rooms should have provided lots of entertainment in itself, but because the ghosts were as ordinary as the living, and Dusty's reaction and interaction with them bordered on deadpan (no pun intended), there was no "hook". The characters were likeable enough, but once the book was closed, I did not feel drawn back to it. Pretty mediocre.

Reader #7 **** (4 Stars)
This was about the life story of a fictional character named Dusty Waters, a folksinger. When her father died one morning at breakfast she saw and conversed with him at the breakfast table for the next three years. No one in her family believed she could see his ghost and called her crazy. When they moved into her Mother's ancestral home, she saw and heard family spirits. I liked the way the author wrote the story. Sprinkled throughout the book, it was written as though Dusty was being interviewed by the writer, Katherine, a friend. There was funny parts and sad parts like all stories, and she did a good job with the ending. An unexpected ending.

Reader #8 * (1 star)
Oh my goodness. This was a terrible book. I thought it was going to be a ghost story (based on the title - duh!), but it turns out it was just an opportunity to rant about politics and "those crazy religious nuts". I didn't realize what I was getting myself into. If you are solidly on the left, you might enjoy this book. Otherwise, steer clear from this one. It was so irritating because there were times that the story encouraged me to continue reading, and then I would get hit in the face with the political rant all over again. Blech...

Reader #9 **** (4 Stars)
I went into this book expecting spooks and transparent figures that go bump in the night. Instead it's a nice book about a normal life and all the little things that go into a life. There were parts that had me not liking Dusty, but as a whole she was likable. There were a few times when spirits were involved that I cried. I like the evolution of Dusty as a person. It is a good book.

Reader #10 *** (3 Stars)
This was an interesting book...the language is not my preference and there is a lot of it...but it has a good storyline.

Reader #11 **** (4 Stars) Note: added to reviewer’s “to keep in personal library” list
Probably because I believe that our loved ones are always around us, I really liked this one. It will be one I keep in my library forever.

Reader #12 ***** (5 stars) Definitely not your average ghost story
Dusty Waters is a different take on the traditional ghost story, dealing more with the lives of people through the eyes of the person who can see them while, simultaneously, trying to grow into her own life. Definitely a good read for those wanting entertainment and some brain food to munch on.

Reader #13 ***** (5 Stars) Excellent story, I loved every page!
The sub-title "A Ghost Story" caught my attention so I bought this book. I enjoyed it so much and am recommending it to all my friends. I don't want to give away the story, but it is definitely a "ghost" story which you find out very early in the book, with numerous plots of mysterious questions...actually I just talked myself into reading it again! ENJOY!!

And so that’s them...the words of wisdom/gut reactions from thirteen readers who have loved, liked, found so-so, or disliked my little ghost story. As you can see, much of what is written here says more about the reader and how they experience books, and going a step further, there are some readers who are open minded and willing to enjoy a book without expectation, while others lose the joy of reading by having strict expectations and have no wiggle room to engage in a writer’s story if it fails to fall within their set parameters. These parameters I find very interesting, especially regarding how every reader has their expectations about what a ghost story is supposed to be...or not be. Is it a ghost story? The majority accept it as a ghost story. It is a ghost story, a ghost story told the way I wanted to write it. The ghosts aren’t the “BOO!” bump in the night kind of ghosts—that’s been done, I wanted to do something different, something better. It is a book about the life of Dusty Waters, the ghost story is the part of her life that will not be included in her biography, only the reader is becoming privy to this secret—this I believe is part of the beauty of the book, it is more than a ghost story.

Two years later, yes, the stray cat has gained a thicker skin, but that doesn't mean I still don't feel a little queasy and bummed out when I see a one star reaction with a review to match relaying all that I did wrong (I know it won't be the last one) or do a little happy dance when I get four stars set up along with a thoughtful review...I'm not yet a fat tabby, but it's been a worth while experiment. I feel good about what I've done, real good (shh, listen to the purr.)

I couldn't resist posting a pic of the little old man (who was once a stray long long time ago) he is very content sleeping on his head like that

Dusty Waters: A Ghost Story is available in paperback through Amazon.com and as an E-book at Barnes and Noble for the Nook.

Last years debris and a flower of hope...

Leaf Lace, 4/24/2011

Collage, 4/24/2011

Debris, 4/24/2011

Leaf Lace, fragment, 4/24/2011

Overlap, 4/24/2011

Lace, 4/24/2011

Old Lace, 4/24/2011

Stone, cracked, 4/24/2011

 

A little bit of hope... 4/24/2011

We're in the midst of the 6th rainiest April on record, so it just seems bleak up here on our little acre of the world, but it isn't all that bad, just damp and the rain has been much more gentle than the bluster of last weekend that pulled off a dozen shingles from our roof...(have since been replaced by my Fred during one of the few breaks in the rain!)

I know when I see the little white violets pushing through last year's debris that spring is here at last...as much as I love the colts foot, daffodils, and squill, the violets with their sweet scent take me back to times when I was very young, picking fistfuls of these for my mom in the woods behind our house, it was literally a carpet of violets out there, and the smell of them was overwhelming...I spent happy days surrounded by violets so I was very happy to find them here when we moved in...

I'm still focusing my little point n' shoot camera at the debris of leaves and bits of weeds...the pale lacy remains have been beautiful finds...

I've been slowly working my way through Part 2 of Drinking from the Fishbowl, this seems to be in better shape than Part 1, as I recall, it didn't require as much work before...and I believe Part 3 is also going to be relatively easy...which naturally makes me suspicious, so I know I'll back track backwards through the chapters, going line by line, paragraph by paragraph before too long...as I should before I publish it...I'm hoping not to overtax myself like I did while working on The Fractured Hues of White Light and Dusty Waters I've learned so many lessons with those two, this should be easier...should be. You'd think. The self-doubt demons have been nibbling at me again...challenging me...saying mean things...just when I'm convinced that the book is truly awful, I pick it up to work on it and realize there's nothing wrong with it, it's fine, it has it's voice, it has a solid story, the characters have something to say...so I will continue with my leisurely pace, picking away at it, taking my time to make it right...

SHE'S HERE! Dusty Waters has a "sister"...

They are two peas from a pod, but as different as night and day...

I'm absolutely thrilled to have her at last! She arrived yesterday morning, and I've been spending some quiet time looking her over (in a sense counting all her fingers and toes.) It's just amazing holding this book in my hands, it's magical...yet oddly enough, I felt sad. Weird, but true. When I think about it a significant chunk of my life happened during the writing of this one book, paging through it and reading the story there's the baggage of the years, the joy, the frustrations, the agonizing, the relief. She might not be perfect...but she's here at last, and I'm pleased to share The Fractured Hues of White Light with you.

In a few days time, she'll be for sale through Amazon.com, but for now, my e-store at Createspace is up and running for sales...I currently have none in hand (just my precious little proof)...so I'll be stocking up a few copies for future giveaways... Oy vey, I'll have my little hands full getting the word out and getting her placed in various online venues during the next few days...

It's a beautiful thing.

Practice, Patience, Persistence...

Foggy out there...but clearing off...I'm on vacation this week and it would be nice to see the sun...I keep hearing these predictions that this year will be the year without summer...well, the way I see it...if it ain't snowing, it's summer...if it rains all summer, it's just wet...it fills my well, waters my garden. NOAA, the Farmer's Almanac, sunspots, global warming, the jet stream, volcano spew, El Nino, La Nina...whatever...weather is a crapshoot...shit happens.

I'm in the midst of making final edits of my novel The Fractured Hues of White Light...I'm looking to self-publish this book too...let's just say, I've lost confidence in the publishing industry, maybe they'll get their shit together, maybe not...it's tough to trust the consistency of agencies and editors when they can be cut loose at any time and your book can lose it's one and only advocate...so, I'm my one and only advocate (well, not really, I have my Fred too!) So Field Stone Press has happened...of course, I'm discovering that as a self-published writer, I'm shut out of many things because I'm not taken seriously...yet...

My becoming a writer has happened through practice, patience, and persistence...I don't expect to make millions of dollars doing it, but don't say I don't aim high, I do every day I sit down in front of my laptop and make things happen...some days I'm stunned by the things that I've created in spite of obstacles and frustrations...and the voices that say "You can't..." Well, I have...Dusty Waters is just the beginning...

Today I just made one small professional step by becoming an associate member of PEN American...it's part of getting "out there"...PEN is about freedom of expression...as a self-published writer, I'm all about that...

25 Random Things...quotations from my little ghost story DUSTY WATERS

Dusty Waters is now for sale through CreateSpace, my E-store address is:

https://www.createspace.com/3334912

Now...here's 25 Random Quotations from Dusty Waters...


1
vii
What did one ghost say to the other ghost? Do you believe in people?



2
Page 7

“What would make you feel safe?” he asked one night.

“A fire breathing dragon,” I replied. “Her name is Lucy.”

“A girl dragon?” he asked with curiosity as if a female dragon was unheard of in the realm of dragons.

“I’m a girl—why would I want a boy dragon?” I reasoned.

“I guess it would be icky, the boy dragon would have to look the other way whenever you changed into your jammies. Okay, where will she live—in your closet?”

"No—under my bed—she’ll also keep the dust kitties away—they make me sneeze."

"Oh, I see, she’ll be a double-duty dragon—bad dreams and dust kitties."



3
Page 11

A little bit at a time, I started to give a damn about things like a man named Nixon, the president of the United States of America. I pledged my allegiance to the flag of our country in school even though I had no idea what half of it meant because no one ever explained it—I just did it because the teacher expected me to follow without question. Being a little kid and fairly sheltered in a comfortable life, I had no reason to question the things expected of me. Democracy was still an abstract concept of freedom given to me in big word form, and Capitalism, unbeknownst to me, had everything to do with how many pennies it took for me to buy bubble gum at the corner store. Communists, nuclear bombs, and Vietnam were bad things in our world that the television reported with nightly regularity when I would much rather be watching Popeye kicking the tar out of Bluto to the tune of Columbia, Gem of the Ocean.



4
Page 16

Distinguished is an indistinguishable looking critter—blue, pear-shaped, and fuzzy with ping-pong balls for eyes and a pink plastic curler for a mouth; he’s an alien from a faraway planet of blue fuzzy critters. In spite of his startling appearance, he is a benign little guy, often confused by the world around him, but happy to be here.



5
Page 39

...the longer I stared up at the canopy with restive eyes, my imagination got the better of me; the canopy scared me because of that old movie Thirteen Ghosts. “Lucy, I’m scared,” I whispered.



6
Pages 48-49

I secretly went there to lie on my stomach with my arms flung open to embrace the earth; I’d press my face into the sun-warmed grass, loving its ancient being with its memory of the world carved by glaciers; a life that emerged from the rubble of time.



7
Page 53

“Wow, you live in the Witch’s house!” Dede blurted out. “It’s so creepy—how cool is that? Is it really haunted? Is it true that Phoebe Lamoureux hung herself in the attic?”



8
Page 61

“Engine, Engine Number Nine going down the Chicago Line, if the train should jump the track, do you want your money back?”



9
Page 81

“Easy there, Dede Sage, pull up your socks, I have no quarrel with you—I deserved the fat lip fair and square,”



10
Page 88


“Mommy, Mommy, the school is throwing up!”



11
Page 106-107

“I regret deeply any injuries that may have been done in the course of the events that led to this decision. I would say only that if some of my judgments were wrong, and some were wrong, they were made in what I believed at the time to be the best interest of the Nation.”—Richard M. Nixon, August 8, 1974



12
Page 138

Some little kids are like that, nigh indestructible, they can wipe out as bad as the Agony of Defeat Guy on ABC’s Wide World of Sports, and get up to go about their business like nothing happened except for the annoyance of a scrape or bruise.



13
Page 140

Why hadn’t they walked with her? Because, they said, Sandy wanted to stop at Mooney’s for candy. Why? Because she found a quarter on the playground. Why didn’t you go with her? Because we can’t walk downtown because we aren’t allowed to go there without our parents. Sandy should have known better because there’s no Safety Patrol on the corner of Broad and Church Streets because it’s dangerous.



14
Page 157

“Why do I see these things, why do I hear everything from the past—I can’t touch anything in this house and not have it talk to me or show me something—I need to understand why am I like this?”



15
Page 180

I hated to think that my relatives were a bunch of boring girls who did nothing but sit on their bustles, drinking tea, eating cake, darning socks, and popping out as many babies as humanly possible during their child bearing years.



16
Page 184
Tell me you wouldn’t do the same if you could stop the diabolical deed of choice from happening by hitching a ride with Dr. Who in the Tardis, traveling to the past to make a particular bad person go away. Okay, I’ll leave you with your pondering feet dangling from that metaphorical fence.



17
Page 187
What’s she gonna do, scare me? Yeah right, “BOO!” I ain’t scared of no ghost.



18
Page 207
Today has been one of those days in which I thought boredom might kill me; I don’t know why I feel this way, but sometimes I have this overwhelming urge to implode or something messy—



19
Page 217
“I think you need to go to the shut-the-fuck-up room,”



20
Page 260
"Everything’s wrong—what the fuck, I can’t even die right!"



21
Page 266

Tag, I’m it—he got me—now it’s my turn to be dumbfounded. Just because he’s dead, he ain’t stupid—I’m the smart-ass idiot, who suddenly thought she knew, but I didn’t, and I still don’t. He’s the one dead, yet more alive, I have unfortunately fallen into a natural progression of prejudice that occurs when there are differences between people—I’m alive, he’s dead; I’m tangible and he’s not. Just because I can’t touch him—or to be crass—can’t fuck him, it doesn’t make him less of a being without his human parts. “He ain’t nobody without no body,” you say? I beg to differ, especially after this day.



22
Page 292
“Don’t ever try to surprise me without asking ever again.”



23
Page 294

I definitely looked like some moldy leftover rock star that got forgotten at the back of the music industry fridge—I was a walkin’ freak show. “Hi, I’m sore thumb, nice to meet ya.”



24
Page 297
“Listen, honey—I know how hard it is being a girl on her own. I’ve disentangled myself from enough relationships with men to know what you’re going through. You feel guilty for leaving him because you’re afraid he can’t take care of himself, or he’s gonna kill himself, or find you and drag you back to the cave by your hair—whatever flavor your nightmare is, it will pass. Forget him—you need to take care of you. Trust me, one day will come you will look him in the eye and know in your heart you did the right thing leaving him.



25
Page 320
I looked up at the solitary white cloud in the blue sky—its shape shifting, a spirit from a puddle somewhere—or a ghost from a river—now a mysterious little goddess figure, and then a god, its existence shredded to pieces by the lack of faith of its followers.

So...what do you think so far???

Any questions, comments, giggles? Feedback is always helpful...

"Dusty Waters" a piece of work for our time

It's a ghost story, it's a love story, it's a story about family, it's a story about war, it's a story about a haunted house, it's a story about life and death, it's a story about one woman with a guitar and a bunch of things to say...

Dusty Waters is my novel, the fourth one that I ever written, I'll admit that I'm a bit proud of my upcoming self-publishing effort, and as I watch our nation's economy collapse and the message of hope in the electoral air of our nation, which sadly drums along with the anxiety of national disaster (I guess it depends who you're hoping for) I wanted to share with you something from my story about the folksinger that I've agonized over since 2001. This bit is from the end of Chapter 6: Family and Foreign Wars, she interjects this bit about apathy...it just seems appropriate, and why not start promoting what this little book is about...

There are people in our country who can’t figure out why so many people around the world hate America. At the age of six, I couldn’t comprehend why anyone would hate us, especially with Lady Liberty holding up her torch in the New York Harbor with her promise of freedom for the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses—but now that I’m all grown up—I can understand why. As I line up our presidents from my short history—Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, and then Junior Bush—there are people out there baffled by the animosity toward our country because they don’t want to believe the worst in others—especially the ones in charge. If there is a lesson to learn in all of this, it is important to know your history—all of it, not just the whitewashed parts that they tell you in school. Take the time to look up some of those important dates they expect you to memorize for college entrance exams. Read about what was going on at the time, not just the great achievements of great men, read about the injustices and the ignorance, read about the arts—there’s a lot of history in those paintings hanging in the Louvre, the monuments in Rome, even the pyramids in Egypt. Read literature, especially guys like Shakespeare, he can tell you a thing or two if you use your head and think about what he’s saying—read between the lines. It is important to read what’s out there—it is food for the mind. If you happen to read the Bible from cover to cover, don’t accept it as gospel, and please don’t take it literally. Always keep in mind that it has been translated from a few ancient languages before English. Keep in mind who did the translation, and investigate who has been implementing the word of God and what political agenda inspired them. The Bible offers a written backbone for the things that are happening now, don’t view it as a prophesy of things to come—history has a bad habit of repeating itself—politicians and nations with special interests have manipulated an entire region, trying to mold it into something it will never be. Between you, me, and the post at Coogee Beach that some might say looks like the Virgin Mary in the right light, history tends to repeat itself, just like some people like to tell the same fucking story over and over and over again—and I’ve heard this story all before, only this time we are Rome. Be sensible, don’t let yourself be spoon-fed rhetoric, pick up a newspaper, watch the news—the journalists are documenting the present for history later. Please, for your sake, arm yourself with knowledge—there is no bliss in ignorance. Apathy is the overrated protection of that rock you’re hiding under—your apathy is a crime against yourself, and it is a crime against society.

We are Rome...read your history.

About the book:

DUSTY WATERS (THERE IS NO DEATH, THERE ARE NO DEAD)

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

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.

But there is one thing that will not be mentioned in her biography, 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 new 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. The family of Emmett James 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.