Laura’s Comments (group member since Jun 16, 2010)

Laura’s comments from the Q&A with Laura J. W. Ryan group.

I finally got it done and it went live today - yay, I guess.

To celebrate one year since my little-big book's release as a paperback original, I have released The Fractured Hues of White Light as an e-book on Barnes & Nobles Nook.

I've been pretty happy with the Nook and Pubit experience with my first novel Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story, and it makes my novels more affordable to readers interested in what I do. I like to think that readers come to my writing because they are looking for something different, something unexpected, and to make this novel available for the Nook will make it accessible to new readers looking for something new and different - this is a happy day...

The complex relationships in this novel evolved through time, the ties that bind through an overlapping history... the book took a long time to write, much of it came into being during the rough draft that formed during the first year, but time and experience offered up insights that I would have missed if I didn't take the time to go deeper, or ignored them...the first line that I'm going to give you here was produced only last year in November...probably on a dark and stormy night with the wind howling, making our old farmhouse creak...or a bleak gray day that had the smell of snow on the wind...

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From Chapter 7, pages 162-164

“I will die in November — it’s as good a time to do it as any, I guess — why not, eh? Everything else is dying — I’ll just be one more thing.” Whitley blurted out while we watched the golden October sunset over the salt marshes — Sylvester was driving my father’s Caddy; Whitley and I sat in the backseat, enjoying the view. The conversations with my father during the weeks before his death always had grim tidbits like this, punctuated with a wink to take the edge off. Often our talks were threaded with memories of Lenore and Guthrie; these reminisces grew like seeds sown in a freshly turned garden of composted grief. “I loved them both, you know — I knew what was goin’ on and it devastated me inside when I first figured it out. If Lenore wanted to leave me for Guthrie, I would have let her go — it would have been right. But they would have wanted you — I would have never let them take you away from me — you were mine — my daughter — I love you with all my heart and soul.” After his tender words, he then shook his head. “What kind of father am I? I have never forgiven myself for how I treated Guthrie — I kicked him out during a time when we needed to heal as a family — but I was too proud — too angry — too hurt. I loved that boy and I turned my back on him.” He then leaned on me and cried; it felt so odd that I could ever be a source of comfort to him — for the first time in my life, I felt stronger than my father.

On the day before he died, Whitley charged me with the task to find Guthrie. “I could never face him — I’m a coward — that’s hard for me to admit, you know,” he said with a gleam in his fading eyes. “Once I’m gone — you’re going to need him. He’s still living at Margie’s house in Cleveland — Pinkerton knows where to find him.” I didn’t know for sure if he’d come.

On that day after the funeral, Guthrie and I took the long chilly walk during low tide from the beach to Salt Island; we were silent most of the time, but it was our sunset return along the narrow sand bar that he reiterated his disappointment that he wasn’t my father. “When you were born, I wanted to believe that I was your father because it was the only way — in my mind — the only way that I could conceivably express my love for you.” I listened to him reason this out, and I felt sorry for him — the enormity of the letdown seemed to crush him. Then he went on to explain that my resemblance to Lenore is complicating his former paternal feelings; the weighty tokens of my being there, every gesture I made reminded him of her too much, and he said that he feels revolted by his thoughts. I persisted with a steady stream of how come questions, which he evaded by making dumb jokes or lighting a smoke. I poked at him until he finally growled his answer. “Jeezus K. Ryst, girl, you don’t give up do you? You’re a pain-in-the-ass just like your mother — okay, I’ll tell you how come — it’s just wrong, that’s how come!”

His mustache failed to hide his angry mouth; I remained silent, waiting — what next?

“I’m sorry for barking at you, Buttons,” he muttered after awhile. “I should have come home a long time ago.” His entire face squinted against his emotions as he sent the words adrift into the November wind filled with ocean spray as the tide began to make its return to the beach. We laughed when our feet received a soaking during the last twenty feet of our trek on the sand bar. We’ve always cut it close — pushing our luck — Lenore always warned us “One of these days, you’ll be stranded out there until the tide goes out again — I’ll kill you if she gets poison ivy because you sent her to pee in the weeds!” It never happened, but once he had me climb up onto his shoulders as he waded back, falling down twice because the undertow tried to suck him out to sea. I never doubted for a second that he wouldn’t get me home safe that day — I held on tight just like he told me to — we only lost one of my flip-flops, no big deal.

Once we reached higher ground, Guthrie turned back to look at where we had been, the waves now nearly covering what remained of our path to the island. “But I suppose it was just as well that I stayed away,” he said to finish his thought.

Although he said nothing more, I could tell by the cast of his brow that he thought a lot. To comfort him, I hugged him as hard as I could — he sagged as he clutched me to his chest, and it seemed as if he, like Whitley, had also lost his strength. My image of him as Atlas withered in the pale twilight beach — he is just a man, not a myth. He appeared far from perfect on that sullen afternoon with a gray sky, gray ocean, and his gray hair — but he was my Guthrie; he has come home to me at last and I will not part with him ever again.

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It's always a mystery to me how my characters develop and then have the audacity to do the things they do or say the things they say... goodness knows I feared that I bit off more than I could chew with this...the ghosts of the past haunt these people, they are conjoined through layers of relationships: Guthrie's relationship with his stepfather, Whitley; Guthrie's affair with Whitley's young wife, Lenore; Whitley's paternal feelings for his children (Guthrie, Helena and Samantha). Guthrie's feelings for Samantha, as a child, and then how they changed when he returns to her life, no longer a child, but as a grown woman. Samantha's feelings for Whitley, her mother, Lenore; and Guthrie, who she didn't see as a brother or a father, but as a friend who came home to stay now and then. And then there is Sylvester and Helena in the mix...there is so much...perhaps too much...but just when I begin to doubt myself, I read it again and know I've done a good thing telling this story as written.

Writing this book was difficult...it was probably one of my happiest times.

This book is like a cat. It was clear to me while I was writing the book about Samantha Ryder’s story that this one has a distinct personality — she’s from the same litter, but her own cat, independent to the letter. She's not going to fit into anyone's lap easily... she might have soft and fuzzy places, but she has claws and teeth. Yes, she's a cat. I knew the novel isn’t going to be suited to everybody’s taste (some people love cats, some hate cats), she isn't mainstream fiction, she's literary fiction... she isn't romance, but she's a love story...she's a story about a young woman with autism, but she's not a textbook case about a young woman with autism. She's a book about life and family, who we love, why we love them, how we love them... it's about the emotional inner-scape of the human experience, and how even the "normal" people are just as incapable of expressing their feelings as the young woman afflicted with autism. Every reader approaches a book with their biases and expectations based on their personal experience — what they like and don’t like, what they’re comfortable with, and what makes them squirm. The Fractured Hues of White Light is one of those squirmy books because it’s psychological. As a writer, I have understood that books are a subjective business, and at times very polarizing — readers either passionately love a book or they passionately hate it — the reactions are as black and white as the type on the page. Something one might feel is ‘overworked’ might resonate perfectly fine with someone else, depending on what they’re used to reading. Some readers have issues with harsh language and adult situations, while some accept the reality of the character's lives within the story. The novel has an autistic/OCD sensibility that although was intended while I went through the process of writing her, she has also surprised me for effectively causing ‘trouble’ as I’ve received interesting points of view from readers and writers, which I welcome willingly as part of doing business as an author. I believe I did the right thing writing the book this way...I trust the reader to interpret what I’ve done as they see fit...it is what it is, it's just a story. Samantha Ryder, the little picture that isn’t hung quite right...off kilter just enough to ruin the image of a pretty young woman. If she were picture perfect, it would not only be too easy to write, but she would be wrong — there would be no story to tell.

One of the things that I love about this book is its sense of humor. It has its own comedic timing that feels natural, it can be silly or wry, the dark humor can be grim, but the light humor has it’s turn too, it’s very human to relieve stress with humor or to read the absurd in the mix of the solemn. While I was writing this book, it was often a mystery about what was going to happen next, but it flowed along from scene to scene (not necessarily in order) without a snag. While in the thick of it, I’d catch myself and laugh because just when things were getting a little too serious and a bit uncomfortable, a character (usually Sammy, but sometimes Guthrie) does something, sees something, says something that cuts the tension... for example, Samantha’s first dinner with Preston... keep in mind, she is a 28 year old, high functioning autistic woman, and in spite of her fixed routines and training to overcome her disability, she has segues that are just part of her being ‘Samantha’, they might be considered distracting and annoying, but life does that, you know? It’s part of ‘shit happening’, it isn’t in neat compartments, this happened and then that happened, and it all went perfectly well... or perfectly bad... in life you take the good with the bad and make the best of the worst situations. Samantha Ryder has her way of dealing with her stress that most people wouldn’t do (even tho’ we sometimes wish we could.) In this excerpt from pages 12-14 this is a set up for things to come, things that happen under the table do come back later (I promise). Thank you for stopping by, I will leave you with this...

Preston didn’t want to commission anything, he wanted to see me, and he even brought flowers. Although it was a very nice gesture, I didn’t feel right about accepting them; I thought it was weird that he gave me a dozen red roses because he doesn’t know me that well. Helena made a bigger fuss over them as if to make up for my lack of enthusiasm.

Helena and Sylvester joined us for dinner as per our normal routine. My sister kicked me under the table a few times to remind me that I have company to attend to, which only made me withdraw from him more. Sylvester sat opposite her, engaging me in a kitty-corner conversation; I suspected that my oldest, dearest friend was being protective of me, and a wee bit sympathetic.

“We must make sure to compliment Carrie—this chicken is delicious,” Sylvester said, drawing my attention toward his voice. I stared at his slender hands with their long fingers; I have drawn them millions of times over the years, and I longed to draw them now, but I am not allowed to have my sketchbook at the table during mealtime—I tend to spill stuff when I do. So, I traced their shape with my gaze, while lightly nodding in agreement with his remark about the dinner that I barely tasted.

Helena poked me with her toe again, so I shifted my eyes toward Preston and held his hands in my gaze to get to know them. They are large hands, well-manicured, soft, businessman hands; the palms appeared sweaty. I barely said two words to him that evening; I was too preoccupied with being good, and Helena’s constant henpecking wasn’t helping my state of mind. I wanted to get away—I wanted to go lie down.

The lying down idea infested my brain for about five minutes, and then I thought how nice it would feel to crawl underneath the massive structure of the dinner table. When I was little, I spent a lot of time under there; I would sit communing with knees and feet, using a pencil stump concealed in my pocket to scribble on the underside of the tabletop. If they were on display in a pair of khaki shorts, Sylvester’s doorknob kneecaps, muscular calves, and bony, hairy shins would amuse me; I would tickle him as my finger stroked against the hair and with the hair, up and down that straight, narrow ridge of bone and flesh. Sometimes I would lay my head in his lap, and close my eyes. But I haven’t done this in many years—I think I was twelve or thirteen on the last occurrence, and I haven’t felt compelled to do it again, until now. Without a second thought, I did this impulsive thing. I certainly shook up the evening once I slid out of my chair; the last thing I saw as I dipped below the horizon was Preston’s startled expression. “Oh, my God is she all right?” he cried as he leapt to his feet, scraping back the chair, nearly tipping it over. “It’s okay—she’s right here,” Sylvester assured everyone as his hand gently caressed my tired head resting between his startled thighs. “She’s just tired, right, dear heart?” Sylvester inquired of me, and then I began purring deep in my throat to express my contentment; I wiggled the stubby pencil out of my pocket and began to work on a new design directly below his dinner plate.

I maintain a healthy attitude about the reader review process here at Goodreads, and respect a reader's opinion. I appreciate my book being read... and I appreciate the evaluation of the reader, even when the book isn't their cup o' tea...

Over the years that I've been writing and submitting queries to agents and trying to get published, I've learned that the book world is a very subjective business... people either love your book or they don't... or they're middle of the road about it because that's how they are about everything.

How does one know if this book, "The Fractured Hues of White Light" is their cup o' tea or not? "The Fractured Hues of White Light" is literary fiction, it is not a mainstream type of book, it has a harsh reality to it that I know isn't to everyone's liking, and I will not pull punches when I write. I recommend that interested readers first check out the Freado icon on my blog, Upstate Girl, http://upstategirl-laurajwryan.blogsp..., the first 42 pages can be read for free... and the "Look Inside" feature at Amazon.com, allows you to leaf through it, read random pages, if you can dig it, get it, if you don't dig it... what can I say? I can't please everyone. There are extremes in opinion in most everything in the creative venue of books, and unfortunately, not everyone is going to like what a writer writes and some are not afraid to express their dislike... some can be nasty about it and try to tell the writer how to write their book to suit them, or rip 'em a new one and wish for the hours in their life that they spent struggling to read it...while some can be articulate about their opinions and express their disappointment with the writing style with constructive grace that isn't meant to demoralize the writer or ruin their career... it's clear that it's only an opinion. It's business. With that said, I greatly appreciate readers interest in reading my books, and I do appreciate and respect their opinions.

Thank you for reading me.

Today is the last day for my giveaway...but not the last giveaway ever, I'll start another one up soon just because I want my book to get into the hands of readers...it's about the book, not the money. I'm in the "red", but my books are being "read" and that's more important to me. (I'm not going to quit my day job any time soon.)

I do have a book signing coming up on Saturday, August 7th at The Gallery where my Fred and I hang our artwork in Liverpool NY, if you're in the CNY area, stop by and say 'hi', if I have enough peeps lingering around enjoying themselves in our little gallery, I just might do a reading at 3PM...

This little bit that I'm posting this morning is just a little bit... after reading through Sylvester's thoughts in Chapter 3, the beginning of Chapter 4 returns to Samantha's point of view, her thoughts about Sylvester and how she sees him, and what he means to her...

***

Poor, sad, Sylvester, I wish he could be happier! I hated to leave him like this, but I have no choice — I must go home. With one last glance over my shoulder, I witnessed the tormented image of him lying on his back staring at the ceiling with his head pillowed on one wiry arm stretched up behind his head. His skin lightly tanned by this past summer’s sun, except for the hollow of his open armpit that remained pale from being unexposed. For a moment, my eyes remained transfixed with fascination on this spot with its raw thatch of brown hair fanned out like a natural cluster of marram grass growing in a protected contour of a sand dune — this is beautiful to me. This is just one small place on his body that I love to study, my mind breaking it down to its simplified shapes, then examining the way light and shadow drapes over his skin creating delicate shifts of color. It’s my special way of seeing, I could look at him all day — and then draw all night the things that I have seen — precious flesh, fascinating bones — he’s just a man, but so much more — structure and spirit — the things about him that I love.

***

I can cry now, right?

Hi, I'm back, I had my laptop crash last week, so I was a little preoccupied with getting that fixed, buying a new Dell Mini for a back up (I love it) and loading software and uploading backed up files...then getting back my old laptop fixed with all data recovered (YAY!) and reloading software...you know the drill...life was turned upside down because of a glitch in my technology, gotta love it...so here I am, back with another reading from the book...

This time I want to dip into Sylvester's side of the story, how he came to be in Samantha's life...it's just the tip of the iceberg, I had a heck of a time settling on this one little bit to share with you today...this is from Chapter 3, pages 64-66, enjoy!

***

I fell in love with Helena when I spotted her on the commuter train — she didn’t know I existed, but her father did — he was looking for a new tenant, and I told him that I was interested. When I signed the lease to rent the carriage house from Whitley Ryder, I had no idea what I was getting into — I hadn’t anticipated the years of commitment. My initial plan was to work on my doctorate in the peace and quiet of Gloucester; it was the ideal location, close enough to Boston, but far enough away from the city’s distractions. It was perfectly far enough away from my father’s house in Deer Isle, Maine, but close enough if I needed to go home.

Whitley and I began our affable relationship during our morning commute on the 110 to the North Station. The initial icebreaker that bound us was an ongoing discussion about art because I noticed that he spent the entire train ride drawing in a small sketchbook. I always carried one too, but I never made a mark in it. I lost count of how many times I pulled it out of my backpack with the intention to do something, but once faced with the blank sheet, I couldn’t think of a single thing I wanted to draw. When I mentioned this to him, he shook his pencil at me and spoke with a low chuckle.

“Anybody can draw, but it’s up to you to begin drawing. Don’t get hung up on fucking it up. Make a mark a day — don’t dwell on making something that looks like something — that comes with practice. Listen, it doesn’t have to be of anything more than getting to know how to use the pencil — but if something comes from it, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” It was inspiring advice coming from an old sage, but I still had a blank sketchbook in spite of his encouragement.

My arrival next door to the Ryder family overlapped with the desperate three days that the community spent searching for Whitley’s lost wife, Lenore. Of course, the transaction to rent the carriage house happened well before his wife went missing — I had no idea what was going on until the detective knocked on the door and grilled me for about ten minutes. Whitley had told me more than once during our conversations that his wife meant the world to him. He referred to the three women in his life as my girls, Lenore, Helena, and Samantha — they were his world. I had hoped that they’d find her alive, but when I awoke on that gray dawn to the sound of sirens on the ocean breeze, I knew they had found her. I couldn’t imagine his grief — yet I could. Standing on the fringe of the Ryder family tragedy, my grief from losing my mother last fall was still too fresh — too bitter — I relived the crushing blow of losing her all over again.

It was several weeks after his wife’s death before I saw Whitley again — I was glad to see him admiring my rusting ‘69 Fiat Spider in the driveway one morning — shaking his head and grinning — “I always like black cars — this one is a real honey — ” he laughed. “The salt water air is always tough on a car — we can work on that body, and make ‘er shine again.”

Our love for old cars soon occupied our free time, we tinkered with them for hours in the garage — his was a sleek, red ‘59 Cadillac Deville convertible. We’d work in compatible quiet, tuned in to the Boston Red Sox games as they played their ballpark drama on the radio, which became a topic of vehement frustration, especially in the midst of play-off season. It was amusing to watch Whitley destroy a hapless radio with the accessible variety of projectiles as if it were at fault for foiling the team’s chances to win the pennant. His colorful verbal abuse and clever directions for sending the team to Hell would cause me to drop onto the oily concrete, rolling in a fit of hysterical laughter — I don’t think I ever laughed so hard in my life, it was intoxicating.

Then, there was also our seasonal obsession with fly-fishing, which I never did before until Whitley persuaded me to join him on select mornings at his favorite trout stream. I spent several blissful hours of silence with water swirling around my legs encased in sloppy waders cinched up like old man pants with suspenders; the sound of the water filled my ears with hypnotic peace. I rarely caught anything, but that didn’t matter — the peace mattered, and it seemed like Whitley felt the same way. Strange as it may sound, catching a fish destroyed that peace — the exhilaration of success completely spoiled the serene atmosphere of the day; we’d drive away from the stream, moody like a couple of grumpy bears awakened from hibernation.

For the duration of this exclusive time of centered musing, I told myself it was okay that Helena didn’t give two shits about me — I knew that she would never give me a thought because I was just a spectacled, rangy, nerdy guy with a heavy Down East accent, and monk-like habits. Chances are she probably thought I was queer — I can always concoct the worst-case scenario perception of me — but there in the middle of the stream none of it mattered. Going home always dismantled the relaxing meditations — my state of misery was never far away, because by dinnertime she’d be there, and usually pouting about some slight or complaining about Samantha driving her nuts. The girl never seemed happy — I longed to make her happy. But in spite of my efforts to appease her, Helena tolerated me with the jealous attitude of a spoiled girl who felt ignored by her father; the forced pleasantries of her less than personable manner stung my faithful heart that loved her from afar.

***

Sylvester is a bit of a character isn't he? When I first created him, he started off as just the boyfriend attachment to Samantha's half-sister, Helena, but one night while I was clicking away on my laptop (yes, the very same one that gave me the Blue Screen of Death last week), he grew and became this complex man with a heart of gold and human flaws to match. He's not perfect in any way, but he's a steady force in Samantha's life that she relies on.

Writing is such a mysterious process at times, I often become surprised by things that I never planned for...it's just part of the fun.

After much internal debate, I’ve selected a small piece from Chapter 3 tonight for the reading… here’s the set up of the scene: Samantha’s mother Lenore has just been found dead, and six-year-old Samantha is emotionally displaced by this, has not spoken since her mother’s disappearance three days ago. Feeling bad, she’s taken refuge with Sylvester Hayden, a young man who just moved into the carriage house that her father rents out to graduate students from the university... this is their first meeting, and is the foundation of their long friendship.

From pages 50-53

When Sylvester Hayden finally noticed me by the maple tree watching him, we regarded each other with the perfect pitch of silence. But it seemed my presence unnerved him; his shoulders shuddered as if he felt chilled in the balmy June air. I stepped through a gap in the hedge made by the maple tree and stood in front of him, staring.

“Hello,” he said, crouching to my level. “You must be Samantha — your father mentioned he had a little girl — I’m sorry to hear about what happened to your mother,” he said with a solemn frown, his gray-blue eyes looked serious behind their wire-rimmed glasses. It was apparent by his reaction that my lack of emotion puzzled him, so I took my fingers out of my mouth and quietly thanked him for his kind sympathy; these were the first words I’ve said in days — he has no idea what he’s done for me.

“I know — I do know how you feel — I just lost my mother too.” He spoke with a discernible tightness in his throat that resonated with genuine emotion. “Last fall — it happened,” he awkwardly added; his emphasis on the word “it” made it heavier than the two letters that this small word is comprised of. It fascinated me to see how his face expressed his feelings without saying “I’m sad” out loud; I wanted to draw his grief.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, wondering what had happened to his mother — had she been kidnapped, tied up, repeatedly raped, and then choked to death too — is “it” that common?

“That’s okay, thank you,” he replied.

“I want to draw your picture,” I said as I plopped down onto the cradle of thick tree roots in the shade underneath the great maple tree, opened my sketchbook to a blank page. As he digested my request, his face made a spectrum of expressions, and then with a modest shrug and a smile, he agreed to allow me to do this.

“What do you want me to do for a pose?” he asked with polite curiosity.

“Just sit down and read your book,” I instructed, pointing with the end of my pencil at the old Adirondack chair where I have spied on him enjoying the old maple tree’s shade from my window; a thick, yellow hardcover book lay on the seat where he must’ve left it when he answered the door earlier. The tree’s broad trunk and gnarled roots straddled our conjoined yards, breaking the thick hedge in two, and its low-slung leafy branches offered a shady place for reading without the sunshine’s blinding reflection off the white pages. With a curious tip of his head and a quick nod, he did as I suggested, and settled into the weather beaten chair.

So, we sat in compatible silence — he reading and I drawing. From time to time, I could sense him watching me over the top of the book entitled Wonderland, but I never actually caught him looking; his face appeared relaxed behind his spectacles, his eyes as if intent on their task of visualizing the writer’s word pictures. He was quiet; I liked it that he was so quiet (most adults always feel the need to talk) — even his motions while turning the pages were hushed. This is what I really needed — he asked nothing of me, and he didn’t seem to mind my being there.

“I’m done,” I announced, feeling sorry to end our peaceful communion. He shook himself as if waking from dozing off, and he leaned forward to see my drawing. “Oh-my-god, Samantha — look at what you can do!” he exclaimed with the typical adult disbelief that I’ve confronted before. I felt funny — I always feel funny when people notice me, and notice what I can do.

“It’s just what I do,” I said with a shrug as if to explain this thing I cannot explain — this talent that sets me apart from other children. “I’m not showing off,” I added to reassure him that I was not committing the crime that annoyed the other children in school. “You’re such a show-off,” they have sneered at me throughout my time spent in kindergarten. The meaner ones take away my pictures and ruin them if the teacher isn’t watching. I want to cry, but I don’t, and for some reason that seems to make them madder at me. Some kids will hit me because I won’t cry, but when I hit back, I’m bad, and then I get into trouble. Whenever I got into trouble at school, Lenore always had to come get me because of my wretchedness — but she’s dead — so, Whitley will have to come get me — someone will have to. I stared at Sylvester Hayden while waiting for further reaction from him; he stared back at me through his wire-rimmed glasses, and it seemed like his sensitive face perceived all that I felt without my saying a word.

“I don’t think you’re showing off — you have a rare talent — a gift — your father must be very proud,” he said softly after some thought; the awe in his voice seemed to choke the breath out of his words. “Oh-my-god, what he must be going through right now — I wasn’t thinking — does he know where you are?”

I shrugged in reply. “Was she pretty?” I asked.

“Who?” he asked, mystified by my question; I have changed subjects on him again — like I do to everyone — it’s as if I had thumbed the radio dial to another station without letting him know — Guthrie says it drives him bat shit when I do that.

“Your mother.”

“Yes, she was very pretty,” he answered with a smile. I watched his face make this smile, his eyes crinkled in the corners as if the happy memory of his mother’s beauty lit up something inside him — a happy memory — I’ll remember this expression and will draw it later, and I’d make the drawing blue. Yes, I do remember thinking his emotions were made from a blue light.

“My mommy was very pretty too.” I turned to a page in my sketchbook to my last memory of her alive, and I let him hold her image in his hands to view her.

“You look just like your mommy — tho’ you do have a little bit of your father around the eyes,” he said softly, returning my sketchbook to me. I stared at him — no one had ever said that to me before — nobody ever noticed seeing Whitley around my eyes before.

***

Sylvester's seeing "Whitley around her eyes" immediately sets him apart from most of Samantha's acquaintances, he is able to see something about her that is not Lenore and not having to do with her being autistic. He accepts her as who she is, and she fixates on that quality about him.

The loss of their mothers is also an important sympathetic link between them (which is also a link with Guthrie and Helena, who have also lost their mother's during their formative years.) During the writing of the book, I never consciously planned it to be a theme of any sort, it just happened that way... when I first noticed it after the fact (the first draft of the manuscript finished and I was doing my first editorial pass through it) I was slightly taken aback by what I called the "Bambi" syndrome, so in future drafts I used the link between the four main characters to add to what drives them. Sylvester's stargazing, Guthrie's childhood memories, Helena's bitterness, Samantha's desire to be seen as an individual, not a clone of her mother.

Where do characters come from?

Well...before the novel The Fractured Hues of White Light was a twinkle in my eye, there was a character with no name...she came from no one I ever knew... she's autistic, I've never met anyone who is severely autistic, (I've known some Asperger-like people), but I first "met" the idea of her when I was taking a Child Psychology class in college (I was a Studio Art major at Cazenovia College 1980-1982) and I wrote a paper about autism. The mysterious condition interested me very much on a personal level that inspired me to write about it beyond that class paper. I was also taking a creative writing class that semester and I wrote a poem based on the ideas that came to me while I pieced together my paper (the poem was included in the paper, and the prof loved it! She never had a student include a poem in a paper before.) The notion of color and emotions, art theory and art history, savants and autism continued to gather in my mind for years...I always knew I'd do something with it someday...ten years ago I started writing these things down for the first time, and this young autistic woman with dark button eyes came into being as if she was always there, her stream-of-consciousness drawings and peculiar ways were almost second nature to me as if I have always known her...she could be me in some form since she's been with me for so long, but I'd like to think of her as her own character, created over time...no different from any other idea that inspires me to write books or paint pictures.

Characters are interesting people, I prefer to make them from scratch, I cherry pick traits, personalities, appearances, quirks, whatever...they grow with the story, and very often surprise me with their secrets that I never knew they had (I love it when that happens!) It’s always awkward when someone who knows me well reads one of my books and then starts quizzing me about who this character is supposed to be...that really drives me nuts. It’s not that simple. Once I was terribly annoyed by a friend who assumed that a certain character was about her (well, everything was about her, don't you know), and she was annoyed with me that she didn't like the name I picked out for 'her character' in my book. The good news is, the character was not based on her in that "changed the name to protect the innocent" sort of thing, and too bad she doesn't like the name, I do. And of course, everyone assumes that the author is writing about themselves through the main character... ugh, whatever... I'll never win that battle if I ever start it with anyone who wants to debate it, people will think what they want. It's sometimes difficult for people to distinguish the voice of the author telling the story and the author as a person...it's a fine line authors walk on their written words ("if it's written down, it must be true" mode of thinking that makes non-fiction so popular, it gets us into trouble every time.) The "write what you know" model can be a bit hinky because of potential problems with veiled truths. Frankly, I avoid making a character out of anyone or sticking too close to the facts of anything that really happened (unless it’s a historical fact, but as you know about history, it's written by the winners.) I put on the hip-boots wade in, and try to tell as many lies as possible...stray as far from the truth as I know it and then I make it believable. Everything I write is a flat out lie... I made it up...cross my heart...it's fiction.

All of my books are connected through the characters...Guthrie Ryder has made an appearance in two other novels (yet to be published), this one he came into his own bigger and better than I ever imagined. Then Sylvester Hayden, who initially started in one small role as Helena’s live in boyfriend, grew well beyond my expectations when I first thought of him. He also has a very small part in one other manuscript, but his connection with Aloysius Farnesworth as his son blew me away when it came into being one day (one of those “happy accidents”.) Of course, Aloysius has his own story in the works, but has appeared in some form in all five of my books, and has recently found his way into the sixth. It’s quite the juggling act to keep the details and timeline on the same page...it gives the sense of continuity "life goes on after the novel". It makes it a more interesting...richer...reading experience to develop a community of characters who have shared experiences and have influenced one another in various ways...it’s what people do.

I thought I'd put up a little bit more...sorry I haven't posted much lately, I just worked my way through the process of an opening at a gallery (it was a lovely time and quite a successful adventure, I sold a small painting! Yay!!)

Chapter 1 pages 17-20...

It is because of autism that I have a special talent — a gift. I can draw or paint anything — precisely copy anything in perfect detail; it gives me peace to do it. When I was four years old, I was playing in Whitley’s studio with scraps of tempered hardboard that he had let me have; he even applied a layer of gesso on them and sanded them to a smooth finish. Using the tubes of paint he left out for me to practice mixing colors, I copied the Mona Lisa from a book I had found in one of Guthrie’s dusty college boxes—it was my favorite book, and I imagined I could make the pictures I liked for my room. When Whitley came home from school, I held up my 10 x 8 inch duplication of the Mona Lisa for his inspection, it sent him into such ecstasies that it made me laugh — which was a rare sound for me to make aloud — though I do giggle inside my head a great deal. When the aging abstract expressionist painter showed the little painting to his young wife, he told her that he felt that this talent of mine could cause “quite a stir” — “an attraction”.

Lenore’s eyes sparked with disapproval when she turned upon him, and he cringed, bracing for the words he knew she wasn’t afraid to use.

“You oughta be ashamed of yourself to suggest exploiting her talent—you shouldn’t encourage her to copy other people’s work. Her own drawings are special—we should be nurturing those instead.”

However, in spite of her protest, I was eager to please Whitley, and went on to copy everything out of the art history text precisely as I perceived it. If the pictures were in color, I matched the hues; if they were in black and white, I matched the tones, I copied everything exactly — precise-precise-precise and perfect — picture perfect. My defiance and Whitley’s enthusiasm made Lenore very angry, so I stopped copying from the book and went back to my sketchbook scribbles that meant nothing to anyone but me — scribbles that would never cause “quite a stir” or become “an attraction”. I drew everything and anything — faces, hands, feet, or designs that my pencil’s continuous flowing line created—random rhythms depicting the peace and quiet that the act of drawing generated for my overactive mind; serenity and focus rippled and swirled in the blackest blacks and the palest tints of graphite fading into white paper.

Once Lenore was dead, she no longer stood in the way of my father’s craving for attention by living vicariously through my success. In his long life, he had two claims to fame that he felt quite proud of; he had been acquainted with Jackson Pollock, and he is a shirttail relation twice removed to Albert Pinkham Ryder. These two notable bits of background, along with his artwork and years of teaching, barely got him in the door of galleries — so, he exploited my talent and we made lots of money — LOTS of money — more than he ever believed possible.

My talent became a quirky novelty for the world to enjoy. People came to talk to us — Whitley Ryder and his child prodigy. These visitors would bring me photographs, pictures cut out of magazines or books, they would hover over me, pleading — “Can you paint this for me, Samantha?” Of course, I could, I can paint anything I want, and I could do it quickly. I can do Hieronymus Bosch’s, The Garden of Earthly Delights in two weeks. The entire ceiling of the Sistine Chapel takes about two months of eight-hour days because there’s a lot of stuff in it; the last complete one I made was only 12 x 22 inches. I make each repeat copy smaller than the last, just so I’m not painting the same image exactly the same — I like to have some variety in my work — or at least a challenge. The Mona Lisa is the most popular, and my latest copy of her is 3 ¾ high by 2 ½ inches wide. Whitley says that I’m really splitting hairs by asking him to cut panels to such small denominations; it really pisses him off when I request something at a sixteenth of an inch.

As the word about my miracle talent spread, different people began to come to talk to me, to interview me for the newspaper, magazines, and then television. I would paint for them, my brush dancing across a canvas in deft strokes, my eyes clear, so focused, mixing paint, matching the flesh tone of the blush on a woman’s cheek, or the hint of a man’s five o’clock shadow on his chin. They’d talk to Whitley because I would be too shy to engage them in conversation — I couldn’t even look at them; I feared them calling me names like retard; the worst one is idiot savant. “I’m autistic, but not THAT autistic!” I had shrieked at the offending visitor, who had also talked around me as if she thought I was deaf. I really just want to be left alone so I can work. Why must these people see me? There is nothing to see.

At the same time that museum curators pooh-poohed my talent, the world embraced it; I was the Gloucester, Massachusetts human-interest story that suddenly became a national treasure — or something like that. Will and Marie of the Kramer Gallery in Boston have handled my work for many years. They always say that no one walks away dissatisfied — although one woman did. She was an eminent pain in the ass; everyone knew that nothing anyone ever did could satisfy her, so I made Whitley give her back the money — that in itself made her happy. We later sold the miniature of Van Gogh’s Starry Night to someone else who appreciated it.

Through the years, I have painted steadily every day; always busy fulfilling another commission that regimented my life from dawn to dusk. When it became clear to me that I could only paint what everyone else wanted, I felt sad. If I ever wanted to paint anything of my own, I don’t remember what it was — it was so long ago. When I try to remember what I wanted to paint, I end up remembering people and the events surrounding those people — Whitley, Lenore, Guthrie, Helena, Sylvester, and now Preston — I have filled my sketchbooks with them, and doodles of nonsense marks, lines going nowhere, shadows cast by white light illuminating nothing. Today I want to draw hands, but I can’t because it is my wedding day — the house is full of guests who want to toast the bride and groom — which means I have to go back downstairs.

For Father’s Day I’ll talk about Samantha’s father, Whitley Ryder...

From Chapter 1, pages 4-5:

To this day I still laugh at my misinterpretation when the doctor diagnosed me as autistic — I thought he said “artistic” — so I laughed and cried out, “I draw just like my Daddy!” But no one laughed with me; my mother cried, my father became indignant, and the doctor defensive. As my gaze rolled over the adult reactions — their faces so grim, not funny — I became confused because I didn’t know what they were talking about — about me, so serious — and decided that I needed to adjust my response to reflect theirs— I need to be quiet—be seen not heard. With a cartoon character’s flair for the dramatic, I mimed turning the key to my lips and flipping it over my shoulder just like Guthrie had taught me at Christmastime. Then my pencil went about the business of drawing — after all, I am artistic. But little picture’s have ears — and my eyes didn’t miss a thing, especially the emotions that sparkled in my mother’s tear-filled eyes. My fixation with the emotional landscape of faces was always the quirky discrepancy of my being autistic — my drawings documented with intricate detail the people I loved best of all. The doctor thought this very unusual — puzzling, yet unique, he called me “special.”

“We are not going to institutionalize her!” Lenore had shrieked horrified by the doctor’s suggestion to send me away to a special place where children like me can go for special treatment. She sat cuddling me in her lap, sobbing into my hair — crying, crying, crying. I didn’t cry — didn’t want to cry, partly because I didn’t really understand what the fuss was about, and partly because I was too busy doodling in my pad of paper — she was interrupting me. My mother, so young, she was not much older than I am now when she learned the news about my mental misfortune; she seemed so wounded by it, as if it were her fault that I was born defective.

My father, Whitley, already an old man in his sixties, sat beside her with his craggy face furrowed into a profound sadness; then he rose to his full height — he looked like a giant to me back then when I was so small — and he scooped me up into his arms. “Give it whatever name you want, Doc — she’s just different — she doesn’t need to be institutionalized,” he shrugged; it was a gesture of defiance in the face of the doctor. “There’s only one place this child is goin’ — that’s home,” he drawled, his accent is a mellow blend of New England burr and Mid-West twang, his voice low and powerful — yet gentle. Lenore always said he sounded so sexy even when he’s giving someone a piece of his mind. It was peculiar how he seemed so accepting of my disability, almost as if he knew all along. Lenore always complained that he is such a narcissist—so he didn’t see anything wrong with me at all, because he thought I was being normal — just like him. Like father, like daughter, the nut didn’t fall too far from the old oak tree.

“We’ll work something out as a family — how hard can it be?” he said to calm Lenore with his rare paternal assertiveness. Whitley always had the finesse to know when to go with the flow; he knew that if he overreacted Lenore would have imploded on the spot. It would have been ugly all over the doctor’s office. The doctor should have been grateful that my father diffused the Mom Bomb and prevented her verbal flailing from spewing into the waiting room full of patients. My mother — the lioness protecting her cub — there was no one fiercer in the whole wide world. No, I knew they wouldn’t send me away, I trusted that my family would look out for me. And so, cocooned in my bedroom with the shades drawn against the setting sun of that summer day just after my third birthday, I felt safe, and I went to sleep without a quibble or a tear — I was good as gold today and I’m special.

***

Ah, Whitley, ya gotta love him...Whitley is a womanizer (he especially likes the young ones who have a need for a father-figure), an alcoholic, and a narcissistic old bastard, but in spite of these faults, he loves his daughters Helena and Samantha, and his step-son, Guthrie. He’s a man who would have preferred sons because of his love for tinkering with old cars, fly fishing, and drinking, but when it came to his two girls, he was at a loss...other than spoiling them rotten (but isn’t that what father's do?)

Happy Father's Day.

Oh, happy day.

Why is an autistic woman getting married? Well...why not? He asked, she said yes, and she was willing to try to love him...to try to express love that is expected...but it isn't that simple...there wouldn't be a story if it were, right?

This story is about Samantha's struggle for autonomy, she's aware of her vulnerability, and surrounds herself with people who she can trust. Her marriage to Preston throws her off her normal routine... the groove of life that she has cut for herself to function as close to normal as she can get... schedules ruled by clocks and reminders, to vary right or left can set off a Sammy disaster, explosive tantrums or silent obstinance.

It's a groove dictated by the past.

My favorite part in this piece: Sylvester wiping her tears:

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'll "read" an excerpt from the book...sure why not, right? Something short from the beginning...chapter 1 pages 1-2...

“…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 — I better check. 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. Then I slyly checked Judge Nadine Ardyce who had just made the inquiry regarding my promise that required me to answer, “I do”. To my relief, 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. Whew! I’m glad that I didn’t fuck it up, I said what was required of me, and no one had to groan, “Oh Sammy, why can’t you just blah blahblahblahblah blah.”

With a soft sigh, 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 along 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, turning the landscape beyond into pale blue-green abstract expressions.

“You may kiss the bride,” Judge Nadine pronounced loudly; my stray attention returned to silence. It seemed everyone sucked all the air from the room. What happened? Are we done?

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 puffy 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? Turning 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 in the whole wide world. 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. Oh, happy day.

***

It's just a little introduction to the main character, Samantha Ryder, and her family...

White light is composed of all color, the sunshine at the right angle on a rainy afternoon in May makes rainbows, a prism or a cut glass window fractures the hues in patches on the wall or the floor...that's the first meaning, and color has a role throughout (yellow being a very important one, so the cover is very yellow...) The main character, Samantha Ryder, is an artist, so colors are meaningful to her, and she's autistic, in her mind, her emotions are colorful (quote from the book): "I stared through the sunny window, the tears in my eyes refracted the bright light blurring my vision, fracturing white light into the pure hues of my emotions — my private colors for all that I feel." (from page 220, Chapter 10 The Fractured Hues of White Light)

Samantha's ability to express emotions is complicated by her autism, but the irony is the 'normal' people around her are just as inept in expressing their true feelings for one another...quite the emotional soup du jour...

What is normal?

The book is a study of emotions...they tend not to be 'black and white', the emotional color scheme becomes muddy with complications...primary blue, yellow, red mix to make the secondary colors purple, green, orange, and then the triadic colors beyond that and you have that awesome box of 64 Crayola crayons of endless combinations of blue-green, green-blue, red-orange, orange-red, blue-violet, violet-blue...but when you mix up a batch of complimentary colors (red/green, yellow/purple, blue/orange) and you get mud...earth tones like burnt siena, raw umber, yellow ochre, good stuff like that...

Ya dig?

That's my emotional color theory lesson for the day...class dismissed...

Yes, the synopsis-sis-sis-sis (it's a word much like aluminum-inum-inum-ummm)...White Light is so packed with things going on, I figured I'll just put this up here to get the ball rolling, and I'll dissect it into bite sized morsels in future posts...The Fractured Hues of White Light is an emotional journey that explores who we love and why we love them. Mother, father, daughter, siblings, lovers, spouses, and friends; it’s all love in some form. The story is about Samantha Ryder, a young autistic woman who is an artist; it is because of her handicap that she often fails to articulate her emotions with an appropriate demonstration. Ironically, the ‘normal people’ who surround her are just as incapable of communicating their feelings, creating a sense of isolation full of things left unsaid. Samantha’s uncanny artistic ability is limited to being a novelty after her father encouraged her to create miniatures of the greatest hits of art history for a wealthy clientele (imagine a miniature hand painted copy of the Mona Lisa about the size of a postage stamp, this is what Sammy does.) For years, she has filled sketchbooks with drawings that she feels mean nothing, yet they mean everything. Within the abstract scribbles are the portraits of the people who she loves; the quirk of her disability is how she is very aware of the emotions of her loved ones. They love her with unconditional bonds that vary in degrees; her mother Lenore’s maternal nurturing is sorely missed after her death when Sammy was six. Her father, Whitley, is a possessive narcissist, but his heart is always in the right place. Memories of the protective love of her father’s stepson, Guthrie, filtered into her adolescent fantasies. Her half-sister, Helena, exhibits a lackadaisical tolerance and irritable impatience, yet offers a clinging-vine possessiveness in spite of herself. The lingering romantic feelings of her friend and former lover, Sylvester, manifest in his boundless patience; their continued friendship stands firm on a foundation of trust. When Samantha agreed to marry Preston Ackerman, she initially believed that she could learn to love him, but the empty bond between them causes her to emotionally lose ground. As their marriage falls apart, Preston becomes dangerous, forcing her to go on a journey of self-preservation away from the familiar security of home. Her escape threatens to be her undoing.

Stay tuned...

I'm Laura J. W. Ryan, the author of The Fractured Hues of White Light that was just released by Field Stone Press on May 21, 2010. I'm an independent author/publisher and an artist from Upstate New York, I live in an old farmhouse on top of a windswept hill with my husband, our son, four cats, and one dog named Max. I published Dusty Waters: A Ghost Story in 2009 as an experiment...which has gone very well, the book has been well received by readers, so I decided to try again with The Fractured Hues of White Light.

I'll add discussion threads as I think of things of interest to say, I do love talking about my books and writing process, please stop by, say "hi"!

For more information about me or my books or whatever creativity I have on my mind at the time, please visit my blog Upstate Girl http://upstategirl-laurajwryan.blogspot.com/