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.
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.