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Apart From Love
My author interview on Katheryn Lane's blog has just been posted. Katheryn is the author of Her Latin Lover and The Royal Sheikh. She works full-time as a teacher, mother and wife, but somehow also finds time to be a part-time writer as well! She loves to write contemporary romances set in exotic locations.No wonder, then, that she titled the interview Art, Love and Writing.
To read more, click the link
http://katheryn-lane.blogspot.com/201...
Be Still, Poet's HeartBe still, poet's heart, this moment is rare
Stop this hammering, why would you dare
To set up a challenge, to write your own fate
Be still and accept, perhaps it's too late
Unlucky the number, unlucky the day
Friday the thirteenth, come what may
Set yourself free, Apart From Love
Change whatever was decreed from above
Sing out a ballad of passion and hate
Sing it out as you drown, and ignore that date
Someone may notice, may listen out there
So quicken the pounding, sing out with a flair
The flood is abating, release the dove
Pray to find yourself a part of love
"I picture her staring at the black-and-white image of her brain, not quite understanding what they are telling her. The doctors, they point out the overall loss of brain tissue, the enlargement of the ventricles, the abnormal clusters between nerve cells, some of which are already dying, shrouded eerily by a net of frayed, twisted strands. They tell her about the shriveling of the cortex, which controls brain functions such as remembering and planning.
And that is the moment when in a flash, mom can see clearly, in all shades of gray blooming there, on that image, how it happens, how her past and her future are slowly, irreversibly being wiped away—until she is a woman, forgotten."
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-Love-Uvi-...
T'was a hot summer evening, Anita laid eyes on Ben But summer's gone now, and so is their kiss
The only witnesses left are my paper and pen
Let me tell you what happened, from conflicts to bliss
To read more, click the link
http://uviart.blogspot.com/2012/08/tw...
I'm waiting to be taken, but now, be forewarnedDon't you dare come near me, or else you'd be scorned--
Unless you delight in contemporary fiction
And enjoy reading a book with detailed scene depiction
If you let me pull you in, deep inside
Until you find yourself there, in my characters' mind
I'll make you burn in hell, ablaze in desire,
I'll let you swirl like smoke, ever higher and higher
I'll bring you down here: Santa Monica, Venice Beach
For a father-son meeting, with a blame and a breach
You'll hear Lenny, Natasha, Anita and Ben
And be tortured by guilt, again and again
Find a path to forgiveness, find a way to come clean
Find the words to explain what exactly you mean
Turn page after page, then fall to your knee
'Cause Apart From Love, no feeling is free
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
Summer's come to a close, the breath of autumn is here Time for reflection, time for a break
The wind start gusting at this time of year
Listen to my whispers, so you make no mistake--
As golden leaves drift, rustling in the air
Come cuddle with me, open my cover
Apart From Love, there's not a moment to spare
Leaf through my story, it's for you to discover
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
Bring me along, when you celebrate Labor DayI'm free--Apart From Love... I'm your prize
It's your chance to imagine, to let me play
A story of passion before your eyes
Take a deep breath and take me outdoors
Watch the leaves falling, never mind autumn blues
If you touch me, I'll be all yours
My pages will rustle, and awaken your muse.
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
Unique & Spellbinding!!By Dolores Ayotte
Uvi Poznansky is an artist! There is no doubt about it. As I read "Apart from Love", I was drawn into a masterfully created piece of artwork. This is no ordinary novel. It richly depicts the product of a dysfuntional family and how they are drawn together, yet so repulsed by each other.
There is a quality so deep and raw in "Apart from Love" that it's almost impossible to put this book down. In my opinion, Uvi Poznansky writes like a painter. She starts with a clean canvas and dabs a little paint here and a little paint there as she develops her characters and creates her masterpiece. Her strokes then become broader, more passionate, more vivid and vibrant as she continues to let her characters' stories unfold. She draws you in to a deeper level than you might actually want to go as she ignites the fire to your own love, passions, and fears.
Ben, the 27 year old son grudgingly returns home many years after the divorce of his parents, Lenny and Natasha. He finds that there is a mutual attraction between his father's young wife Anita, and himself. Their stories, along with Lenny's are related in a narrative as each person has the opportunity to share his side of the events that take place. "Apart from Love" reminds me of a movie I enjoyed many years ago...Cat on a Hot Tin Roof because it is a well-written drama that could take place on a stage similar to this movie. In "Apart from Love" Ben states..."In our family, forgiveness is something you pray for, something you yearn to receive but so seldom do you give to others." There is defintely a great need for forgiveness both on the giving end as well as the receiving end in this novel.
Similar to any other work of art, the artist leaves so much of themselves in their work. Uvi Poznansky has done just that! Kudos to her on a job well done!
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
"The last thing I want to see is his face, when he comes home to realize that—poof!—the grand piano is gone. Vanished! My father is known to have an eccentric attachment to things, especially to that old, massive, ornately decorated, polished white beast. Why, you may ask? I have wondered about it, too, and can offer only this: it brings back to him a certain presence, the presence of mom, playing. So perhaps for him, it is a remnant of love: namely, guilt.By the time I turned sixteen, mom had developed an unexplained fear, a fear of getting lost, which was quite pronounced, even as she headed out for a short walk, such as to the grocery store on Wilshire Boulevard, not more than a couple of blocks away. She seemed to rely, with an increasing sense of anxiety, on the familiar, and would become ferociously shaken if a chair was accidentally moved out of position. We all knew that the instrument—which was only hers, because I had stopped playing by then—was sacred. It was not to be touched.
And so, too, was she."
Ben, in Apart From Love
Shimmering luster, let me try, let me reach youLayers beyond layers of red, all aglow
With trembling fingers I touch... Flimsy tissue
It comes down upon me, folding high into low
I dance with abandon, with no inhibition,
Entangled in fabric, I can no longer flee
Can't breath, for now I can see the strange fusion
Now I know: this tissue is me
To read more about the cover image of Apart From Love, which is inspired by my art, click here:
http://uviart.blogspot.com/2012/01/wh...
"Back home after the funeral I cannot find a moment alone. The place is buzzing with neighbors and distant relatives, including my three aunts, each of whom has eyebrows painted in, in place of the real ones. At first they talk in low voices, afraid, perhaps, that grandma might hear what they say, or come out to scold them for their manners. They bend over me and pinch my cheeks so hard that instantly, I forget all about the pain in my foot inside the bandages. So I am forced to hide from attention. I stand there, very quietly, in the corner behind the tank, and feed the new fish, which dad got for me earlier that morning; just a smidgen between the fingers, like he told me... And then maybe one more smidgen, or two, because I hate learning lessons, and because I am bored and lonely here, in this crowd, and also because of the fish, because they look so hungry for these little specks. You can see them flocking up in a big haste, competing to reach the surface."
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
In my novel Apart From Love, Anita imagines the baby she carries in her womb, and the bond forming between them:"My little one would gurgle and coo right here, in my arms. I would be brushing my lips over his scalp—ever so gentle—careful not to touch nowhere close to the tender spot, right there at the top. I could almost feel the fine fuzz of his hair, real soft, tickling my cheek.
In my head I could kiss, I could almost swallow his tiny fingers. They would wrap around my finger, their nails so pink, so incredibly clear. And the little hands, they would stroke my hair or like, search for my breast.
Then I would touch the nipple to my baby’s lips, and watch him latch on and like, suck, suck, swallow, breathe; suck, suck, swallow, breathe.
All the while his eyes would be fixed on me, curious to see, to separate my face out of that blurry chaos, that first, misty sight of lights and of shadows. And so I promised myself: I would give him that which I never got. I would become such a good mama, like no mama ever was! I would keep him safe right here, close to my heart."
The image I chose to illustrate this promise is my bronze sculpture, Mother and Child. And this--in the most profound sense--is Home, too.
There are over thirty eloquent, beautiful reviews on Amazon for my novel Apart From Love, but I have just received the one I consider the most rewarding of all! Check it out; this is why a writer writes:http://uviart.blogspot.com/2012/09/th...
"I imagine him coming back home, later this evening, and taking a step back—away from the mat—to make certain he has unlocked the right door. He would call, “Anyone home?” and an echo, a crisp echo would rattle the air, as if to announce an unusual depth, an emptiness.
He would then raise the key to his eyes, staring incredulously at it. It must be the right one, or else the lock would have jammed—but even so, the old man would check it again carefully, as if some bend, some scuff on the metal might, perhaps, explain the wrong turn of things.
He would rub his eyes, amazed to discover Beethoven's bust planted down there, in the dust, on the floor, its eyes frozen in dumb confusion. Discarded. No longer perched on top, it seems to have shrunk—or else the space has, somehow, ballooned around it.
The marble head seems cropped by a beam of light on one side, and a pile of music notebooks on the other. The sculpted shoulders lean against streaks of peeling wallpaper, blackened streaks that have previously gone unnoticed, crumbling away in the shadows, behind the bulk of the piano, which is now missing.
I cannot begin to guess what my father would say, if he would say anything at all, I mean, before he starts shouting."
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
Then he says, “She still walks on both feet, still looks the same, more or less. To a stranger, Natasha still looks as if nothing at all is wrong with her. The shell, so to speak, is intact. You are young, son, and may laugh at what I say, but to me she is beautiful. Pure. As if only a few days have passed since I first laid eyes on her. But on each visit I see changes. Each time, her mind disappears a little bit more.”“Dad, you still didn’t give me an answer.”
“Do I miss her? No, son,” he says, and takes a long, painful pause. “Not all the time.”
“Was it difficult for you, bringing her here?”
“For several weeks, I had dreaded what she would say. That morning I got up from bed, and found her talking to the mirror. I said, This is a special day, Natasha! Let’s go out for breakfast. And pointing straight ahead, at the glass, she said, OK, and what about her, is she coming, too? And I said, No, not today. Just you and me. Oh, she said, OK. And to her reflection she said, Goodbye. And so we came here.”
“Again, dad: you still didn’t give me an answer.”
“Was it difficult to bring her? No,” he says. “The difficult part was to leave her behind, and go home, and find myself lonely, lonely and empty and, at long last, free. I stood there, on the threshold, without her, not knowing what to do with my hands.”
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
"Then he says to his son, You should go, because this place can’t hold the two of us for much longer, and because a young fellow like you must be hungry for adventure, and eager to see the world, and the last thing you want is to remain here, stuck in this stuffy place, with a grumpy old man, so here’s some money, it should be more than enough—if spent modestly—for travel expenses, and stay in touch, and good luck with everything. And Ben tries to say No, quite to the contrary, there’s much more space now than there ever was, with the grand piano cleared out of the way, just look at Anita over there, stretching her arms and doing quick twirls, all across the room.
At hearing all that, Lenny just clenches his jaw—but he don’t even grumble or nothing, and I bet he’s holding his tongue just to drive home the point, like, how calm he manages to be, and how there isn’t no sign of anger in him, or nothing.
All the same Ben seems to know that he’s being punished. So without even glancing at me—like I’m the one to be blamed for all this—he bites his lip and goes into his room, where he can’t help kicking the wall once or twice, after which he comes out to the kitchen, and kicks the refrigerator and then opens it, to look for an ice pack."
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-Love-Uvi-...
"Before I can move, I can sniff trouble. Here it is, the smell of bread baking. Tinged with vanilla and honey, the scent has come in, perhaps sneaking around the door, finding its way through a crack, or puffing through the keyhole. It is forming, even now, into a channel, an invisible channel floating somehow in midair, right above me, swelling up there as if it were an extension of my nostrils.
By now, my stomach is growling, so I have no choice. Up, up and away flies the pillow, off come the blankets! I walk out of my room—hair uncombed, chin unshaven—and find myself waking up to hunger. Or at least, to an undeniable craving.
Framed by the kitchen door, standing there with her back to me, she cranks open the oven. Fume comes out of its gaping mouth, inside which lay two freshly baked loaves, shining with the gloss of egg wash, and sprinkled generously with crispy, toasted sesame seeds.
With a large oven mitt, this woman—my father’s new wife—puts her hand inside, and takes hold of the baking pan. I can hear a slight sizzle. Now her thighs tighten. One foot is rising behind the other as she pivots, bringing the loaves right under my nose."
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
I truly enjoyed reading the following review because it suggests a blending of the subjects found in my two recent books, Home and Apart From Love. While the two are distinctly different, there are naturally some themes that can be found in both of them. Apart From Love is a work of fiction. Lenny, the father in this novel does share one trait with my father: he is a writer. To read more, click the link
http://uviart.blogspot.com/2012/10/a-...
Apart From Love is not for everybody. Let me quote from the numerous reviews on Amazon, whenever they talk about the type of readers that would appreciate the story:"I did enjoy this book and thought it made both sad and amusing reading and I laughed and cried while I was reading it. I thought the passages about Natasha and her illness were very well done. I would recommend this book to anyone who would like to read something a little bit different from the normal run of fiction." [By Damaskcat]
"Highly recommended, especially for those whose tastes lean toward innovative literary fiction." [By Marcia Quinn Noren]
"This novel was a true pleasure to read and I recommend it to anyone that loves a compelling story of family struggles and affairs of the heart." [By Ashley Fontainne "Ashley"]
"Apart from Love has a feel of modern art, inviting readers in to enjoy, explore and eventually wrap themselves in the mystery of lives and loves drawn together and thrown apart. An intriguing tale, it's not an easy read but it's certainly an involving one that doesn't necessarily go where the reader expects." [By S. Deeth "Sheila Deeth"]
"Reading this novel is like gawking at a tragic crime scene; you know you are intruding into something way too personal, but you NEED to know all the details--who was hurt and how, who was the guilty party, and most importantly how do I avoid this?" [By Melodie K. Starkey]
This and a lot more can be found here:
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
"I bet that like me, he remembers that night, the first time we danced, ‘cause now that the tape recorder has finished giving out the long, rustling hush, and the music comes on, it’s the old song, doubled by a ghost of its sound: something slow from the sixties, which years ago used to bring tears to ma’s eyes, ‘cause like, it awakened her to being lonely, and now it brings them to mine.Lenny cups my face in his hand and pecks me lightly on the cheek. Then he starts showering me with the littlest kisses, all along the trail of tears, his mouth slipping down the skin of my neck. And I laugh—not only on account of being ticklish, but because suddenly I’m aroused, and even a touch nervous. And I say, “Let’s just dance,” which is echoed, like, by the laughter of the walls.
So Lenny backs away and I come, and then in reverse, he comes as I back away, and we go and come, come and go this way for a long while—but we don’t hardly move from the same spot, here by the sofa, even though there’s so much space now around us, for dancing and what not."
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
"In the first couples of months or so after his son left, Lenny’s been very quiet. In some ways, things ain’t all that bad between us. He comes home every night, even asks—when he cares to look at me—if the baby’s started kicking already. His question is kinda polite, and it don’t really break the silence, just marks a place from where we can restart it. Anyhow we’re together, so I don’t have to worry no more about where he is, and I don’t have to call aunt Hadassa, who has her sources, and I don’t have to listen to her squirming, trying to spare me from knowing what this entire town already knows, which is, that Lenny’s been sleeping around.
It’s always the same thing now. Me and him sit down at the kitchen table and eat dinner together, like a normal family, except that we do it in silence. Then we settle into that old, sagging couch—him in one corner, me in the other—and wait. What it is we’re waiting for isn’t exactly clear. At first I could swear it was, like, a word from Ben—but now I figure it’s a good thing the day’s getting shorter."
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
ALLEN WITZERIt was a relief whenever Allen Witzer left Kings Highway. This was what drew him to Coney Island, there was the breeze, the hot dogs, the girls in bathing suits, of course, but mainly the relief from self-consciousness. Poor Witzer!!! Witzer was slow of wit and tongue, and on top of that he dragged his left his left leg behind him wherever he went. Witzer was indeed the lamest cat on Kings Highway.
He would often play hooky taking the subway, all over Brooklyn, and when he was especially adventurous the East Village where one day he picked up a hooker, a white girl from Mobile, Alabama, who called herself Destiny. She had small breasts and a big round behind that she stuffed into a pair of cream colored Lee’s Wranglers. She took him to a small room above a Chinese Apothecary. Unfortunately, Witzer finished before he could really get going. Needless to say he fled in embarrassment. Frustratingly he was again at attention ten minutes later on the Brighton Beach Express, sitting across from three girls in Catholic School uniforms.
Lately Destiny and the Catholic School girls had been replaced in his fantasies by Shelly Slamowitz. Shelly worked with Witzer at Mickey’s luncheonette. Shelly had enormous breasts, but most of all, she was always nice to him, never making fun of him like the slim, fashionable girls who hung around Dubrows 24 hour Cafeteria, next door to Mickey’s Luncheonette on Kings Highway, Brooklyn, America’s hometown. Shelly was the only person to call him Al, everybody else called him Witzer or Alan. She almost made him feel like a regular guy! Shelly would do all the talking when it was slow and Witzer was making Hamburger patties or sweeping and Shelly was covering the counter while Mickey was upstairs shtupping his wife.
One day at the luncheonette, Witzer had been caught looking down Shelly’s blouse. She had squatted right in front of him, to pick up the key for the utility closet that slipped from her hand. Looking down, Witzer could see forever, such was her cleavage. Shelly looked up and smiled. If Witzer were an older man, he might have shed a tear so moved was he by her fresh, sweet, womanliness, though being only sixteen, he merely came to attention.
Mod
Dana wrote: "THANK YOU!!!"My pleasure Dana, any time!
Mod
Dana, I moved this to the "What Is Your Song For The Day" folder, which is the appropriate folder for music. Thanks for contributing.
Join me in celebration of the bonds we have with our parents, bonds that at times are stretched to the limit through life challenges, which I describe in my books: my novel Apart From Love and my poetry book Home. With this theme in mind I invite you to take part in a variety of fun-filled activities leading up to the Thanksgiving weekend. http://www.facebook.com/events/299302...
“After a while I whispered, like, Just say something to me. Anything. And I thought, Any other word apart from Love, ’cause that word is diluted, and no one knows what it really means, anyway.”I am thrilled that this excerpt and others, along with my interview appear in the "Hottest Book Club on the Street"--namely, the DJ GATSBY BOOK CLUB.
http://djgatsbybookclub.wordpress.com...
★★★★★ Bookreview: A novel to be savoredBy Juliet Parnell - See all my reviews
Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)
Liberally salted with buttery smooth prose and fascinating insights as to the mindset of a dysfunctional family, Uvi Pozansky's Apart From Love chronicles Ben, Anita and Lenny's struggle with their desires, hopes and dreams as they clash with decency, moral values, and tragic secrets unveiled. Pozansky vividly illustrates the cracks in the fragile relationship between these characters. So much so, I felt was inside their heads speaking and acting for them. Seldom has a book gripped my imagination as Apart From Love did.
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
At first my father seemed relaxed enough to tell me—at more length than usual—about my grandfather, whom I never met, because he had died long before I was born. I got a distinct sense that dad was, somehow, still afraid of the old man, who had pressed him hard to achieve that which he himself had failed to become: a lawyer. “So,” I asked, “what did you do?”
A brief laughter erupted on his lips. “I told him that I had registered at the university, and would be majoring in Law, just as he had always wished—but somehow I neglected to mention that the closest I ever came to registering was flipping through an outdated course catalog, while sitting on the toilet, and dreaming about something else.”
“And,” I hesitated to ask, “did he ever find out?”
“Well,” said my father, and in a flash, his face turned red, “if it occurred to the old man that this might have been a nasty lie, he admirably concealed it.”
I listen to his voice, which is still here, echoing in my head, and all of a sudden I grasp that he grew embarrassed not only because of his obligation to his father—but to me as well. Perhaps a sudden sense of shame caught up to him, shame for falling short of becoming an acceptable role model. Or else he had a premonition—a fear, even—of how I would treat him, not too far in what was then the future.
Which makes me realize one thing: up to a certain point, I wanted to become a man just like my father. And from then on, I wanted to be anything but. Which made me spend a whole decade in diametrical opposition to him, so that I wound up living a life based directly on his, as though I had never left home.
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
"My little one would gurgle and coo right here, in my arms. I would be brushing my lips over his scalp—ever so gentle—careful not to touch nowhere close to the tender spot, right there at the top. I could almost feel the fine fuzz of his hair, real soft, tickling my cheek. In my head I could kiss, I could almost swallow his tiny fingers. They would wrap around my finger, their nails so pink, so incredibly clear. And the little hands, they would stroke my hair or like, search for my breast.
Then I would touch the nipple to my baby’s lips, and watch him latch on and like, suck, suck, swallow, breathe; suck, suck, swallow, breathe.
All the while his eyes would be fixed on me, curious to see, to separate my face out of that blurry chaos, that first, misty sight of lights and of shadows. And so I promised myself: I would give him that which I never got. I would become such a good mama, like no mama ever was! I would keep him safe right here, close to my heart."
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
Please retweet:"He has undone the buttons of my blouse, he loosens it this way and that, and then, in one firm pull it’s already down"
http://tinyurl.com/apartfromlove
"I can just see him in my head, like, holding the baby’s hand, guiding him already in his first steps. Then, letting go, he’s gonna take a step or two back, and hold his breath, waiting there for the little one to walk into his open arms. Lenny’s gonna buy him a brand new tricycle, and teach him how to set his little feet on top of them pedals, and push, push harder, even harder—yeah! Just so! And again: Go on, push, until—oh boy! With great joy, he’s gonna clap his hands, because here—for the first time—you could detect a move, a slight move ahead.
And then, a few years down the road, he’s gonna surprise our child with a large, shining bicycle, and adjust the training wheels as time goes by, until they wasn’t needed no more; at which point, Lenny would remove them, and hold them in his hands, like, to weigh them for a moment, and try to wipe the rust, and wish that time would like, slow down, just a little, because it’s hard, so hard for the old heart to let go.
Yes, Lenny needs a son: someone to need him, trust him, and make him trust himself again."
http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...
Am I a leaf about to drift About to fly away, to chance
The cold, the heat, the drop, the lift
Upon the wing of wind, to dance?
Or else, nestled in this tree
Am I to stay, and thus be free?
Here I am, Apart From Love
Flying Home just like a dove
This is now, just for ThanksgivingTake my gifts of love, forgiving
Take them Home and I will sweep you
To a different place, a different view
Of how our bonds do make us free
Apart From Love we cannot be
Woke up to a nice surprise: my interview on Digital Books Today is up! Asked to describe what I see when I look at my desk, I said, "Since I am an artist, poet and writer, the best way to show you the surface is my painting. As a creator, I see myself this way: I paint with a pen, write with a paintbrush. My art strives to tell a story, and my stories strive to bring you into the scene being painted, letting you sense everything my characters touch, see, or hear."To read this interview, click the link:
http://digitalbooktoday.com/2012/11/1...
Now the party is over... In just a bitThis place will be quiet, and solemn and lit
By the last rays of sun as the evening descends
And I'll miss you all, for now we are friends
And as you leave here, you'll be taking with you
A big part of me, the best, the most true:
As the pages will rustle, take a good look
For my story unfurls as you open this book
My characters will come right out of this cover
They're now in your hands, mother, father, child, lover
Even in silence, catch the music of words
Hear me at nightfall... No more chirping of birds...
(This was written last night at the conclusion of my book event for Apart From Love)
Ruth Jacobs lives a quiet life in a small village in Hertfordshire, England, which is quite a contrast from her teens and early twenties, spent rather waywardly in London. She is the author of In Her Own Words... Interview with a London Call Girl. I was tickled pink when she offered to interview me on her website.
And so, this morning I woke up to a surprise: having answered her questions only last night, the interview 'In the Booth with Ruth' is already up!
Over a year ago I wrote a short story about a twelve years old boy coming face to face, for the first time in his life, with the sad spectacle of death in the family. The title of the story is Only An Empty Dress. In it, Ben watches his father trying to revive his frail grandma, and later he attempts the same technique on the fish tilting upside down in his new aquarium.“I cannot allow myself to weep. No, not now. So I wipe the corner of my eye. Now if you watch closely, right here, you can see that the tail is still crinkling. I gasp, and blow again. I blow and blow, and with a last-gasp effort I go on blowing until all is lost, until I don’t care anymore, I mean it, I don’t care but the tears, the tears come, they are starting to flow, and there is nothing, nothing more I can do—”
I set the story aside, thinking I was done with it. But the character of the boy, Ben, came back to me and started chatting, chatting, chatting in my head. It became the seed of my just-published novel Apart From Love.
In writing it I asked myself, what if I ‘aged’ him by fifteen years? Where would he be then? Would he still admire his father as a hero, or will he be disillusioned at that point? What secrets would come to light in the life of this family? How would it feel for Ben to come back to his childhood home, and have his memories play tricks on him? What if I introduce a girl, Anita, a redhead who looks as beautiful as his mother used to be, but is extremely different from her in all other respects? And what if this girl were married to his father? What if the father were an author, attempting to capture the thoughts, the voices of Ben and Anita, in order to write his book?
So the process of writing became, for me, simply listening to the characters and trying, as fast as I could, to capture their thoughts. My role as an author was merely suggesting a place, coming up with the stage set and illuminating it as appropriate for the time of day, and allowing the characters to describe what they see and to act out their passions and fears.
In a recent exhibition at the Getty museum I saw a little sketch by Rembrandt, showing the master artist and his students carefully observing a model, who is posing on a stage in his studio, and drawing her. It inspired me to create a variation on the theme: I used the same grouping of figures, where the woman is set apart from the rest of them, but changed the environment from a studio to a cave, and the figures from art students to a primitive mob. It brings out some primal emotion in all of them. Here is the watercolor I painted:
While in this painting the woman turns her head away, as if she has no voice, she talked loud and clear in the chapter In My Defense, in my book Apart From Love. Here is what Anita says:
"In my defense I have this to say: When men notice me, when the lusty glint appears in their eyes, which betrays how, in their heads, they’re stripping me naked—it’s me they accuse of being indecent.
Problem is, men notice me all the time."
What is the Next Big Thing? It is a way to 'pass the baton', if you will, between the new writers of today, allowing each one of them in turn to give an insight about her upcoming work, then tag her fellow writers to do the same. This time I was tagged by the inspired poet Bathsheba Daily. So here is a glimpse into my upcoming work:
http://uviart.blogspot.com/2012/12/th...
Ashley Fontainne is an avid reader of classic literature. She is also the author of Zero Balance, Accountable to None, and Ramblings of a Mad Southern Woman, and the host of a Blog talk radio show called the WriteStuff, which is coming to its close this weekend (to be replaced with a new show.) I have read Ashely's poetry, and trust me--her writing is no rambling, it is a full throated roar! So I am truly honored that she brought me on her show for this special episode, to talk about Apart From Love, Home, my sculptures and paintings, the new possibilities of publishing in this new Indie era, and more.
Come take a listen to our conversation:
http://uviart.blogspot.com/2012/12/no...
Lying still in a corner of the cave, I try my best not to rattle, not to betray my fear. I figure, as long as they think me unconscious, I am safe. I have jolted awake because of the voices, only to discover they are incoherent and muffled. In between the gusts of wind, I can hear them hissing...http://uviart.blogspot.com/2012/12/a-...
I am truly moved by this a recent review of Apart From Love, written by one of my earliest readers, Angela Davis, whose poems I have been following for the last few months:★★★★★ incredible read!, May 26, 2012
By Angela Davis - See all my reviews
Amazon Verified Purchase
This review is from: Apart From Love (Paperback)
Apart From Love is an inspiring novel by an amazing woman who is a writer, poet, sculptor, painter, and more. This novel spurred me to write again, and delved into my soul in a way that no other novel has done in many years. The intensity of characters, and their interconnections with one another, will entrance the reader, and remind us of the times when love was complicated and furious, yet honest and real. The voices of the primary characters are genuine and touching, and the story will encapture even the most jaded persons. A true voice here, a brilliant search into what can be and what truly is.
Ashley Fontainne is an avid reader of classic literature. She is also the author of Zero Balance, Accountable to None, and Ramblings of a Mad Southern Woman, and the host of a Blog talk radio show called the WriteStuff, which is coming to its close this weekend (to be replaced with a new show.) I have read Ashely's poetry, and trust me--her writing is no rambling, it is a full throated roar! So I am truly honored that she brought me on her show for this special episode, to talk about Apart From Love, Home, my sculptures and paintings, the new possibilities of publishing in this new Indie era, and more.
Come take a listen to our conversation:
http://uviart.blogspot.com/2012/12/no...
I am so lucky that my work has engaged this amazingly fast reader with a sharp perception of story and execution. Being an avid reader Cynthia J. Smith consumes ten books a week, this in addition to being a truck driver and the author of Voices in My Head. Here is the review she posted for my novel Apart From Love, on Amazon and Goodreads. For me It is a road mark--it bring the number of reviews on Amazon to 40!5.0 out of 5 stars perfect title, December 6, 2012
By Cynthia J. Smith - See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)
Amazon Verified Purchase
This review is from: Apart From Love (Paperback)
This book starts with the perfect title. Apart from love is a phrase used by all three of the main characters and its meaning is slightly different for all three. Amazing.
This story is written by Lenny but, he uses Ben's and Anita's words as they seem to narrate.
A story of secrets, family conflicts and confusion. Each of the characters has a stumbling block which keeps them unable to love or be loved.
Ben is the son who is estranged from his father due to the fact that his mother left. Even after he discovers why she left, he still can't seem to figure out how to get his father's love which he so needs. He hides in plain sight and cannot just come forward.
Anita is Lenny's mistress at first then his second wife. She comes from a slightly abusive family and has no real idea what love is. She only knows what she wants is safety and prestige. To be a wife! She becomes mistress to Lenny knowing he is married. She assumes her beauty will make him love her and replace his wife.
Lenny is just lost in his love for his first wife and the secret he must keep from all. He tries to write the story in the hopes that if he gets it just right, life will return to the way it was.
The ending was so amazing!
Uvi has written a poignant story. I am truly amazed by the depth of each of her characters.
Winter comes with frosty nights, Winter comes with snowball fights
Time to find a quiet place
Hold my books in your embrace
It's warm now, take off your glove
Stay Home and read Apart From Love
Get it for you and for your friend
A holiday gift, to give, to send
My books are here, no need to wait,
Night will come, it will be great.
GR Magazine
Books mentioned in this topic
Apart From Love (other topics)Apart From Love (other topics)
Apart From Love (other topics)
Apart From Love (other topics)
Apart From Love (other topics)
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Another way, perhaps more interactive, is to join the conversation at my Q&A Group: http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/6...