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****Alison Ragsdale’s THE ART OF REMEMBERING is #73 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from
a fiction genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt. All INSIDE
THE EMOTION OF FICTION links are at the end of this piece.
Name of fiction work? And were there other names you
considered that you would like to share with us? My latest novel is titled THE ART OF REMEMBERING. When I started writing it, many moons ago,
I called it A Dent in the Universe.
It was pretty attached to the name, so when my agent told me she didn’t like it
and that it didn’t encapsulate the spirit of the book, I had to take a deep
breath and let it go. As it turns out, she was spot on, and I’m much happier
with the new title.
Has this been published? If yes, what publisher and what
publication date? I am a hybrid author, both published by Lake Union and
self-published. I self-published this novel on July 16th, 2019 and the
Audible version will be released at the end of September, 2019.
What is the date you began writing this
piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of
fiction? I had to really think about this.
This book took the longest of all of them, and I ended up working on it while
writing two others. I started it mid 2015 and it went through various
iterations, and editors. It was finally finished in November, 2018. (Right: Alison with her dog in December of 2015)
Where did you do most of your writing
for this fiction work? And please describe in detail. I write in various spots throughout my house. It depends
on the weather, and where my sweet dog Maddie, who is my shadow, wants to be. (Left: December 2018) In summer I write in my office upstairs (Below Right). It used to be a sleeping-porch
and has a lovely view of the garden. In winter, I’m found at the kitchen island
with a roaring fire behind me, or snuggled on the sofa with Maddie. (Below Left)
What were your writing habits while
writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write
in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I always have hot tea next to me when I write and
sometimes salty snacks, like crackers or peanuts. I’m not super regimented as
regards time of day, so I write when it feels good and natural, and I don’t pressure
myself into writing every day. When I do write, I can be working for 8 to 10
hours straight, for days on end, then I’ll take a step back and maybe not write
at all, for a day, or even a week or more. I enjoy this work pattern and feel
that the breaks give me time to reflect and to maintain perspective, otherwise
I can sometimes write myself down a rabbit hole and have to reel myself in to
get back to the original track. I write on my laptop and I need as close to
silence as I can find, as for me music or being in a coffee shop, or public
place, is too distracting.
What is the summary of this specific
fiction work? Professional ballerina, Ailsa
MacIntyre, is at the peak of her career when her world is shattered by a
shocking diagnosis. Life-saving surgery leaves her with a fractured memory,
little recollection of her husband, Evan, and none of her career as a principal
dancer.
While recuperating at home, Ailsa hears
beautiful music coming from the apartment upstairs, and the sound of the grand
piano at the hands of a talented new neighbor sparks her muscle memory. As her
recovery progresses, the broken pieces of her past gradually re-emerge, a
picture not quite as idyllic as Evan would have her remember. Ailsa must
navigate the conflicting visions of her past, and potential future, as they
collide.
Can you give the reader just enough
information for them to understand what is going on in the excerpt? Our protagonist, Ailsa MacIntyre, is on stage at New
York’s Lincoln Center. Being on stage is where she has felt most in control of
her life over the past few years, but tonight she is suffering with another
terrible headache that’s affecting her ability to perform. As she struggles
through the first part of her solo, she is suddenly struck by such excruciating
pain, and the eerie distortion of the music she’s hearing, that she misses her
cue then has to use the Corps de ballet as a screen so that she can slip off
stage before collapsing.
Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference. This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer.
Prologue – Pages
1-4
The curtain rose, and the stage at New York’s Lincoln Center was in total
darkness, as the tightness of Ailsa MacIntyre’s pointe shoes cut off the
circulation to her toes. The hard soles ran like familiar tightropes under each
of her arches as she pulled her weight up through her supporting leg and into
her core. She could defy gravity, ignore the crushing of her toe joints, and
work through the throbbing pain that had been plaguing her for months, heavy
above her left ear. She could float, ethereal and transcendent. She could do
this.
Ailsa waited for the first violin to cut into the silence and the
spotlight to split the blackness around her. Just as she released the breath
she had been holding, the first high C slid across the soundless stage and the
light snapped on. Its brightness instantly intensified her headache and she
blinked several times to clear her vision.
Arms still at her sides, she lifted her head slowly and looked above the
orchestra pit, high up behind the audiences’ heads, letting her focus settle on
a small red light in the control box.
The second and third violins picked up their line in the score and the
fine hairs on her arms stood to attention, as always happened with Prokofiev.
On cue, her right arm released and lifted away from her side as she slid her
left foot out, pushing through the floor and extending the ankle and toes. It
had begun.
The music began to fill her head, pushing down the drum of pain
throbbing in her temple. Layer by layer of instrument, the orchestra built a
platform for her interpretation. Each beat filled her, running through every
vein, muscle and tendon like syrup, connecting her to the ground and yet
blurring her own edges against the atmosphere.
As she moved around the stage turning, balancing, gathering momentum and
controlling her breathing Ailsa knew, deep within her being, precisely where
she needed to be at every pause and crescendo. Her body moved on autopilot and
yet was not unmanned—the steps a familiar map that she had followed many
times—moving the choreography forward and filling the space around her with
shape, form, energy and emotion.
Her muscles propelled her reliably through her solo and as the audience
applauded she felt the familiar rush of heat, and joy at the sound of their
appreciation.
As her sides heaved, the oboe sang out—a thin note of introduction,
teasing the other woodwind instruments as it lilted away toward the ceiling. As
had been happening frequently over the past few weeks, the familiar notes
sounded different tonight, as if the tones were being stretched on a wire,
distorting as they sent a hot needle into her left eardrum. She blinked through
the pain, ignoring the pattering under her breastbone, and tried to home in on
the guiding melody.
The Corps de Ballet filtered onto the stage around her just as another
stab to her head made Ailsa gasp, the pain now excruciating as it seared above
her ear, flashing angrily up into her temple. Dragging her focus back to the
next movement, she bent her knees to prepare for a series of fouetté turns.
Time instantly became suspended and she could no longer see the red
light she used for spotting, the music now so distorted it was almost
unrecognizable. As she struggled to locate the melody that would lead her
through her next variation, the stage before her became smudged against the
darkness of the audience.
The moment it took her to search again for the spotting light was a
moment too many, and the screeching music moved on without her.
Three of the Corps passed across the front apron of the stage. Among
them, her best friend, Amanda, turned her head, wide eyed as she looked back at
Ailsa, who remained stationery.
Her breathing ragged, Ailsa locked on Amanda’s eyes and shook her head.
With an imperceptible nod, Amanda executed a series of châinés turns, her head
whipping around as she stepped out onto each alternate foot, carving a full
circle back to the middle of the stage. When she finally stopped, the line of
her body and the long courtly skirt she wore created a blessed eclipse,
sheltering Ailsa from the glare of the lights and the view of the expectant
audience.
Squinting into the darkness, she tasted salt on her upper lip and as
panic filled her chest, she turned her head toward the stabbing pain and
scanned the wings. The company’s Artistic Director, Mark Chambers, was
beckoning her off stage, so, with all her strength, she slid her foot out to
the side trying not to lose her balance. The floor seemed to be undulating
under her shoe and she felt bile rising into her throat.
Amanda and the rest of the Corps had filled the stage in front of her,
Capulets and Montagues in groups of three and five, their weaving lines and
meticulously aligned Arabesques creating a curtain that Ailsa could hide behind
as she slipped away from the last, unfulfilled bars of the movement.
She slid into the wing and Mark gathered her under her arms, barking at
a stagehand to fetch water as she dissolved into his grip, her face slick and
her throat constricted.
“What’s wrong, darling?” Mark, acting as a crutch, maneuvered her toward
the dressing rooms. “Talk to me.”
“My head’s going to explode.” She pressed her palm over her ear and
leaned on Mark’s arm. “The music sounded wrong and I can’t…I can’t…”
Mark’s hands dug into her armpits as she
felt herself falling, then all faded to black.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can
share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough
drafts of this excerpt. There were several iterations of this prologue because it
actually started as a short story that I wrote for my writing group. The word
we were assigned was ‘eclipse’ and that short piece evolved into the
full-length novel. I don’t have a marked up draft to share as it was so long
ago.
Other works you have published? TUESDAY’S
SOCKS was my debut novel, published in March, 2014. THE FATHER-DAUGHTER CLUB came next in
December, 2014. FINDING HEATHER was
published in October, 2016 and A LIFE
UEXPECTED in February, 2018.
Anything you would like to add? Thanks so much for having me. Focusing on the emotion in
fiction really resonates with me, as I love to read, and therefore write,
emotionally driven books.
Writing full time now is a privilege I
never take for granted. I’m so fortunate to be able to focus on my passion,
every single day, and that readers enjoy and give me feedback on my books makes
it even more priceless. I’m so grateful to everyone who supports me on this
adventure. It really does take a village.
All five of Alison’s books are Amazon Best Sellers. THE FATHER-DAUGHTER CLUB was also awarded the IPPY 2016 Bronze Medal for Best Regional Fiction - Europe. A LIFE UNEXPECTED, won a 2018 IPPY Bronze Medal in the Popular Fiction category.
Connect with
Alison:
Webpage:
www.alisonragsdale.com
Instagram:
alisonragsdalewrites
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AlisonRagsdale
Buy now:
https://www.amazon.com/Alison-Ragsdale/e/B00NBDVY76?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1562958012&sr=8-1
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THE ART OF
REMEMBERING
https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2019/08/73-inside-emotion-of-fiction-art-of.html
https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2019/08/73-inside-emotion-of-fiction-art-of.html
