Sophie Last Seen
The initial sight of the living room was always a shock, as if she’d forgotten how she’d left it. She inhaled sharply. Years’ worth of ephemera and objects were stacked in overflowing boxes that lined the perimeter of the room then turned into a mazelike pathway shoved next to the couch and chairs. Jesse had haphazardly labeled the boxes in black marker. Paper boxes held massive mounds of notes, letters, clippings, lists, and receipts. Others were marked Jewelry, Clothing, Metal, Wood, Toys, Knick-knacks, and Miscellaneous. The boxes held everything from passionate love letters to quirky shopping lists and broken eyeglasses to rusted mufflers. She collected anything and everything that people had lost or discarded. Her living room looked like a junkyard—an organized one but a junkyard nonetheless.
She’d heard people in town talking about her behind her back, mumbling about hoarding. They would glance at her with disapproving looks. She supposed they’d seen her hauling her finds into her truck or noticed the piles that had started to accumulate next to the barn, where she stored the larger items she didn’t bring inside: a busted Raleigh bicycle, a store mannequin, and funny-shaped metal pieces whose purpose she couldn’t begin to guess. The No Stopping sign would go there. She realized the piles made it look like the house of one of those scary hoarders on reality TV, and she even attempted watching an episode once to convince herself otherwise. Those hoarders were disgusting. Some had bugs and rodents in their homes, crawling out of their dirty stuff. That wasn’t her. Her house was a bit cluttered, but each piece was important, and she was clean. She had quickly shut off the show but Googled “the difference between collecting and hoarding” to prove to herself she wasn’t crazy. Collectors displayed their items proudly. Compulsive hoarders were often isolated, embarrassed by their habits, and very distressed when confronted with the prospect of discarding their items. She had shouted, “I’m not a hoarder. I’m a mother, damnit!” and slammed down the lid of her laptop.
When she was part of a real family with Cooper and Sophie, the house was a normal home. Tidy. Cozy. The scent of baking apple pie or chocolate chip cookies wafted through the place. But that was before That Day, before she began finding things. It began with Sophie’s birding book, the Bixby Bible. After Sophie went missing, Jesse had found it next to Sophie’s bed. That wasn’t unusual since she studied it obsessively. It was the bookmark at Chapter One, How to Find Birds, with its pink-highlighted passages that convinced Jesse her daughter was guiding her. To find birds, you must pay close attention and be patient. Stop. Wait. Watch. And most of all… listen. Bixby’s Birder’s Bible became her Bible, and she carried it with her everywhere.
Then she began finding scraps of paper in books at work: funny lists and letters, love notes, photos, even money. After a while, she was also finding things outside of work. On the sidewalk, in her grocery cart, or caught in her hair after being blown by the wind. The finds were amusing, fun to collect, and she was convinced they came to her specifically via Sophie or her spirit. Before she knew it, she had quite a stash. But soon, she began finding other objects, which she collected, as well. Single gloves. Old toasters. Costume jewelry. Lampshades. Tools. Once, she even found a prosthetic leg. They seemed to have been dropped in her path, left exclusively for her.
So she filled up her house with these clues—that was how she thought of them. She was convinced that with Bixby and Sophie as her guides, she would follow the various finds to the answer of what had happened. She had to.
In the days right after Sophie disappeared, Canaan had been transformed into a freakshow, with police, FBI, television trucks, and news crews all bustling about. Jesse and Cooper’s home had been turned into missing person central. Police scoured their house for clues. Tables were set up in the dining room, with laptops and call-in phone lines for people to report possible sightings. Maps noting locations to be searched were tacked on a large bulletin board. Friends canvassed neighborhoods, distributing flyers. Neighbors brought in pans of lasagna. Jesse had wandered the house in a daze. She had seen things like that in movies, on the news, but even in her tranquilized state back then, she’d understood it was real. It was her life. But with each passing month, as hope dwindled, fewer people came. The phone rang less. The lasagna deliveries stopped.
Six whole years later, the “case,” as the FBI called her missing daughter, had gone “cold.” Sophie had become one of those missing children who had fallen into a black abyss, never to be seen or heard from again. The commotion in town had died down. Morning gossip over coffee at Earl’s Café had finally reverted to benign topics: talk of the new roof for the town hall or a potluck fundraiser for the church.
Jesse grabbed a bottle of red wine and carried it upstairs to her bedroom, poured herself a glass of wine then put on sweatpants and a T-shirt. She lit two white votive candles on an altar she’d made. Holding to her heart a little plastic figure of the saint she’d purchased off the internet for $14.95, she recited, “Saint Anthony, lead me to my daughter. I have faith in you. News about my daughter will come to me in a good way, for the good of all, with harm to none.” Saint Anthony was patron saint of lost things and missing persons. She’d read about the ritual online, thanks to her mother, who was always emailing her information she claimed would help her find Sophie.
Even though she’d had absolutely no results, Jesse found the ritual oddly comforting. The Saint Anthony instructions said, “When the ritual is completed, eat something of the earth,” and Jesse was sure that fermented grapes in liquid form qualified as earthly. And maybe, she justified, the more she drank of the earth, the closer she would be to finding Sophie. She finished one glass and poured another.
Jesse had hermited herself away, going out only when she had to, avoiding old friends, and doing her food shopping late at the all-night Stop-n-Shop. Only an occasional delivery man came to the house anymore. So when Jesse heard loud knocking at her front door, she assumed it must be somebody new. She had the UPS guy who brought her Winestogo.com deliveries trained to leave packages on her doorstep.
The knocking continued, so she blew out her candles and quietly snuck into the bathroom. She pulled the curtain aside and peered out the window to see a bright-yellow VW bug in her drive. From her vantage point, she could see only the sneaker-clad feet of a man standing at her front door. Red high-tops. He was yelling, “Hello? Hellooo?”
She let the curtain fall and stepped away from the window.
“I’ll only be a moment, ma’am,” the man shouted. “I just have a question for you.”
“Damn.” He had seen her at the window. He could be a pesky reporter. Once or twice a year, a tenacious one would appear, wanting to do a follow-up story. “Whatever happened to Sophie Albright? Six years later…” That kind of thing.
“Hello. Ms. Albright? I know you’re home. Just one moment of your time. Please.”
Jesse went downstairs and through the maze of boxes. This guy was persistent. If she didn’t get rid of him now, he would probably come back—or worse, he would sit and wait for her to leave the house. She tiptoed to the front door, waited, and listened.
“I’m here about a young woman. A missing girl. Please open up.”
Jesse’s heart lurched. It wasn’t Mallory, the FBI agent who had been tracking the case; she would have recognized his voice, and he always called before coming over. She hadn’t seen him in two years. Maybe they assigned a new agent to the case. Maybe there’s actual news. She sometimes wished she would get that phone call or visit from a policeman saying, “We think your daughter’s been found. You have to come identify the remains.” Wouldn’t it be better knowing? Would it?
She unlocked the door and threw it open. Standing in her doorway was a tall black man casually dressed in black jeans and a white button-down shirt with a flowered necktie. And those red high-tops.
“Why didn’t you say why you were here in the first place?” Jesse said.
“Didn’t you hear me knocking?”
“Yes, yes.” Her hand smacked the air as if waving away his words.
“What information do you have? Is she alive? Have you found her?”
The wind gusted, and his tie fluttered up so she could see the label on the backside. Zone. It figured. She opened the door wider and let the man in.
“You know about her?” He took off his cap and placed it on a table near the door that held keys and mail and a piece of folk art—a six-inch black crow made out of metal. Jesse had bought it for Sophie at a flea market. Sophie loved it and wanted to keep it in the living room so everyone could see it. “Crows are super smart,” she’d said, “and this one is good luck.”
He looked at Jesse. The man’s hair was cropped close to his head. His eyes were darker than his skin, which was the color of a warm teak wood. He looked young, although Jesse couldn’t guess his age. He could have been in his thirties or his fifties. The expression “Black don’t crack” popped into Jesse’s head. She’d heard Oprah say it on TV, and it had made her laugh at the time. Oprah was right, at least about this guy. He had no wrinkles or signs of stress.
He held himself with confidence as he gazed around the living room. His smile faded as he took in all the piles of junk. His eyes seemed to rest on a bouquet of dusty plastic tulips then moved on to a small black-and-white TV, its rabbit ears askew. “Is this some kind of…” He made a gesture with his hands while he searched for the word. “Recycling center or something?”
Jesse shook her head. “No, no. Never mind that. The reason you’re here. The girl. Please just tell me.”
“Right, of course. I’m sorry.” He put his hand out to shake hers, but she ignored it. “I’m Kentucky Marcus Barnes. A private investigator. I’m here about a young woman—”
“You said that. What about her? Get to the point.”
“Her name is April Johnson. She’s been missing now for three weeks. She’s from Parsippany, New Jersey, and I’ve been hired by her family to locate her. She was—”
“What?” Jesse cut him off. “April Johnson? You mean Sophie. Sophie Albright. My daughter. What’s wrong with you?”
He took a step back and held up his hands. “I think there’s some misunderstanding here.”
Jesse took a deep breath. “You mean you’re not here about Sophie? You know nothing about Sophie? Who the hell are you?” She picked up his cap, shoved it into his gut, and pushed him toward the door. “Get out.”
“Now, Miss… Ms. Albright. Wait a second, please. Please. I’m looking for a missing girl. I have reason to believe that you may have seen the very girl I’m searching for. You might be able to help. Don’t you want to help?”
Jesse felt the shooting pain in her chest that came and went and placed her hand near her heart. What kind of cruel joke is this? She had nothing left in her to give. She sighed and shook her head. “I haven’t seen anyone. I don’t see people.”
© Marlene Adelstein 2018
This is an excerpt from the novel Sophie Last Seen by Marlene Adelstein, Red Adept Publishing 2018.
The initial sight of the living room was always a shock, as if she’d forgotten how she’d left it. She inhaled sharply. Years’ worth of ephemera and objects were stacked in overflowing boxes that lined the perimeter of the room then turned into a mazelike pathway shoved next to the couch and chairs. Jesse had haphazardly labeled the boxes in black marker. Paper boxes held massive mounds of notes, letters, clippings, lists, and receipts. Others were marked Jewelry, Clothing, Metal, Wood, Toys, Knick-knacks, and Miscellaneous. The boxes held everything from passionate love letters to quirky shopping lists and broken eyeglasses to rusted mufflers. She collected anything and everything that people had lost or discarded. Her living room looked like a junkyard—an organized one but a junkyard nonetheless.
She’d heard people in town talking about her behind her back, mumbling about hoarding. They would glance at her with disapproving looks. She supposed they’d seen her hauling her finds into her truck or noticed the piles that had started to accumulate next to the barn, where she stored the larger items she didn’t bring inside: a busted Raleigh bicycle, a store mannequin, and funny-shaped metal pieces whose purpose she couldn’t begin to guess. The No Stopping sign would go there. She realized the piles made it look like the house of one of those scary hoarders on reality TV, and she even attempted watching an episode once to convince herself otherwise. Those hoarders were disgusting. Some had bugs and rodents in their homes, crawling out of their dirty stuff. That wasn’t her. Her house was a bit cluttered, but each piece was important, and she was clean. She had quickly shut off the show but Googled “the difference between collecting and hoarding” to prove to herself she wasn’t crazy. Collectors displayed their items proudly. Compulsive hoarders were often isolated, embarrassed by their habits, and very distressed when confronted with the prospect of discarding their items. She had shouted, “I’m not a hoarder. I’m a mother, damnit!” and slammed down the lid of her laptop.
When she was part of a real family with Cooper and Sophie, the house was a normal home. Tidy. Cozy. The scent of baking apple pie or chocolate chip cookies wafted through the place. But that was before That Day, before she began finding things. It began with Sophie’s birding book, the Bixby Bible. After Sophie went missing, Jesse had found it next to Sophie’s bed. That wasn’t unusual since she studied it obsessively. It was the bookmark at Chapter One, How to Find Birds, with its pink-highlighted passages that convinced Jesse her daughter was guiding her. To find birds, you must pay close attention and be patient. Stop. Wait. Watch. And most of all… listen. Bixby’s Birder’s Bible became her Bible, and she carried it with her everywhere.
Then she began finding scraps of paper in books at work: funny lists and letters, love notes, photos, even money. After a while, she was also finding things outside of work. On the sidewalk, in her grocery cart, or caught in her hair after being blown by the wind. The finds were amusing, fun to collect, and she was convinced they came to her specifically via Sophie or her spirit. Before she knew it, she had quite a stash. But soon, she began finding other objects, which she collected, as well. Single gloves. Old toasters. Costume jewelry. Lampshades. Tools. Once, she even found a prosthetic leg. They seemed to have been dropped in her path, left exclusively for her.
So she filled up her house with these clues—that was how she thought of them. She was convinced that with Bixby and Sophie as her guides, she would follow the various finds to the answer of what had happened. She had to.
In the days right after Sophie disappeared, Canaan had been transformed into a freakshow, with police, FBI, television trucks, and news crews all bustling about. Jesse and Cooper’s home had been turned into missing person central. Police scoured their house for clues. Tables were set up in the dining room, with laptops and call-in phone lines for people to report possible sightings. Maps noting locations to be searched were tacked on a large bulletin board. Friends canvassed neighborhoods, distributing flyers. Neighbors brought in pans of lasagna. Jesse had wandered the house in a daze. She had seen things like that in movies, on the news, but even in her tranquilized state back then, she’d understood it was real. It was her life. But with each passing month, as hope dwindled, fewer people came. The phone rang less. The lasagna deliveries stopped.
Six whole years later, the “case,” as the FBI called her missing daughter, had gone “cold.” Sophie had become one of those missing children who had fallen into a black abyss, never to be seen or heard from again. The commotion in town had died down. Morning gossip over coffee at Earl’s Café had finally reverted to benign topics: talk of the new roof for the town hall or a potluck fundraiser for the church.
Jesse grabbed a bottle of red wine and carried it upstairs to her bedroom, poured herself a glass of wine then put on sweatpants and a T-shirt. She lit two white votive candles on an altar she’d made. Holding to her heart a little plastic figure of the saint she’d purchased off the internet for $14.95, she recited, “Saint Anthony, lead me to my daughter. I have faith in you. News about my daughter will come to me in a good way, for the good of all, with harm to none.” Saint Anthony was patron saint of lost things and missing persons. She’d read about the ritual online, thanks to her mother, who was always emailing her information she claimed would help her find Sophie.
Even though she’d had absolutely no results, Jesse found the ritual oddly comforting. The Saint Anthony instructions said, “When the ritual is completed, eat something of the earth,” and Jesse was sure that fermented grapes in liquid form qualified as earthly. And maybe, she justified, the more she drank of the earth, the closer she would be to finding Sophie. She finished one glass and poured another.
Jesse had hermited herself away, going out only when she had to, avoiding old friends, and doing her food shopping late at the all-night Stop-n-Shop. Only an occasional delivery man came to the house anymore. So when Jesse heard loud knocking at her front door, she assumed it must be somebody new. She had the UPS guy who brought her Winestogo.com deliveries trained to leave packages on her doorstep.
The knocking continued, so she blew out her candles and quietly snuck into the bathroom. She pulled the curtain aside and peered out the window to see a bright-yellow VW bug in her drive. From her vantage point, she could see only the sneaker-clad feet of a man standing at her front door. Red high-tops. He was yelling, “Hello? Hellooo?”
She let the curtain fall and stepped away from the window.
“I’ll only be a moment, ma’am,” the man shouted. “I just have a question for you.”
“Damn.” He had seen her at the window. He could be a pesky reporter. Once or twice a year, a tenacious one would appear, wanting to do a follow-up story. “Whatever happened to Sophie Albright? Six years later…” That kind of thing.
“Hello. Ms. Albright? I know you’re home. Just one moment of your time. Please.”
Jesse went downstairs and through the maze of boxes. This guy was persistent. If she didn’t get rid of him now, he would probably come back—or worse, he would sit and wait for her to leave the house. She tiptoed to the front door, waited, and listened.
“I’m here about a young woman. A missing girl. Please open up.”
Jesse’s heart lurched. It wasn’t Mallory, the FBI agent who had been tracking the case; she would have recognized his voice, and he always called before coming over. She hadn’t seen him in two years. Maybe they assigned a new agent to the case. Maybe there’s actual news. She sometimes wished she would get that phone call or visit from a policeman saying, “We think your daughter’s been found. You have to come identify the remains.” Wouldn’t it be better knowing? Would it?
She unlocked the door and threw it open. Standing in her doorway was a tall black man casually dressed in black jeans and a white button-down shirt with a flowered necktie. And those red high-tops.
“Why didn’t you say why you were here in the first place?” Jesse said.
“Didn’t you hear me knocking?”
“Yes, yes.” Her hand smacked the air as if waving away his words. “What information do you have? Is she alive? Have you found her?”
The wind gusted, and his tie fluttered up so she could see the label on the backside. Zone. It figured. She opened the door wider and let the man in.
“You know about her?” He took off his cap and placed it on a table near the door that held keys and mail and a piece of folk art—a six-inch black crow made out of metal. Jesse had bought it for Sophie at a flea market. Sophie loved it and wanted to keep it in the living room so everyone could see it. “Crows are super smart,” she’d said, “and this one is good luck.”
He looked at Jesse. The man’s hair was cropped close to his head. His eyes were darker than his skin, which was the color of a warm teak wood. He looked young, although Jesse couldn’t guess his age. He could have been in his thirties or his fifties. The expression “Black don’t crack” popped into Jesse’s head. She’d heard Oprah say it on TV, and it had made her laugh at the time. Oprah was right, at least about this guy. He had no wrinkles or signs of stress.
He held himself with confidence as he gazed around the living room. His smile faded as he took in all the piles of junk. His eyes seemed to rest on a bouquet of dusty plastic tulips then moved on to a small black-and-white TV, its rabbit ears askew. “Is this some kind of…” He made a gesture with his hands while he searched for the word. “Recycling center or something?”
Jesse shook her head. “No, no. Never mind that. The reason you’re here. The girl. Please just tell me.”
“Right, of course. I’m sorry.” He put his hand out to shake hers, but she ignored it. “I’m Kentucky Marcus Barnes. A private investigator. I’m here about a young woman—”
“You said that. What about her? Get to the point.”
“Her name is April Johnson. She’s been missing now for three weeks. She’s from Parsippany, New Jersey, and I’ve been hired by her family to locate her. She was—”
“What?” Jesse cut him off. “April Johnson? You mean Sophie. Sophie Albright. My daughter. What’s wrong with you?”
He took a step back and held up his hands. “I think there’s some misunderstanding here.”
Jesse took a deep breath. “You mean you’re not here about Sophie? You know nothing about Sophie? Who the hell are you?” She picked up his cap, shoved it into his gut, and pushed him toward the door. “Get out.”
“Now, Miss… Ms. Albright. Wait a second, please. Please. I’m looking for a missing girl. I have reason to believe that you may have seen the very girl I’m searching for. You might be able to help. Don’t you want to help?”
Jesse felt the shooting pain in her chest that came and went and placed her hand near her heart. What kind of cruel joke is this? She had nothing left in her to give. She sighed and shook her head. “I haven’t seen anyone. I don’t see people.”
© Marlene Adelstein 2018
This is an excerpt from the novel Sophie Last Seen by Marlene Adelstein, Red Adept Publishing 2018.
Narrated by Marlene Adelstein.
Narrated by Marlene Adelstein.
POST RECITAL
TALK
BR: Marlene, welcome to The Strange Recital.
TN: And congratulations on getting your novel published.
MA: Thank you very much.
BR: I heard you read from this novel some years ago, so I know it’s been a long journey. I’m interested in the publication part of that journey, but even more so in the writing part. What was your initial inspiration to tell this story?
MA: Well I thought the inspiration was from a news story back in 1979. There was a missing child, Eton Patz was his name and I think he was about six years old. I thought that was the inspiration – this news story, but then a few years ago I had a dream. I had already begun writing the novel and this dream was a list of three items and it was the kind of the hidden meaning of this novel – what was buried in my subconscious, and the third item was the Eton Patz news story but the first meaning was my own missing child and the second meaning was my inner child. So I think I was trying to work out... you know, some things going on inside and readers wouldn't necessarily know any of these meanings, and they don't need to know them to hopefully enjoy the story. But that was... you know, it never happened to me before.
BR: Wow, a dream right.
MA: Yeah.
TN: That’s interesting. Some of my writing's inspired by dreams too. And even when it’s not, I like to bring dream logic, or non-logic, directly into my work. Whereas you converted the dream, or used it, to create a more traditional story. Different styles.
MA: Yeah, yeah, the dream I think guided me to why I was writing and maybe why it took me so long to complete the novel and the whole process.
BR: I like the fact that an accidental synchronicity happened again, where we have thematic similarities between adjacent stories on our podcast. Our previous episode, which was a story of mine, was also partly about people going missing in one’s life, you know the empty space that’s left, what their return might look like, you know, how we deal with all that. So without giving a spoiler, can you say more about how you address those ideas in Sophie Last Seen?
MA: Well definitely I deal with loss and grief, and the protagonist, Jesse the mother is dealing with intense loss. I love what you mention – the empty space from your story. It's something that I've written about before and I stumbled on a Japanese word, which is ma, which means the empty space, like the empty space of a bowl, or a canoe, or you know the space between words, or the missing person.
BR: Yeah.
MA: So it's a concept I think I'm drawn to as well.
BR: Well obviously so am I.
TN: Yeah, yeah. It might describe the empty space in Brent and my heads.
BR: Yeah, exactly. So tell us a bit about your writing process. Are you a plotter or a seat-of-the-pantser? First thought best thought, or a re-writer?
TN: And do you use autobiographical material much, or is everything strictly imaginary?
MA: First I'm definitely a plotter. I like to know how it begins and I want to know how the story is going to end. It's the middle for me that's always the hard part.
BR: Yeah.
MA: And of course the ending might change but I initially want to know what's going to happen. My first thought is not necessarily my best thought but I write down my first thought and then I will often try to ask myself what-if questions – what if the exact opposite thing might happen to my character, to try to make it more interesting or more challenging for the character. And as far as autobiographical material – definitely I have themes woven in, or dialogue that may have been said to me or things that I said, or I might use characters that I've witnessed but the plot, the story is definitely created and fictional.
TN: In this short excerpt, it’s hard to be sure: would you say Jesse has actually become a full-fledged hoarder but is in denial about it? Hoarding is a fascinating psychology -- the idea that every little thing is too important to let go of.
MA: Yes, I think she is definitely in denial and she's definitely hoarding but it's also her method of grieving and I think in... there's another character who uses other methods for her grieving, but Jesse does go on later to stop her hoarding. So it's kind of a temporary thing for her.
BR: Interesting. Maybe objects really can deliver messages. Not because they’re conscious but because they appear within our field of consciousness. We invent them along with their meanings.
TN: That's debatable. Do me a favour and don’t say “anything is possible” again please.
BR: Well, but… okay, okay I won’t.
TN: Thanks... Thank you.
BR: Anyway, I really like the odd twist that a P.I. comes to Jesse’s door looking for an entirely different missing girl, as if Jesse might have information. He doesn’t know about her daughter at all. So it's a mysterious intersection between the lives of strangers that has occurred here. We get the feeling that this will have a big impact on Jesse’s future.
MA: That's true. This character, this private detective definitely comes into the story and plays a big role. He becomes a guide of sorts. He's a wise man, a spiritual guide for her. I often thought of him as the 'dog-whisperer' on The National Geographic channel, who's always talking about being calm and assertive for your dogs and this character, the private eye has a very calm, assertive manner about him.
TN: Well now, to bring a note of bizarre surrealism to this interview, maybe you could tell us a little about how the publishing business operates.
MA: Well, how much time do you have?
TN: Not much.
MA: I don't know a whole lot. I mean I've learned a lot on this journey. I ended up going with a small press, definitely different than being published by, you know, Simon and Schuster or Random House but it's been a good experience and I'm learning a lot along the way, which is good and I can share it with my clients. I'm a book editor and they often are asking me the same question.
BR: Well good. Now you can talk from real experience.
MA: That's right.
BR: So I understand you’re doing some sort of virtual book tour. How does that work?
MA: Well there's a lot of book-bloggers all over and I've been connected with a number of them who will read the book and review it, and interview me. And then in cyber-space they will post on Instagram, and Facebook, and wherever else they can to spread the word, because that's the hard part when you're with a small press – is just getting the word out, getting people to know that the book exists.
BR: Well good. I’m glad we could become an impromptu part of your tour. So give us the details of your launch party that's coming right up.
MA: It's going to be at the Rosendale Café, Sunday January 13th from 2 to 4 o'clock. And everyone is welcome.
BR: Great.
TN: So Marlene, thanks for joining us.
BR: Yes.
TN: I think we learned something today.
BR: I did.
MA: Well thank you for having me.
BR: Marlene, welcome to The Strange Recital.
TN: And congratulations on getting your novel published.
MA: Thank you very much.
BR: I heard you read from this novel some years ago, so I know it’s been a long journey. I’m interested in the publication part of that journey, but even more so in the writing part. What was your initial inspiration to tell this story?
MA: Well I thought the inspiration was from a news story back in 1979. There was a missing child, Eton Patz was his name and I think he was about six years old. I thought that was the inspiration – this news story, but then a few years ago I had a dream. I had already begun writing the novel and this dream was a list of three items and it was the kind of the hidden meaning of this novel – what was buried in my subconscious, and the third item was the Eton Patz news story but the first meaning was my own missing child and the second meaning was my inner child. So I think I was trying to work out... you know, some things going on inside and readers wouldn't necessarily know any of these meanings, and they don't need to know them to hopefully enjoy the story. But that was... you know, it never happened to me before.
BR: Wow, a dream right.
MA: Yeah.
TN: That’s interesting. Some of my writing's inspired by dreams too. And even when it’s not, I like to bring dream logic, or non-logic, directly into my work. Whereas you converted the dream, or used it, to create a more traditional story. Different styles.
MA: Yeah, yeah, the dream I think guided me to why I was writing and maybe why it took me so long to complete the novel and the whole process.
BR: I like the fact that an accidental synchronicity happened again, where we have thematic similarities between adjacent stories on our podcast. Our previous episode, which was a story of mine, was also partly about people going missing in one’s life, you know the empty space that’s left, what their return might look like, you know, how we deal with all that. So without giving a spoiler, can you say more about how you address those ideas in Sophie Last Seen?
MA: Well definitely I deal with loss and grief, and the protagonist, Jesse the mother is dealing with intense loss. I love what you mention – the empty space from your story. It's something that I've written about before and I stumbled on a Japanese word, which is ma, which means the empty space, like the empty space of a bowl, or a canoe, or you know the space between words, or the missing person.
BR: Yeah.
MA: So it's a concept I think I'm drawn to as well.
BR: Well obviously so am I.
TN: Yeah, yeah. It might describe the empty space in Brent and my heads.
BR: Yeah, exactly. So tell us a bit about your writing process. Are you a plotter or a seat-of-the-pantser? First thought best thought, or a re-writer?
TN: And do you use autobiographical material much, or is everything strictly imaginary?
MA: First I'm definitely a plotter. I like to know how it begins and I want to know how the story is going to end. It's the middle for me that's always the hard part.
BR: Yeah.
MA: And of course the ending might change but I initially want to know what's going to happen. My first thought is not necessarily my best thought but I write down my first thought and then I will often try to ask myself what-if questions – what if the exact opposite thing might happen to my character, to try to make it more interesting or more challenging for the character. And as far as autobiographical material – definitely I have themes woven in, or dialogue that may have been said to me or things that I said, or I might use characters that I've witnessed but the plot, the story is definitely created and fictional.
TN: In this short excerpt, it’s hard to be sure: would you say Jesse has actually become a full-fledged hoarder but is in denial about it? Hoarding is a fascinating psychology -- the idea that every little thing is too important to let go of.
MA: Yes, I think she is definitely in denial and she's definitely hoarding but it's also her method of grieving and I think in... there's another character who uses other methods for her grieving, but Jesse does go on later to stop her hoarding. So it's kind of a temporary thing for her.
BR: Interesting. Maybe objects really can deliver messages. Not because they’re conscious but because they appear within our field of consciousness. We invent them along with their meanings.
TN: That's debatable. Do me a favour and don’t say “anything is possible” again please.
BR: Well, but… okay, okay I won’t.
TN: Thanks... Thank you.
BR: Anyway, I really like the odd twist that a P.I. comes to Jesse’s door looking for an entirely different missing girl, as if Jesse might have information. He doesn’t know about her daughter at all. So it's a mysterious intersection between the lives of strangers that has occurred here. We get the feeling that this will have a big impact on Jesse’s future.
MA: That's true. This character, this private detective definitely comes into the story and plays a big role. He becomes a guide of sorts. He's a wise man, a spiritual guide for her. I often thought of him as the 'dog-whisperer' on The National Geographic channel, who's always talking about being calm and assertive for your dogs and this character, the private eye has a very calm, assertive manner about him.
TN: Well now, to bring a note of bizarre surrealism to this interview, maybe you could tell us a little about how the publishing business operates.
MA: Well, how much time do you have?
TN: Not much.
MA: I don't know a whole lot. I mean I've learned a lot on this journey. I ended up going with a small press, definitely different than being published by, you know, Simon and Schuster or Random House but it's been a good experience and I'm learning a lot along the way, which is good and I can share it with my clients. I'm a book editor and they often are asking me the same question.
BR: Well good. Now you can talk from real experience.
MA: That's right.
BR: So I understand you’re doing some sort of virtual book tour. How does that work?
MA: Well there's a lot of book-bloggers all over and I've been connected with a number of them who will read the book and review it, and interview me. And then in cyber-space they will post on Instagram, and Facebook, and wherever else they can to spread the word, because that's the hard part when you're with a small press – is just getting the word out, getting people to know that the book exists.
BR: Well good. I’m glad we could become an impromptu part of your tour. So give us the details of your launch party that's coming right up.
MA: It's going to be at the Rosendale Café, Sunday January 13th from 2 to 4 o'clock. And everyone is welcome.
BR: Great.
TN: So Marlene, thanks for joining us.
BR: Yes.
TN: I think we learned something today.
BR: I did.
MA: Well thank you for having me.
Music on this episode:
Romanza, a Spanish guitar piece of anonymous origin,
played by David Temple from his album -- A Guitar Romance.
