Monday, October 10, 2016

The Illustrated Analysis of THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN

Christal Cooper


Right, media photo of Paula Hawkins on the London train.  Attributed to Kate Neil. 


The Illustrated Analysis of
THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN

THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN is published by Riverhead Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House, in hardcover on January 12, 2015 and in softback on July 12, 2016.



It is the first novel written by Paula Hawkins who worked as a journalist for fifteen years before she turned to writing fiction. 

Media photo of Paula Hawkins.  Attributed to Kate Neil 






Mixed Media Painting by Christal Rice Cooper 


THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN is a psychological thriller and a murder mystery, but on a much deeper level it is about three women – Rachel Watson, Megan Hipwell, and Anna Watson - connected by trauma, pain, a London suburban neighborhood, two men, and a train.

RACHEL
Rachel is still coming to grips with her divorce and her husband’s remarriage to his mistress, Anna, and the existence of their baby girl, Evie.  Rachel and Tom had tried to have children during their five-year marriage, but Rachel was not able to get pregnant, which led her to drinking. 
She is also having trouble of letting go and exhibiting obsessive behavior  – she can’t stop calling Tom, texting Tom, emailing Tom, and finally she can’t stop going to their house, the same house she and Tom once shared – number twenty-three Blenheim Road.
As a result she is unemployed, renting a room from a friend, and drinking to extreme excess.  There is one thing she finds solace from that doesn’t produce a hangover, vomiting, or blackouts – it is the London train.
She loves to listen to its music as the wheels caress the tracks; she loves to feel its vibrations as she rides in its carriage, almost as if it’s a mother and she is the baby protected and loved in the womb.  Finally, she never feels stuck, like she is always going somewhere, taking one step ahead. 
She rides the train Monday through Friday every morning at 8:04 and every evening at 5:56 p.m.  It is when the train makes its scheduled red traffic stop that she finds her greatest escape – at trackside house number fifteen Blenheim Road. 
It is here that the perfect couple lives – Scott and Megan Hipwell.  Every day and every evening she sees this couple, loving, perfect, beautiful, full of laughter and joy.
More importantly she can’t help but notice Megan and imagine her own reality of who Megan is and how perfect she is.  This Megan is her escape, her interpretation for what success is, what happiness is, everything she is not.  
But then she sees something that literally earthquakes her world and the depressed, tired drunk woman is full of energized rage.   Now her only escape and joy that she could find in her black and gray world has been shattered.  And this shattering sends her into a tailspin of sobbing rage – rage enough to want to kill. 
Then she wakes up to find blood on her face and on her hands.  And she can’t remember anything.


MEGAN
       Megan is blond, beautiful, talented, loves to paint but has secrets as well as unresolved pain over two deaths that happened in her life; pain of being a victim of statuary rape over a period of years; and, as a result, to find relief from that pain, Megan seeks sexual liaisons with other men.  This sexual addiction lasts for years and in the end, plays a role in her losing her art studio. 
Even though she is sure of her husband’s love for her, she can only imagine what he would do if he were to find out her secrets.   Or should she say sins.
She tries to fiend fulfillment not in these affairs but in being a nanny for a couple’s baby that lives a few houses down from hers.  But even this doesn’t suffice and she quits. 
Finally she decides to see a psychiatrist – Dr. Kamal Abdick, and is determined that she will get over this.  But then she can’t help but notice that Dr. Kamal Abdick is a very handsome man . .



ANNA
       Tom chose her over his ex-wife and she feels lucky, especially since she and Tom now have their own little baby girl Evie.  There are just two problems.
Anna never wanted to live in the house that he shared with his ex-wife Rachel.  She begs Tom for them to move to a different location, but he insists they cannot move due to financial reasons.
Rachel will not leave her, Tom and even their daughter Evie alone.  She is constantly calling, sending text messages and the final straw is when she takes baby Evie from their home into the family’s garden.  Anna is now full of panic, paranoia, and she can’t sleep nor focus. 
Anna wants to call the police but Tom tells her he will take care of it; that he doesn’t want to get Rachel in trouble.  Anna knows that Tom feels some guilt for Rachel and the trouble she is in now; after all, Tom left Rachel to be with her.
 But no matter what Tom does Rachel still some how manages to do something else– and this time Anne is even more panicked when she realizes that Rachel has been spending time with Scott, Megan’s husband – and she’s been spending time with Scott since Megan has disappeared. 
Anna is scared for herself and her family, but Anne also knows she should be scared of something else.  She just doesn’t know who or what that something else is. 



BETWEEN THREE WOMEN
       These three women share a bond so strong – the bond of pain, escaping from that pain, which is the condition of the world today.  We all respond differently to traumas -  rather it be alcohol, food, caffeine, sex, - the book delves into the mystery of a vanishing woman, who ends up being murdered, but more importantly the books explores the mystery of how we as women and men handle our grief, pain, and trauma.


        It also explores the question of at what risk should we as humans continue to escape from our pain?  These women escape through sexual addiction, construed reality, alcohol addiction, obsessive behavior, grandiose thoughts, and self-denial.  It seems to work – but only for a moment. 



       The Girl On The Train is all of us – trying to find some distraction from our boring, painful or just unsatisfactory lives.  We may not be on a train waiting for it to stop at the red light so we can view the beautiful couple on number fifteen Blenheim Road – but we are that person who sits at their sofa every night immersed in television or in bed at night immersed in a book.

Thursday, October 6, 2016

Scripted Interview With Tory Allyn on His New Book ALTER EGO . . . .

Christal Cooper




Scripted Interview With Tory Allyn
About His New Book Alter Ego


What is the short summary of Alter Ego?
Alter Ego is different from any other mystery novel on the shelves today. It brings you into the world of three detectives who couldn’t be more different. Each has their specialty to help solve the case. Add in an ancient elixir, a beautiful journalist, an aggressive FBI agent and characters good or bad; you might be surprised to which side you’re rooting for.




Can you give me the step-by-step process of Alter Ego from the moment it was first conceived in your brain until final book form?
I’ve had Alter Ego brewing in my brain since the mid 1990’s, but never had the time to commit it down on paper.


Tory Allyn modeling in the 1990s.

When my father died suddenly in the summer of 2009, it made me ponder over my own life. My priorities were in disarray, so I developed a plan to set time aside every day and wrote my novel.




Can you give a short biography of your personal life and career history?
I currently reside in Upstate New York. Although born in Syracuse, I was raised in the quaint town of Baldwinsville with my brother and two sisters, who drove me into becoming the zany person I am today.



The Emita II passes through Lock 24 across from Paper Mill Island in downtown Baldwinsville.

As a child, I made up many a tale. Some funny; others dark and brooding, but all started me on the path to writing.

Today, my nephew, lovingly referred to as ‘The Monster Child’, is my partner in crime. Most days you will see us playing ball at a nearby park, going for a dip in the backyard pool, hitting the gym or snowboarding down a popular mountainside.

Can you give me a short biography of you as a writer?
When I finally made the commitment to write down my ideas, my manuscripts just poured out of me. I didn’t want to stop. Sometimes, I’d write all day, but the eyes became strained and my brain was drained.

Can you give me a short biography of your education history?
I have taken some courses, seminars, webinars and workshops to help me with various aspects of writing.

Where did you do most of the writing for Alter Ego?
In my man-cave. I could think in a quiet atmosphere and feel my characters. I touched the keys on my laptop. I smelled the chimney as it dispenses its aroma, and tasted the banter between the detectives. I’d see each of them vividly.

When you wrote it did you use pen and paper or laptop? Did you write at a certain time of day?  Did you have to have music playing, or a certain drink or snack?
I first used pen and paper to make a grid, but I typed it on my laptop in the early morning with a cup of coffee by my side.

How long did the process of writing Alter Ego take?
I wrote Alter Ego in the fall/winter of 2009. When finished, I had more to say…a lot more, so I kept writing…and writing…and writing. At the end, I had four novels, which include – Alter Boys, Altered State, and Alter Bound.  All are in a series entitled The Davenport Decrees.  



What was the most compelling part of the book for you to write and why?  May I include it as an excerpt?
It was definitely the beginning. It had to grab the attention of readers, so I worked on it for quite some time. Yes, you may include an excerpt.

What writers or books influenced you in writing Alter Ego?
There wasn’t one particular book that influenced me. Although I read many of John Grisham’s earlier work, it had no bearing on my writing.



I delved into actual books about writing, editing, marketing, etc. I also picked up, ‘Self-Editing Guide for the New Writer’ on Smashword. It helped me immensely and I recommend it for anyone who is considering a foray into writing.





Can you go into detail about the publishing process?
First and foremost, I went on the Internet and typed in, ‘Mystery publishers who are accepting unsolicited manuscripts (or whatever genre your manuscript falls under). I found three, so I contacted them, and because I had four manuscripts in my series, they all sent me a contract. I went with the best one for myself- Spume Publishing.

Anything you would like to add?

Never—and I do mean—never pay for a publisher to publish your manuscript. As a matter of fact, when you do find a publisher(s), check out, ‘Predators and Editors’. It will save you from going down the wrong road.


Excerpt from Chapter 1 of Alter Ego

Sirens echoed in the distance as Jack Stanwick entered the rural town of Rockfort, Virginia. Another gruesome discovery led the local boys to claim jurisdiction—but the Bureau had their own ideas and about to pull rank. After he sliced through the necessary red-tape and secured the needed sanctions, FBI Director Gordon Weaver issued an order to survey the tragedy and retrieve all remnants from Granite’s Mill.
With hardly a resident looking his way, Jack hastened through the four-way stop and hurried up Old Gulch Road. He noticed the sparse trees had turned into a dense forest that dimmed an already cloudy sky. So after a quick flick of his wrist, the headlights came on.
As the car gained speed, it careened along the crushed-stone route. The loose gravel struck the undercarriage like a hail of bullets. At the same time, the screeching cry of police horns blared louder with each impending tread. It put him on high alert. While the adrenaline surged, he sped over a hill and caught sight of the glaring flares that inflamed his path, which improved his view. The crime scene now became visible.
Jack veered off onto a dusty road and pulled ahead of the pack of scattered cars. He shut off the engine, peered out the windshield and eyed the disarray of yellow police tape that encircled the crime scene. All the grave facial expressions gave weight to what lay just ahead.
Here we go again! His mind raced.
He reached over to unlock the glove compartment and removed a mini-recording device. Once his throat cleared, he pushed the corresponding buttons and spoke in a deep and sturdy voice, “This is Special Agent Jack Stanwick. It’s Sunday, the twenty-sixth of October and the time is…” He looked at his watch then continued logging the rest of his statement. When finished, he shed the blazer and put on his FBI jacket. He shoved the gadget into a pocket and turned it back on.
Jack unbuckled his seatbelt and thrust open the door. He emerged from the car and was overtaken by a brisk wind that stiffened his face and stirred his spine. With a quick zip of his jacket, he advanced toward the group of men who had gathered around as if in a football huddle. One of the local cops approached him.
“You must be the FBI agent?” Out came a hand. “I’m Deputy Morton Talbot.”
Jack grasped it. He noticed how the gun holster hung loosely around the deputy’s waist; seemingly held up by a uniform that was one size too big.
“You got here mighty quick.”
“I drove like a banshee.” Jack turned and stuck his head between the congregated men. “Why is everybody just standing here?” He looked down at a body partially covered with leaves.
“We don’t want to touch anything until Chief McAllister gets here.”
Jack pulled his head out from the group. “Where is he?”
“The chief is on his way up from Gallagher County. He’s been visiting his brother over the weekend.” The deputy glanced at his pocket watch. “He should be here any minute.”
Jack was raised to be respectful, but also knew cops from the South played by their own set of rules. If things weren’t done their way, an investigation could come to a screeching halt and critical clues would be lost. “I take it you haven’t started processing the crime scene? His eyes narrowed. “You know crucial evidence is disintegrating.”
“Like I said before, we’re waiting for the chief.”
Realizing the jig—a name he called the dance—Jack prepared for another whirl. “Can’t you can initiate things?” He wanted to plant the seed. “Aren’t you second in command?”
“Ah…yeah.”
“Where’s my CSI team?”
“Right behind you.”
Jack spun around his head and noticed some FBI vans from Quantico, Virginia.
“We’ve got our folks standing by,” Deputy Talbot said. “I told your team that.”
“C’mon people, you can at least take pictures.” He pointed down. “I need those tire marks cast.”
Nobody moved.
“Damn it!” His body wrenched. “Where’s the camera? I’ll start this investigation myself.”
“Oh no ya won’t,” bellowed a loud, crass voice. The man bustled his way through the crowd. “This here’s my case that happened in my county that happened in my state.”
Jack stood in the presence of the South’s Wyatt Earp. He was a short, portly dynamo. Stuffed in an old suit with cowboy boots, he looked like a real hellcat. “You must be Chief Denton McAllister?”
“You’d be right, son.”
“I’m FBI Special Agent Jack Stanwick.” He stuck out his hand.
The chief ignored it, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigar. He bit off an end, ran it under his nose then popped the blunt into his mouth and lit it. His eyes darted toward Deputy Talbot. “What’s all this excitement about?” His heavy drawl languished. “Have ya found Jimmy Hoffa?”
A sharp burst of laughter erupted from his men.
“No,” Deputy Talbot answered. “It’s more like a freak
show.”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” Jack piped up.
The chief took a steady puff of his stogie. “I reckon I’ll be the judge of that.”
Jack gritted his teeth. These were backwoods boys and he knew nothing would get done if they weren’t treated with kid gloves.   “You know by all accounts the FBI would be taking over this case once we were informed.” His voice remained calm and steady.
“I know the playbook, son.” The fiery tip of Chief McAllister’s cigar floundered with every word.  “Your boss called the governor and raised a hell of a dickens.”
       “I don’t know anything about that.  What I do know is I’ve got to haul this body up to our medical examiner, and soon, so I need my CSI team to do their job.”
The chief blew his noxious mist into the air.  “Can I at least take a gander at the body before those fellas get in my way?”
“Just don’t drop my ashes on the crime scene,” Jack countered.