Mud Season Publishing

Powder Dreams Cover

Powder Dreams: A Novel by David Ward-Nanney


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"You're going to be sucked into a no kidding, no bull, running description of a typical ski bum existence so quick you won't want to put the story down."

Mike Doyle
Skiing.about.com

"A fascinating window into what a classical analysis may be like from a patient's point of view... I thoroughly enjoyed reading Powder Dreams."

Warren Colman
Journal of Analytical Psychology

"To discover that Powder Dreams was not a simple 'ski novel' was thrilling and intellectually stimulating. I was hooked from the very first line."

Greg Stump
Legendary ski filmmaker and ISHA Lifetime Achievement Award recipient

"What I found, long before Ward-Nanney's first person protagonist Bo Grayson goes into therapy, was a book that I couldn't put down. Internal struggles are everywhere, rife with conflicts we can relate to and others that amaze, all woven together with Ward-Nanney's instinctual sense for storytelling."

David Weiss
Mr. Analysand blog at Psychology Today

"Powder Dreams is about a lot more than skiing. It never loses momentum and moves far beyond psychological introspection. I couldn't put it down."

Kristen Lummis
Brave Ski Mom blog



Description

Bo Grayson tells a mesmerizing story of two lives. The first is his early adult years, when he flees a tediously middle class existence in favor of the Bohemian against the backdrop of the Rockies and the Alps. The second story begins where the first ends, when he chases his fortune at the Merc and becomes matched with an enigmatic woman, Abby, and a Jungian analyst, Dr. Attfield.

It is David Ward-Nanney’s second novel.


Details:

Release Date: 1 October 2011

Category: Fiction

ISBN 978-0-9562639-1-9;Format: Paperback, 354 pages;

Price: US $9.99 / UK £8.75 / E 8,75€

ISBN 978-0-9562639-3-3; Format: Kindle and ePub;

Price: US $6.99 / UK £6.99 / E 6,99€


Excerpt From Section I: Fantasyland

Chapter 1

I received the letter commanding me to Mr. Pearson’s wake on April 28, 1987. He was an iconic figure in my world, the only literary man I had ever known, and the only person who dressed like the bourgeoisie but acted like an artist. It was the only wake to which I had ever been invited. Wakes are a thing of the past.

The night before the letter arrived, I had been mushrooming in the high altitude of Colorado, just ten minutes away from Keystone employee housing, where I lived for $50 a month.

The rent was deducted from my monthly paycheck. I thought this was especially convenient. It left the impression that I never had the money to begin with and that somehow I was living rent free. I am sure that if I had to pay the rent money in cash – I certainly did not have a bank account at the time – then I would have resented the digs, the sharing of the two bedroom apartment with three others, the cheapness of the construction and furnishings, and all the other little things that are wrong with a $50 a month apartment. In nearby Vail, single-bedroom apartments were going for more than a $1,000 a month, a price a busboy could not afford, even with three roommates.

I couldn’t even afford a phone, what is now called a landline, the only choice back then. This was before email and mobile phones, before the Internet was known beyond government scientists. The bulk of my communications came via letter. Opening the letter box outside our apartment was as close to a pedestrian existence as I came. Millions of apartment livers across the United States did exactly the same thing each day, Monday through Saturday. I scoffed at how tedious their existence must be. I knew that checking the mailbox was not the only thing that was routine for them. I could imagine their alarm clocks going off, their first snitty words of the morning to their spouses, their long tedious drive into soulless jobs. I laughed at their slave-like existence.

The last letter I had received from Mr. Pearson had warned me about my lifestyle, which was so very different from a domestic routine. “If you continue as you are and do not return to school, then you will surely remain a busboy or a waiter for the rest of your life.”

I was 19 years old. What did I care?

Mr. Pearson’s death had come as a surprise despite his ninety-three years of age. I had seen him just last October and he moved with the grace of a dancer. It was his training as an actor, I had been told, that gave him such physical command so late in life. As he had pulled our dinner together, basting a cut of beef, chopping garlic, rolling out buttermilk biscuits, he looked like a man who was very far from death. He was a spectacular presence in the world.

Why, I had wondered, did he want me around his house?

Excerpt © 2011 David Ward-Nanney