Renée Ryan

A1 – Story Statement:

A sixteen-year-old runs away to find her estranged father at the iconic music festival in her last hope for a family after her mother’s sudden death.

A2 – Antagonist:

The antagonist in my novel is multi-layered, a combination of forces that stand in opposition to Emma Joy's goals and growth. Here’s how the antagonistic forces play out:

1. Chase (Her Father)

• While Chase isn’t a villain, his absence and inability to fulfill the role of a stable parent represent one of Emma Joy’s greatest emotional struggles. He symbolizes her longing for connection, and his elusiveness challenges her idealized view of family.

• His charm and promises create hope but also threaten to let her down, forcing Emma Joy to grapple with whether he can truly be the father she needs.

2. Sheriff Mosby

• Although Mosby cares for Emma Joy and ultimately becomes a source of support, he acts as an obstacle to her freedom and quest to find her father. His relentless pursuit forces her to navigate challenges and confront truths about safety, loyalty, and love.

• His presence complicates Emma Joy’s journey, representing the structure and rules she’s trying to escape.

3. Emma Joy Herself

• Emma Joy’s internal struggles, including her anger, guilt, and idealized perceptions of her father, act as an internal antagonist. Her impulsive decisions and lies often create additional hurdles, making her own growth the ultimate battle.

4. The Journey and Circumstances

• The physical journey itself—limited time, lack of resources, and encounters with dangerous or unsettling people—creates external antagonistic forces that challenge Emma Joy’s resolve and resilience.

• The realities of navigating 1969 as a vulnerable young girl add tension and stakes to her quest.

5. The Passage of Time

• The ticking clock of the five-day timeline is an ever-present antagonist, heightening the stakes of her journey. It pressures Emma Joy to act impulsively, increasing the risk of failure.

The antagonistic forces in my novel are layered, with external and internal struggles blending to shape Emma Joy’s path to self-discovery and redefine her understanding of family.

A3 – Title Options

Road to Woodstock

Chasing the Last Note

Notes in the Mud

A4 – Comparable Novels

Other Birds: A Novel by Sarah Addison Allen

Other Birds resonates with stories about loss, family, and finding unexpected connections, much like Emma Joy’s journey.

The Lost Bookshop by Evie Woods

It focuses on rediscovering the past and finding one’s place in the world, paralleling Emma Joy’s search for her father and her own identity.

The Invisible Hour by Alice Hoffman

Hoffman's signature blend of magical realism, strong female protagonists, and exploration of family ties mirrors the essence of Emma Joy’s journey.

A5 – Hook Line/Summary:

Set in August 1969, sixteen-year-old Emma Joy Ryder sets out from Woodstock, Georgia, to Woodstock, New York, to find her estranged father at the iconic music festival, her last hope for a family after her mother’s sudden death.

Summary:

In the sweltering summer of 1969, amidst the echoes of a nation in turmoil, sixteen-year-old Emma Joy Ryder embarks on a journey of self-discovery that will lead her from the dusty roads of Woodstock, Georgia to the legendary fields of Woodstock, New York.

After the sudden death of her mother, Emma Joy finds herself alone in the world. Determined to avoid the fate of foster care, she sets out on a quest to find her long-lost father, who abandoned his family ten years ago. With only five days to cover the daunting 925-mile journey, Emma Joy faces not only the physical challenges of the road but also the relentless pursuit of Sheriff Mosby, a family friend and love interest of her mother, who is determined to bring her back to safety. Adding to the complexity is the unexpected presence of her mother's apparition, who materializes out of thin air whenever the notion strikes her.

As Emma Joy makes her way north, she lies easily and with conviction to garner sympathy and rides. Along the way, she meets a diverse cast of characters, from a grieving peach farmer struggling under the remnants of the Jim Crow laws of the South to a young man named Stephen who’s headed to Woodstock for what he’s convinced will be his final hurrah before dying in Vietnam. Thus begins a poignant but brief love story between the two set against the free love backdrop of the festival.

Then Emma Joy stumbles upon her long-lost father, and he pledges to be the daddy she wants. Yet, despite his promises and pledges, she realizes that paternal love and responsibility cannot be bestowed upon command. Instead, it is forged through shared experiences, unconditional support, and genuine connection. And though her journey may have begun with a desperate search for her Daddy, it ultimately leads her to a deeper understanding of the enduring power of love and belonging, both chosen and found within the muddy grace of Woodstock.

A6 – Inner Conflict

Emma Joy's inner conflict revolves around her longing for connection and stability versus her fear of rejection and abandonment. At the core of this struggle is her idealized belief that finding her estranged father, Chase, will fill the void left by her mother’s death and give her the family she desperately craves. However, she grapples with doubts about whether Chase can be the father she needs—or if he even wants to be.

This conflict is further complicated by her internalized fear that she is unworthy of love and belonging, which stems from the pain of being left behind by her father and the uncertainty of her place in the world after her mother’s death. As she journeys north, Emma Joy’s self-doubt manifests in her impulsiveness, lies, and the need to prove her independence, all while she struggles to reconcile the idealized version of family with the reality of human imperfection.

Ultimately, Emma Joy’s inner conflict drives her toward a deeper understanding of herself and the realization that the love and stability she seeks may not come from the person she expected—but from the family she chooses to embrace.

Inner Conflict Scene:

We perched on top of an old school bus, the metal radiating heat beneath us as Santana's electric performance filled the summer air. Daddy leaned toward me, his voice low and reverent as he explained the chords, why they worked together, and how the fusion of the Congas was something rock and roll had never seen before.

I didn’t know much about music, not like he did, but I listened anyway. I watched him more than I listened, really. The way his face transformed with every swell of melody fascinated me. His expressions weren’t guarded or careful—they were wide open like the music had stripped something raw inside him.

My gaze drifted to his hands, resting lightly on his knees. His left fingertips were thick and rough, callused from years of chasing melodies across strings. They told a story of late nights in smoky bars, of a life he’d chosen over us. Over me.

He must have felt me staring because he squeezed my hand, and for a moment, the resentment I carried softened just a little. I forced myself to stay in the moment, to hold on to what was right here beside me: his hand in mine, the music weaving its way between us like it could stitch up all the wounds he’d left behind. Maybe this time, it would be different. Maybe now that he’d had a chance to know me—to see me for who I was and what I needed—he wouldn’t leave again.

But then I looked at his face, really looked. His eyes weren’t here. They were somewhere far away, somewhere the music had taken him. Somewhere I couldn’t follow.

Secondary Conflict:

Emma Joy’s journey takes her from the safety and simplicity of her small-town 1960s upbringing—defined by traditional values, racial segregation, and limited opportunities for women—to the chaotic, boundary-pushing world of Woodstock, civil rights movements, and the looming shadow of Vietnam.

Each encounter exposes her to new ideas, cultures, and conflicts that challenge the sheltered perspective she didn’t even realize she held.

Secondary Conflict Scenario: Vietnam and the Fragility of Life: Through Stephen, the young man she falls for, Emma Joy directly faces the specter of Vietnam and the loss it promises. Stephen shares with her that he has a premonition that he will die in Vietnam, and Emma Joy’s acquaintance with sacrifice deepens her understanding of the world’s harsh realities.

Secondary Conflict Scene:

“I keep having this dream, and it’s as real as you and me sitting here,” Stephen said, his voice low, almost reverent. I leaned in closer, the faint glow of the lantern between us painting his face in flickering shadows. “More like a premonition. I had one like it before my parents were killed, but no one believed me. Said I was too young to know anything. But I did. I sensed it coming.”

The weight of his words pulled at me, and I shifted closer, my knees brushing against his. His eyes, usually steady, flickered with something I couldn’t name—fear, maybe. Resignation.

“In the dream,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, “I walk into our little church back home. It’s packed, but no one’s talking. Just crying. People I know. Teachers I’ve had, friends from high school, Janice from the post office, even Bill Parsons, my old swim coach. Girls I’ve dated. Girls I wanted to.”

The lantern hissed, threatening to go out, but the light steadied again as he paused. I held my breath, afraid to break whatever fragile thread he was spinning between us.

“There’s bagpipe music playing,” he said, his voice tightening. “And Poppy is sitting in the front row next to the preacher. He’s all slumped over with grief, his hands shaking. The preacher keeps glancing at this flag-draped coffin. My coffin.”

I flinched, the air between us suddenly sharp and cold.

“There’s this huge red and white funeral wreath propped up on a stand,” Stephen went on, “with a sash says, ‘Beloved Grandson.’”

His words chilled me to my core. The light from the lantern flickered and threatened to go out but hissed back into a full circle of flame. We sat in silence and the shadows as I constructed a hundred different arguments in my head as to how he couldn’t humanly know this. In the end, though, all I came up with was, “Don’t say that. You might jinx yourself.”

Stephen’s eyes met mine, steady but distant, as if he were already walking through that church, hearing the bagpipes play. “Don’t say anything to the others,” he said. “They wouldn’t understand.”

“Why did you tell me?”

“I thought you’d understand,” he said.

I did understand. I just didn’t know that it showed on me. “You’re coming back from Vietnam,” I said, the words strong and slow with a surety that God himself could hear and honor. “You’re not going to die.”

He smiled faintly, a shadow of the grin I knew so well. “Not today.”

“Not for a long time,” I insisted, my voice steady, a quiet prayer disguised as a promise.

We sat there in the dim light, the lantern hissing softly between us. The night pressed close, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears, but I clung to the sound of my own words, willing them to be enough.

A7 – Setting:

In the sweltering summer of 1969, Emma Joy Ryder begins her journey in the Deep South, where the air hangs thick with humidity and tradition. Her hometown of Woodstock, Georgia, is a sleepy, close-knit community cloaked in the rhythms of small-town life—screen doors creak on their hinges, cicadas hum in the dense heat, and narrow streets are bordered by cotton fields and magnolia trees. The town’s slow pace and conservative values mirror the sheltered life Emma Joy is eager to leave behind.

As she ventures north, the journey takes her through the heart of a transforming America. Along the winding two-lane highways, she passes through towns where the scars of civil rights struggles linger; roadside diners hum with the chatter of travelers, and coal trucks lumber through Appalachian backroads, leaving trails of diesel fumes. The land itself changes with her progress—from the red clay of Georgia to the rolling green hills of the Mid-Atlantic, and finally, to the muddy fields and kaleidoscopic chaos of Woodstock, New York.

I lost my mother in 1969, in one of the hottest and most disagreeable summers on record. The country was mired in protests of the Vietnam War and civil rights unrest rose in magnitude with the heat. While John Lennon and Yoko Ono recorded “Give Peace a Chance” from their Montreal bed-in, Ronald Reagan launched his political career using the Berkeley campus anti-war demonstrations as a target. James Earl Ray pled guilty to the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King but that single bigoted bullet couldn’t stop the counterculture’s cascade of change. Young people wanted love not hate, and peace not war. They were fed up, disillusioned, and sought solace in drugs and music. It all came together in one moment of muddy grace in Woodstock, New York. Gathered that weekend in 1969 were the beatniks and the bewildered, the lovers and the losers, the unorthodox and the unwanted; all looking for answers and acceptance from a country that had none to give. ----------------------------------------------- PAGE BREAK ------------------------------------------------- MONDAY - AUGUST 11, 1969 Motherless Child Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child And I'm a long Yes, I'm a long way from my home ♮Richie Havens, Woodstock 1969 ---------------------------------------------- PAGE BREAK ------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER ONE Looking back on it now, I remember that the idea to run away came to me fully formed as I stood beside Mama’s coffin in my best dress while neighbors and friends milled past whispering that poor Emma Joy Ryder was now an orphan. Not technically, I wanted to argue, but sensing the time and place weren’t right, I ignored the whispers that clung to the funeral parlor carnations. Sheriff Mosby stood at the other end of the coffin. He was Mama’s friend, and sometimes more, as Mama used to say. Mosby had never been a handsome man, but now with the haggard look of grief pulling at his features, he looked older than his fifty years. Miss Snyder, the county social worker, stood at the back of the room in a brown polka-dot dress with wet circles beneath each armpit. She’d cornered me before the service to tell me Mildred Reamer had graciously agreed to take me on as a foster child and for Mosby to drive me right on over there as soon as the service and reception ended. I knew old lady Reamer. She smelled like Vicks VapoRub and was known to keep a flask hidden in her marigolds while she gardened. I suspected the money she earned from fostering fed her cigarette and gin habit. The packed church held too many people and Miss Shelia sat at the organ pumping out melancholy music that added to the misery of the day. I stayed strong even as Pastor Chapman recited funeral verses from behind the pulpit. Mama and Daddy both were only children of only children so the smothered sobbing throughout the congregation came from friends and neighbors who were like family but not in the ways that mattered. If I had living relatives, then my fate might be different. Mosby sat still and stoic beside me like we’d made a pact to not fall to pieces in front of an audience. The congregation moved as a pack to the fellowship hall when the service ended and the men hauled folding tables out to the shade trees. Crisp white tablecloths that held a faint smell of strong bleach were spread across the scarred wooden tops. Women in our town only knew one way to set things right when something bad happened and it involved baking tins and casserole dishes. The ladies pressed a plate of food on me with the sanction that eating something would make me feel better. I knew it would not. A full stomach is not an eraser of grief. I left the untouched plate behind the church bell and asked Mosby to take me home. When we arrived, we both stood inside the front door for a full five minutes; just taking in the stillness of the house without Mama in it. We walked down the hallway to the kitchen from habit because that’s where Mosby was most comfortable. He walked to the sink and filled a glass of water to pour onto Mama’s potted geranium that had the audacity to sit pertly on the windowsill. “Mosby, I don’t want to live with Mrs. Reamer. She has two other girls living there and they don’t like me.” He set the glass upside down on the dish drainer and turned to face me. “How do you know they don’t like you?” he asked. “Because they wrote it on the wall in the girls’ restroom. Not just me. There’s a whole bunch of us on the cheer team that they don’t like.” “It will be fine. You tend to grow on a person.” “It won’t be fine. I want to find Daddy. He’ll come home and live with me.” “And how do you propose we do that?” I opened my purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper to place on the table and smoothed down the edges. A simple dove-and-guitar symbol advertised three days of music and peace. “Mama always said that he could be found around loud music and loose women. This music festival is being advertised everywhere.” “Emma Joy, you have no way of knowing if Chase will be there.” “I want to go find him,” I said boldly. Mosby took off his hat and rubbed a big hand across his forehead to knead a spot above his left temple. Mosby had long ears. Ears like a beagle pup so he looked better with a hat. “Chase should be the one looking for you. Not the other way around.” “Well that’s not happening and I need him now.” “And your mama needed him for a lot of years too but he took off anyway.” He placed his hat on his head and pulled it low over his eyes. “You go pack a few things and I’ll wait on the front porch.” I listened to his footsteps and the door bumped softly behind him. I’ll show him. I was sixteen and old enough to make my own decisions. I had given him a chance but now I would do it my way. I pulled all the cash out of Mama’s hiding place, bottom of the flour tin and coated in a fine film of white, and threw some clothes into a sad sack of a duffle bag that used to belong to Daddy. I stopped by the door and looked over at Gertrude, the goldfish that had lived longer than any other, swimming totally unaware in her glass bowl. I grabbed the Tupperware cereal container, dumped the corn flakes into the trash, rinsed it out and poured Gertrude into it with some fresh water. I pushed on the lid, until it gave a little burp of a seal then popped the pour spout at the top for air. I wasn’t prepared to bury anything else; Gertrude would have to travel with me. “I’m ready to go,” I told Mosby, stepping out on the porch. He rose from the rocking chair and took the bag from me. “Is this all you need?” he asked. “It isn’t much.” He nodded at the fish. “I see you’re taking Gertrude.” “I’m not taking much because I don’t need much. I can come home anytime and get more. And I’m sure Mrs. Reamer will have a bowl for Gertrude. If not, then I’ll get one tomorrow.” Mosby accepted my responses and locked the front door to hide the key behind a loose board on the porch. Hollyhocks grew against the base of the porch and stood on strong stems with blooms of pink, yellow, and lavender peeking through the porch railing. Painted white rocking chairs and a comfortable porch swing all held blue and white cushions that Mama made on her portable sewing machine. A wicker side table sat between the two rockers and its only purpose was to hold pitchers of iced tea or lemonade depending on the day and the mood. Baskets of cascading purple petunias spilled forth from all four corners and dropped petals that left little lavender stains on the faded gray boards. Mama and I spent a lot of time out here in all seasons. Fanning ourselves in the late summer heat or curling up under a blanket in the early winter months. Mama’s morning routine never varied. She’d wake, perk her coffee, and bring the mug out to the swing where she sat with one leg curled up under her and the other bare foot gently moving the swing back and forth. “What’s going to happen to the house?” I asked quietly. “No decisions have to be made anytime soon,” he said. “I know Carol paid off the mortgage two years ago.” I wanted to dig in my heels and refuse to leave. Grab onto the porch column with both hands and have to be physically removed kicking and screaming. This is what went through my mind even as I straightened my shoulders and stepped from the porch to the sidewalk. I’ll be back, I promised myself. We got in his sheriff’s cruiser and drove the two blocks to Mrs. Reamer’s house. He pulled over to the side of the street and we both looked at a house that had seen better days. The summer heat had already browned the grass and the black mailbox hunched sharply forward. “The mailbox is crooked,” I said. “Trey Thompson backed into it last week delivering groceries.” Mosby moved his big hands from the steering wheel. A trapped fly flung itself again and again into the windshield before finding the open window and making a mad dash for freedom. “I know that you don’t want to do this, but Mrs. Reamer is good with girls. It will be okay.” “You’re not a girl so you have no authority to know that,” I replied. “And you have no authority on not knowing that. You just need to give her a try. That’s all I’m asking,” he said reaching for the door handle. “You don’t have to walk me in.” I pulled my duffle bag from the floor to my lap. “Of course I’ll walk you in.” “No.” A trickle of sweat slid down my back into the elastic of my cotton panties. “I don’t want the other girls seeing me delivered by the sheriff.” He nodded by way of consent and reached across the seat to squeeze my hand hard. “How about I come by tomorrow evening and we’ll go get a bite to eat somewhere? “That will be fine,” I said automatically, even knowing that I wouldn’t be here. I got out of the car and raised a hand in farewell as he pulled away. I stepped behind a dimpled live oak and watched Mosby’s car round the corner. Across the street, a screen door slammed, and my would-be foster sisters slinked down the stairs to faded aluminum chairs set against the side of the house. They argued lightly and laughed raucously as they shared a proffered cigarette most likely from Mrs. Reamer’s stash. I did not like them. I did not want to become them. This was not my future. I secured my duffle bag messenger style and slipped away through the side streets and back alleys. There was no way around the Methodist fellowship hall since it sat smack in the middle of town, but I stayed behind overgrown azalea bushes. The double doors were still propped open as ladies carried empty dishes and covered cake pans back to their cars. I watched as Thelma Jackson paused beneath the shade of the chinaberry tree to hike her slip up under her skirt, and I pushed back further into the azaleas for fear of being seen. Thelma had brought strawberry Jell-O with a can of fruit cocktail dumped in it but it appeared to be going back home untouched. No one wanted Jell-O when the dessert table had been laden down with peach pies, pound cakes, and Mrs. Cash’s delicate lemon iced cookies. My stomach grumbled a little as I had not eaten earlier, and I realized that I would need food on the road, so I watched until Mary McKinney set an almost-empty platter of fried pork chops on the hood of her car while she returned back to the fellowship hall. I left my duffel bag in the azaleas and crept around the vehicles like it was a game of hide-and-seek. My heart raced as I scooped up the pork chops, still wrapped in wax paper, and scurried back to the bushes to grab my bag and hurry on down the road. I continued through the back alleys until I arrived at Eddie’s Esso Station. I planned to hide behind his trash dumpster until the opportunity presented itself to leave this town. The trashcans smelled of soured milk and sweat bees attacked my ankles with a vengeance that almost seemed personal. When Betty Phillips pulled up and parked toward the back of the building to disappear into the ladies room, I saw my chance. She had been my fourth-grade teacher and was known to have sensitive bowels after eating seeds or nuts of any kind. I sprang out from behind the dumpster and jerked open the car door. The keys dangled from the switch. I tossed my duffel bag on the floorboard and set Gertrude in the front seat. “Hey,” a muffled voice said from the back seat. My head struck the door panel for the fright I received. Jacob Phillips sat up rubbing his eyes and yawning wide enough for me to see that he’d lost his front teeth since I had last worked the kindergarten class during Vacation Bible School. “You woke me up,” he said. “Sorry.” My apology was automatic. He looked around, realizing for the first time that he was alone. “Where’s Mama?” “Bathroom.” Jacob scooted forward, his chubby little legs white against his red shorts. “Your mama’s dead,” he said in the blunt way that only the very young and the very old can do without providing offense. “Something bursted in her head,” he added. “Aneurysm.” I supplied him with the word that changed my life. “Did you cry?” I leaned against the doorframe. “Yes.” “I have a sucker.” From his pocket, he extracted a lime lollipop that had been licked and rewrapped. “No thank you.” I glanced toward the restroom. “I bet you would like an Eskimo Bar though,” I said. He looked at my empty hands. “Do you have one?” I pulled my quilted change purse from my bag and unzipped it. “I have a dime,” I said, handing him a coin. I opened the back door and lifted him out. He stood for a second and readjusted his twisted shirt. His brown hair lay matted and wet against one side of his face from sleeping on the vinyl seat. The door of the gas station opened and Gene Hickman exited, shaking a cigarette out of a new Marlboro pack. “Hey, Emma Joy. Jacob.” “Hey, Mr. Hickman.” Jacob and I each raised a hand in a half-wave. My wave was hurried though, a short choppy slice through the air as I sensed the passing of minutes a conversation would require. “Sorry, the missus and I didn’t make it to the funeral. Marilyn’s bunions are giving her problems and she couldn’t get her heels on.” He pulled a silver Zippo lighter from his front shirt pocket and lit his cigarette, taking one long drag before continuing. “Your mama was my daughter’s favorite teacher, you know. Said she never appreciated Shakespeare until she took Mrs. Ryder’s literature class.” I found the smile that I’d used all morning as others related Mama’s love for printed stories. “Thank you, Mr. Hickman. That means a lot to me.” He opened the door of his truck. “You call us if you need anything, you hear.” The truck pulled away with a flurry of dust and I waited until it left my sight before I grabbed Jacob’s shoulders and directed him toward the front door. “Give the dime to Big Ed and tell him what you want,” I said. He pocketed the dime and didn’t look back. “Stay inside the station and wait for your mama,” I called after him. “And tell your mama that I’ll return it soon.” “Okey-dokey,” he said, one hand over his pocket. The returning something didn’t register with him enough for a reply. I jumped in the car, turned the key, and the ‘69 Ford rumbled to life without hesitation. It still had the new car smell that burned the inside of your eyelids in a scratchy way. Mama’s car sat in Bailey’s garage because she’d forgotten to keep a check on the oil and the thing stalled on us, hissing out smoke and fumes in the middle of Main Street last week. I swallowed back the memory and spread out my marked-up map in the seat beside me. Mrs. Phillips had set the emergency brake so I released it, feeling the brake pedal dip under my foot. I slowed at the stop sign to engage my left turn signal and my fingers tightened around the steering wheel. I was scared to go, but even more scared to stay. I fixed my gaze straight ahead and did not look back in the rearview mirror. Woodstock Georgia had been home to me for sixteen years, but I was leaving to go to a town of the same name for a music festival in hopes of finding my tomcatting Daddy and bringing him home. I wasn’t an orphan. I had a father, even if I hadn’t seen him since he went out for Cheez Whiz ten years earlier. And God knows he may not have been much but now that Mama was gone, he was all I had.