Susan Hayden aka L.A.’s “Library Girl” is known for nurturing writers via her curated local events. Her new book, Now You Are a Missing Person, captures the random uniqueness of Los Angeles, especially from a perspective of loss. The deaths of her father, her childhood best friend and her husband lead her down a path of self discovery and healing that also highlights the past and present vibes of this city, a place that can be lonely even in crowded places and overwhelming even in solitude. The untraditional memoir, which includes stories, poems and idea fragments, traces Hayden’s search for identity from the 1970s to the present– from growing up in an observant Jewish family in the San Fernando Valley to making a name for herself on the literary circuit with her poetry and music series.

Hayden, who is currently in the midst of her book tour (her recent Beyond Baroque launch sold out swiftly) will be reading and speaking with NYT Bestselling Author Steve Leder (For You When I Am Gone) at the event called “The Marriage of Love and Grief,” at Village Well Books & Coffee, 9900 Culver Blvd. #1B, Culver City; Thursday, June 29, 7 p.m. FREE. RSVP at eventbrite.com/e/susan-hayden-in-conversation-with-steve-leder-tickets.

The author shares an excerpt from the book with LA Weekly, below.

Susan Hayden

Susan Hayden (Alexis Rhone Fancher)

 

Excerpt from Now You Are a Missing Person shared with permission from author Susan Hayden and publisher Moon Tide Press:

He Called Himself a Very Late Bloomer

Was Harry Dean Stanton good friends with every woman I knew?
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He definitely touched my life, but only once, and it was nothing he would have ever remembered and something I’ll never forget. I wasn’t a starlet-type, certainly not his type, but when we met, he was gentle and attentive to me and that was life-changing. It was 1985 when I went with my friend Lori and her girlfriend Darlene to hear him sing love songs, mostly in Spanish, at McCabe’s Guitar Shop in Santa Monica. Darlene was close with him and mentioned to us that she’d consider having him father her child.
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That night, Madonna was there with Sean Penn. This was right around the time she was becoming one of the biggest pop stars in the world. She and Sean, recently married, were lightning bugs; glistening and out of place in the unassuming crowd of folkies. The two of them sat together in the folding seats of the front row of McCabe’s, as Harry Dean played guitar and sang songs that he would dedicate to their new love.
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After the concert, Lori, Darlene and I drove across town to Helena’s on Temple Street, where we had been invited by Harry Dean. When we got there, he was sitting in a booth with Madonna and Sean, who ignored us, even though we’d been asked by Harry Dean to come sit with them.
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Susan Hayden book

(Cover art by Hazel Angell- shared courtesy of Moon Tide Press)

I was insecure in those days, feeling like I wasn’t important enough for them to say “Hi.” And I wasn’t. And they didn’t. The only person who talked to me in that club was Harry Dean. I got to sit next to him and hear his simple but ancient wisdom, his quotes from Chief Seattle, about “this web of life” and “not leaving footprints,” about how there’s “no death, only a change in worlds.” He rambled on and I was all ears. This conversation ended up inspiring me to create a character like him in a play I would eventually write.

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I’d seen his tremendous talent as an actor in Paris, Texas and in numerous other films, including the best one, Straight Time. I remember him singing “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” and playing guitar in Cool Hand Luke. He was very well known but he wasn’t an icon yet. He was Tops in my book. What struck me that night at McCabe’s―watching Harry Dean interpreting these old-time ballads, not as a character in someone else’s film, but playing himself―was his tenderness.
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When in the booth at Helena’s, he gave me his full attention. I didn’t mention his acting roles or that I even knew who he was, but told him how much the songs he’d performed had moved me, particularly “Annabel Lee,” an adaptation of the Edgar Allan Poe poem about true love transcending death. He started singing it, a cappella, right there in a private concert for one.
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I confessed how shy and out of place I felt, told him I didn’t like being in crowded bars where I didn’t know anyone or at nightclubs around celebrities, that it made me uncomfortable, made me want to run away. He put his hand on my shoulder, looked deep into my eyes and said, “Honey, if you’re centered, you can be anywhere.” Then Madonna pulled him away, dragged him out to the dance floor. She was doing most of the dancing and whispering in his ear.
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Afterwards, he returned to the same spot where he’d been sitting, next to me. He wasn’t flirting or making moves, it wasn’t that sort of an exchange. He was calm and knowing and I felt like I could say anything to him and he wouldn’t think less of me.
In spite of his words about being centered, which I didn’t understand at the time, I couldn’t handle being at Helena’s. I didn’t belong there, so I told Lori and Darlene I wanted to leave. I said goodbye to Harry Dean and thanked him for all the poetic insight he’d shared. And he wrote down his phone number and home address and said, “If you want to talk again, I’m here for you.”
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But he had turned into a superstar of sorts. And when I’d think about calling him, he seemed out of reach.
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When he died more than thirty years from that night, I was sorry I never had the courage to call him or drive over there to continue the conversation. I sure could have used some more of his advice.
Go to susanhayden.com for more info on Hayden, Library Girl and more book events.
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