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The author spoke with EW about the books genesis and what Hoffman taught her about art.
Check out the interview and excerpt, below.
Credit: Sara Murphy
Like what?The things that have come with the distance from it.
I was almost 14 when my father died.
Light Yearswas also influenced by your creative partnership and friendship with Philip Seymour Hoffman, right?Yeah.
Simon Pulse
I had actually started this book shortly before he died.
Anything I know about those things is because of working with him.
You always felt for those characters, and I think its because he could see himself in them.
I wrote the book and its a complete thing.
I felt the most in my element writing this than I ever did producing someone elses movie.
The sun was casting its final gleam of golden warmth and the sky was going from blue to purple.
My mother ran ahead, flinging her sandals onto the sand and stripping off her emerald green dress.
My father set me down, grabbed my hand, and we ran after her.
I was all of two or three years old, but I remember.
The waves seemed like mountains, but as my mother charged into them, they shrank.
My first lesson in scale and perspective.
I nodded and watched him go.
I smiled and took a step toward them.
They looked back at me and began to swim to shore.
I took another step.
Suddenly a wave rushed in and knocked me down.
I felt the water all around me, filling my ears and pulling me as the wave ebbed.
And then, my fathers hands, lifting me to him and my mother swooping in.
She grabbed me and held me as I cried.
I dont know if I cried from upset or relief.
That is my first memory.
*
The sound of the city dissolves into a hum.
I stare up at the gleaming glass tower and a torrent of blue pours down.
The buildings edges blur against the cloudless skynature and the man-made becoming one.
Blue always tastes like chocolate when Im nervous, and Im nervous.
I swallow, then will the sensation away with the sound of my own voice.
This is it, I say to my father as the white-gloved doorman beckons us inside.
We enter the marble lobby and the temperature drops about twenty-five degrees.
A rush of magenta sweeps across my eyes.
I step toward a bright-eyed man behind a reception desk.
How can I help?
Im Luisa Ochoa-Jones, I reply quietly.
My father mops his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.
Yes, of course, the man says, nodding.
I turn toward the long, mirrored corridor that leads to the elevator bank.
I guess Im still getting used to it.
My father and I arrive at the elevator.
I glance down at my black lace dress and chunky, high-heeled ankle boots.
I press up and focus on the shape of the arrow on the button.
Its short and squat.
A fat little arrow.
That always makes me less nervous.
Okay, thats nice and all, but Thomas Bell doesnt need anything from me.
Its the other way around.
The elevator car shakes gently against its surrounding walls as we rocket up the seventy-five stories to the penthouse.
My ears pop and my stomach rolls over on itself.
I clutch the handrail, wanting both to get there and never arrive.
A ding as we level off.
I shift my posture, tilt my chin slightly upward, roll my shoulders back.Breathe, I tell myself.
The doors open with a wave of cold air.
Another flash of pink reminds me that I am not at ease.
These sensory misfires have been with me all my life.
When my emotions run high, my senses get muddled.
Smells come with flashes of color, sounds have tastes, sights bring the sensation of temperature or touch.
Certain people and places can spark complex reactions.
My grandmother is the same way and all her life everyone has treated her like shes crazy.
She doesnt seem to mind the condition, but I do.
I keep it hidden.
Most of the time, I can think my way back to normal.
Most of the time, I can keep my feelings in check.
We come out into the hall.
A light-haired, boyish-looking man stands waiting in crisp khakis and a white dress shirt.
Hello, Luisa, he says.
And good afternoon, Mr. Jones.
Im Joe Anderson, Special Assistant to Mr. Bell.
He shakes our hands and leads us to a door at the end of the luxe hallway.
I stand and look down from this 200-million-dollar apartment nearly 1,000 feet in the sky.
I feel like I can hold the entire world in my palm.
My father takes in the space.
Jesus, he mutters.
Its easily twenty times the size of the biggest room in our house.
Thick, plush rugs.
Is he falling or flying?
What do you think?
His expression is unnervingly flat.
yo sit, he offers after a moment.
My father clears his throat.
Id like some water, just.
Which somehow makes me calmer.
I watch Joe move briskly to one of the doors, then vanish behind it with barely a sound.
My watch buzzes with an incoming text.
My mother:In a cab.
Be there ASAP.Shes late, like always.
I sit down and look over at the wall of closed doors.
How many rooms are back there?
What does Bell keep in his fridge?
My grandmother says it looks like Our Lady of Guadalupe, the Mexican Virgin Mary.
She says it signifies my closeness to God.
Like I said, people think shes nuts.
I rub the scar with my thumb.
Shes late, I report.
My dad shakes his head.
I told her, not today.
I dont care, I respond quickly.
Its better shes not here.
Shed only make me more stressed.
He sits down and hooks his steady green eyes to mine.
You have nothing to lose here, whatever happens.
You just be yourself and let go of the results.
But I have everything to lose.
College is just a bubble, a delay.
I want my life to start now.
Plus, my mom would be paying for college and I dont want to owe her anything.
Mr. Bell is ready to see you.
He sets a crystal-clear glass of water on a heavy coaster.
I watch the liquid settle in the glass.
I look down again at my scar.
My father and I stand.
Sorry, the meeting is between Luisa and Mr. Bell, Joe says.
My father looks at me.
His eyes are searching, uncertain, then they shift.
Youre very tall in those shoes, he says after a moment.
I soften into a smile.
I grab my bag and follow Joe to the wall of closed doors.
My watch buzzes again.
My mother:In the lobby.
I quicken my pace.
I take one look back at my dad and cross into the next room.
The door clicks behind me and a wave of bright yellow gives way to pitch black.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see a large desk at the center of the room.
Two slick black chairs stand next to it facing a monitor that seems to float on the surface.
Joe leads me to sit and a moment later I am alone.
A hissing sound envelops me, like Im surrounded by snakes.This isnt real, I tell myself.
But my body doesnt believe me.
I leap to my feet.
My eyes search for the door.
I have to go.
I have to get out.
I take two clumsy steps and the screen lights up behind me.
The Avarshina Industries logo fills the void: an abstracted image of a flaming match.
I struggle to draw breath.
I zero in on the matchs orange tip.
Orange: bright, harmless.
I track the edges of the match from one end to the other and back again.
I start to relax.
I remind myself that 2,300 people applied and only five of us made it this far.
I picture the apartment I will have.
Its one big room.
Bright light and a couch for reading.
A place to work, a bed.
All grays and white.
Im making coffee in the morning quiet.
Maybe theres a bird on the window ledge.
Maybe it chirps like it understands the value of solitude.
I go back to my seat.
I wrap my hands around the armrests and wait, steeping in the amber glow of the monitor.
Moments later, I am overwhelmed by the smell of roses.
I sense a figure standing in the corner.
The figure is Bell.
