The between-places

The between-places. Tension, mystery and friendships (exactly what you want in a novel). Shuddersome fun for gamebook fans. A little horse

The between-places

I've been doing the London Spiral, a 260-mile walking route that starts at King's Cross and winds out through the streets, then the suburbs, and finally to the home counties. Along the way, you find numerous between-places. Secluded squares and surprise parks whose names are known only to locals (One Tree Hill, which has a WWI gun emplacement). In Dulwich we reuinited a lost dog with its frantic owner, saving the day like visiting time travellers or Enid Blyton's Famous Five, then continued on our travels.

In a graveyard in Camberwell we met a woman tending an immense family mausoleum. It is made from white Italian marble, so this is a neverending labour. She's there twice a week in all weathers, all weeks of the year, uprooting weeds, clearing leaves and tree berries, washing the marble so it never becomes stained by vegetation or time. While the other headstones age into the greens and browns of the graveyard, this tableau remains ghost-white.
'Do you share the work with anyone?' I asked.
'No,' she replied. 'My brothers and cousins would claim they'd done their turn when they hadn't, so I do it all. I prefer it that way. Today, 27 years ago, my mum went in there.'
Twenty-seven years. She might have been looking after the site for even longer. I wish I'd asked.
The grave is such a striking local monument that someone is selling pictures of it on eBay for £1.85.

Work in progress

Editing and mentoring... Right now it's full steam ahead on the Alliance of Independent Authors magazine. Straight after that I'm editing a guidebook for them. I've also done more chapters with my musician memoirist
I've had enquiries from a children's writer who's trying an adult genre, a romance author seeking a critique of her first chapters, a poet who wants to turn a collection of verses into a novel and another memoirist who wants guidance next year. (If you're curious to know how I work with writers, this interview explains.)
And two new ghostwriting enquiries, but they probably won't come to anything - both are looking for marketing packages as well as writing, which I can't offer. But it was nice to be invited.

Turn Right At The Rainbow

Last month I was deep in a developmental edit. Now I've delivered the report I've had a rewarding week on Turn Right At The Rainbow. Good progress has been made. I've axed a few sections that weren't working and I'm pleased to see this hasn't greatly affected the wordcount. We're holding steady at 53k.

What's Turn Right At the Rainbow? It's another memoir in the vein of Not Quite Lost. 

Tension, mystery and friendships

Last month I wrote about the new vogue for stories about AIs and their relationships with humans and the natural environment. I'm delighted to see my novel Lifeform Three is enjoying a renaissance and last month it was my bestselling title.
I've had a few new five-star reviews too:
'Tension, mystery and friendships... so glad I picked this up' 
'Just finished it. Loved it.'
Thank you, Annalisa and I Love Books.
What is Lifeform Three? As you might have guessed, there are horses. Find it here. And just for a lark, I asked two AIs in NotebookLM to read and talk about it. Their conversation is eerily intelligent. You can listen here.

Shuddersome fun at the 40th

This is the 40th anniversary of Husband Dave's first published book, Crypt of the Vampire. To celebrate, he's released a companion to that original title, Can You Escape the Vampire's Lair, a gamebook with a creepy Hammer Horror flavour. Find it here.
Thank you to our friend Gil Jugnot for this picture, one of the first copies seen in action. Enjoy with a dark brew or perhaps a hearty stake.

A little horse

The weather is mellow. Val's growing his winter coat. So far I haven't had to put a rug on him, except on days of heavy rain. Otherwise I put him in a field as nature intended, to enjoy the sun on his back. And apply mudpack.
Why do horses love a roll in the mud? If you turn them out after a downpour, they find the slimiest patch and wallow on their backs, feet jabbing joyously at the sky. Are they scratching? Does the mud repel insects? Does it dry to an insulating crust? Nobody knows. We just have to guess.

Guessing seems to be the way to understanding. Leading Val through a field one day, I notice he glances in the direction of the water trough. Does he want a drink? Some horses will forcibly drag you if they do, but Val is a polite soul. A glance might be his way to ask.
I'll soon know. I refer you to the proverb about horses and water.
I'm right. He drinks. For some reason, this little exchange is vastly rewarding.

We get used to giving our horses instructions. Go. Stop, Stand still while I do a thing to you. For much of the time, they're also telling us things. I'm feeling good. Or jeez I'm trying my hardest. While we want them to be obedient and respectful, we also want them to trust us, especially with unfamiliar things. So it's nice to find ways to let them know we're listening.

I am noticing more ways that Val is talking to me. Working on a dressage manoeuvre, I hear his breathing quicken and tighten. This is hard. That's the moment he'll especially appreciate verbal praise. Then we stretch and relax.
If you listen, you can even reshape bad memories. We've had trouble learning poll flexion, an element of posture. I've written about it here several times. The instruction for it reminds him of rough riders who hurt his mouth. The move is not painful, but their way of riding it was. For months he would throw his head or curl his neck over. My instructor and I listened. We scaled the movement back and taught it to him in millimetres, rewarding the smallest try, showing we acknowledge his efforts and we hear him. In this past month, he has become comfortable with the technique.
That water trough moment was not of any training use, but a joyful deposit in our mutual phrasebook. We have a language for pleasures as well as work.

We're out solo and Val halts. It's there.
What is?
Lordy, in that field there are two llamas. Which are not usual in these parts.
Val stares. I check in with his body. He's alert but not rigid. He's not going to spin and run. What does he need from me? I talk gently, but not too much. I let him think. This is not the time for a barrage of reassuring prattle, though I think that benefits the rider more than the horse. He knows he needs to pass them and he's sorting it out. 
His body softens. I'm ready.
We walk past our first llamas.
Another day he's quivering and edgy. He stops.
What is it, little horse? Llamageddon?
Much worse. Please don't take me down that hill.
I don't doubt him. There's another route we can take. We do. Later I learn a barn was being demolished down that way. I couldn't hear it but he could.
He starts to simmer down, then I catch a nano-change in his attention. A split second later, a woman walks around the side of a hedge. Val plants his feet and stares accusingly at her. Don't CREEP like that.
The woman calls out. 'Was that me?!' She has an almost comical German accent. She looks cartoony too, with a very round face and little porthole glasses. It couldn't be weirder.
We're in sight of home. We're both frazzled but I'd like to end on a good note. Can we go the long way for a relaxing trot, to rescue this horrible outing? He's totally willing to try. A swinging stride puts the world right. We go further than I intended, another half hour, and return home happy.

Here hair here

You might remember my friend Ian, who makes leather hats, bags and this steampunk Covid mask during lockdown. (Full story here.)
He's now developed a yen to make shaving brushes. 'Got any horse hair?' he asked me.
Val was due for a trim.
 

The two black brushes are from Val's mane and tail. Don't worry. He still has plenty more.