The old quiet places

The old quiet places, Alan Garner and the work of time, I spoil a writer's dreams, a little horse

Here are two grinning people who think they've found a historic abandoned road.
I heard about it on a Facebook group - a road that was once the route between two villages in Surrey, before the bypass was built. We regularly use the bypass and this quiet stretch has been hiding alongside.
It also has a history. In both wars, Canadian soldiers were stationed nearby, using the road to get to the village where they became part of local life and part of everything that changed forever. When the road was blocked off, local people didn't want it to get lost, so a commemorative plaque was left.
We didn't find the plaque.
We also didn't find the cat's eyes, which have a wartime connection because they were installed extensively in the blackout.
We were on the wrong road.

With a bit of exasperated blaming ('I used the postcode you gave me') we got back in the car and roved a bit.
But this picture is two people who have definitely found the historic abandoned road and now know the mission isn't as easy as it looks.

There were cat's eyes.

There was a memorial.

As we were leaving, a motorbike entered the road and pulled up beside a red Merc that had been parked there for a while. The biker leaned into the car.
'Ooh,' said Dave, looking back. 'The biker just gave the Merc driver a package.'
I didn't see because I was timing my surge into the bypass traffic. As we got going, I saw the biker approaching in my mirror.  'Hey, here he comes. He didn't hang around to chat with the Merc driver.' He certainly didn't. He overtook, tilting between lanes. 
Then the Merc sped past us too.
This collective haste looked guilty. That wasn't a departure. It was a getaway.
What had we just seen? A drug deal? Something top secret, perhaps historic, a further small but important move in the machines of the country's security?
The old quiet places still have stories to tell.

Work in progress

Editing and mentoring...
A squashed hope This month I have squashed an author's hopes. He's been working with a ghostwriting service that promised to make his science fiction concept into a New York Times bestseller, from which he could get a Hollywood deal. Now he's starting to worry about their claims, their writing quality and their marketing plans. He asked: could I take over and fulfil his dream?
He didn't know this was a common scam in the publishing world. I wrote back, gently explaining, and suggested where he could find services that wouldn't make impossible and misleading claims. He never thanked me.
Why didn't I at least take over the writing? Because he needs a commercial SF writer, and that's not me.
This is where the maxim to write what you know is important. Write the kind of book you know how to write.
Rock music, historical fiction and novels reborn However, I'm excited to report a few great projects that have come along, and all in one month. I've been helping a rock musician with a memoir. To start with, I'm rewriting rough chapters and I guess we'll riff the book from there. The subject matter is reminding me of the musician sections in Ever Rest - bands, egos, dreams, extravagance, talented people who are also monstrous.
On a very different note, I'm about to start coaching an author with an ambitious historical novel. 
And I've just been contacted by a literary novelist and creative writing teacher who is reworking his debut novel and would like my help when he's got a presentable draft.
It's going to be a busy few months.

Turn Right At The Rainbow

I've reached the end of the first full revision pass of Turn Right At The Rainbow. Wordcount is 57k in spite of extensive culling, which is reassuring. It's always painful to decide a piece doesn't work and watch 3000 words vanish in one click. But when the book immediately runs more smoothly, you know it was the right choice.
The end is still a little loose so I think the final book will  be shorter than 57k, but it's coming together.
What's Turn Right At the Rainbow? It's another memoir in the vein of Not Quite Lost. 

Alan Garner and the work of time

You might remember that a few months ago I submitted a piece to St John University York for a book on the work of Alan Garner.
I've never contributed to a book on an author before, and certainly not a university publication. I would never have dared; my English literature degree is an entirely average 2:2. But I saw the call for submissions and the brief fitted - so perfectly - a piece I've written about my childhood village for Turn Right At The Rainbow.

It was a cheeky pitch and to my massive surprise, they said yes. They included me in the formal proposal to the book's publisher, Manchester University Press, and that's now been approved - which is a bigger yes. I have a deadline and am waiting for the contract. 

A little horse

Here's how it's supposed to work. I tune into Val Val tunes into me. We meet in a Venn diagram of mind and movement.
Here is the reality.
I set out for a hack with a friend. We haven't even left the yard and both horses spin in a massive spook. The cause is a manhole cover, which they have seen every day.
That's a warning. We are horses. Fasten seatbelts.
We walk down a hill into a little pocket of wind, which seems to loosen both our horses' sanity. At the same time another horse and rider are approaching. Val stares at them, wondering whether to take notice, then spots that the hay has been baled in the field alongside and is rolled up into giant cotton reels. Just to help, a very low jet plane screams overhead.
Val, now assaulted by multiple maddening questions, decides he hates the giant cotton reels. I am being run away with. Not in gallop, or canter, or even trot. Val knows he hasn't been asked for a faster pace so he runs away with me in walk. A tremendous striding walk which leaves his companion far behind, who is bigger and likes to lead. (This is important to horses.)
I try to slow him but he's not picking up. It's very strange being run away with in walk. You feel such an amateur. I can hear commotion behind as my companion is negotiating wirh her horse, who is outraged that little Val is 'winning'. Hell is probably about to break loose, but there's nothing I can do. Val is fleeing the monsters, in the politest way he can. Gradually he slows and we all return to a normal state of mind. By the time I untack I am exhausted.
One day I am schooling and another rider is in the arena having a saddle fitting. Oh, the strange things Val can see out of the corner of his eye. He flinches as the saddler peels some Velcro. It might as well be an ominous creak in a haunted house. Then the other rider somehow demolishes the mounting block as she gets on, panicking her horse. Suddenly it's Laurel and Hardy as rider and saddler reconstruct the mounting block and coax the horse to stand near it, which it doesn't want to do. Val is offering me serene and lovely work and I have to swallow my giggles and tune into his genuine effort. Saddler and other rider are treated to my schooling prattle. 'YES with the bend you must'. For some reason I usually think of the must last, like Yoda. It is not usually heard by other humans.
The sun comes out. So do flies. I put all the protective gear on Val and they still torment him. As we amble the lanes, one back leg is continually carving under his belly. It's very unseating, like a one-sided buck. Between those heaves, he is limber and light and I feel lucky to be sitting on him, then there is another furious hop and I feel lucky to still be sitting on him.
The temperature cools. The flies disappear. I go out with another friend. Friend's horse is ratty and frustrated, pulling and prancing. Val is mellow. We canter. I hear a yelp from behind. I pull up. My friend is trying to steer her horse out of the hedge, where he is surging back and forth, like a Dalek in a mental funk at the foot of a staircase. If Val is disappointed at the interrupted canter, he doesn't show it. He stands sweetly and patiently, wondering why the other horse is behaving so strangely. The world is simple for us again. 

Also this month, my friend Henry Hyde came to visit. He writes books about military history and wargaming, and his readers have an endless appetite for fussy details of horse colouring and turnout. He took this little video of us as I explain mane hairdos and hoof colourings. I thought you might like to see Val for real. If you also like militaria and battle games, you can find Henry's Patreon here.