Review "A Black Fox Running" by Brian Carter

"A beautiful lost classic of nature writing which sits alongside Tarka the Otter, Watership Down, War Horse and The Story of a Red Deer

This is the story of Wulfgar, the dark-furred fox of Dartmoor, and of his nemesis, Scoble the trapper, in the seasons leading up to the pitiless winter of 1947. As breathtaking in its descriptions of the natural world as it is perceptive its portrayal of damaged humanity, it is both a portrait of place and a gripping story of survival.

Uniquely straddling the worlds of animals and men, Brian Carter's A Black Fox Running is a masterpiece: lyrical, unforgiving and unforgettable." (blurb from Amazon)

Rating: 3/5

What did I think of this book? It's hard to tell. I'm not even sure if I liked it or not. Actually, I'm not sure I really like animal stories as a genre (a bit ironical for someone who's just published one!): horrible, heartbreaking things keep happening to the protagonists (usually because of nasty humans) and that makes me cry... For instance, I was traumatised by Black Beauty when I first read it as a seven year old. Tarka the Otter, mentioned in the blurb, was quite as bad. As for War Horse... Well, you'd better have a handkerchief ready. 

Why do I keep on reading that type of book then? Well I do like how evocative nature-writing is. And when well done, animal stories (though heartbreaking) can be wonderful. The sort of story that stays with you for a long time. 

That, and the fact that A Black Fox Running was set on Dartmoor, which is one of my favourite places in the world, encouraged me to pick it up. I wasn't disappointed about the Dartmoor part. Some of the descriptions were superb and just what I was wanting/expecting to read. If all the book had been like that, I would have loved it.  

I also enjoyed the different characters and temperaments given to the foxes, otters, weasels and so on. The few humans characters were also well-drawn. 

However, I was a bit put off by the way the foxes were anthropomorphised. Anthropomorphism is a necessary element of any animal stories, otherwise it would be hard to write them. Words are put on the animal's feelings and thoughts. Dialog is used. And I totally get that. The way authors managed to make the animal protagonists relatable is essential to the enjoyment of those stories. 

But in this book, anthropomorphism was taken to another level. The fox community in the story follows a number of rules and rituals and has its own religious system. This is the part that annoyed me the most, because I just could not wrap my head around animals praying to a higher entity and having their own legends and epics. Maybe that's just me being narrow-minded but I felt it clashed with the otherwise realistic descriptions. Any novel requires relies on suspension of disbelief. Here, it didn't quite work for me. 

In a way, because of all this religious stuff, I thought it read like a fantasy tale with humanised, talking foxes that have a culture of their own. I might have liked the book more if I had realised before hand that it would be the case.  

It didn't 100% work for me, but that doesn't take away from the beautiful writing or the fact that this book will certainly be enjoyed by readers who like this sort of story. 

Review: "The Sixth Seal" by Mary Wesley

"Everything is out of context: green and pink snow falls in July, there are earthquakes in Africa, pestilences in America, floods in China. Then follows a mysterious catastrophe in which everyone is killed except for those who happen to be underground when it occurs. Among the few survivors in Devon are Muriel, her youngest son Paul, and a schoolfriend of his, Henry. They discover that all that is left of those who are dead is hair and false teeth - ghoulish remains that symbolize the frightening and dramatic story so skilfully developed by Mary Wesley.

A small group of survivors gathers at Muriel's house and tries to make sense of its own long-term chances. Inveitably, the personalities involved prove incomptaible, and gradually they split up - mostly with good will, sometimes with acrimony. Henry, grown suddenly mature and cunning beyond his years, sets off to London to find out what is left there, but also, Muriel suspects uneasily, with some ulterior and sinister reason she cannot explain. She and Paul pursue him, and all three manage to escape from the nightmare capital to the relative sanity of their uncertain life in the West Country.

Mary Wesley's brilliant dialogue and characterization make this horrifyingly topical story one that is unforgettable in its power and originality." (blurb from my edition of the novel - 1984)

Rating: 3/5

Well, that was quite a strange book that left me scratching my head and asking myself many questions - which unfortunately are left unanswered. This novel was written for teenagers and in spite of an intriguing concept and plot, remains a bit short and vague for an older audience. 

The blurb pretty much sums up the whole novel (actually, I'd say it's more of a synopsis than a blurb). I  enjoyed the "survival" parts, especially at the beginning, as the main characters try to organise themselves and more, sometimes quite colourful characters, make their appearance. Some of those characters are well written. Others I found less convincing: that was the case of the two young boys who, with Muriel, are meant to be the heros. Paul wasn't very interesting and Henry nowhere near as cunning and sinister as the blurb makes out: other characters will say he is, but this isn't really confirmed by his actions. 

I was disappointed by the fact that there was no real explanation for the apocalypse. There is, towards the end of the book, a sort of twist that didn't really convince me either. In a way, this novel would have deserved another hundred pages to develop the questions raised at end. But it is on the whole an enjoyable and very readable book that will certainly appeal to the teenage public it was intended for. 

On a more personal note, the main reason why I read it was because it is set in the house you see on the black and white postcard. The author, Mary Wesley, lived for a time in that house and, changing its name and exact location, she made it into the home of the main characters of The Sixth Seal. It is a house I know well, for I spent many, many childhood holidays in the cottage belonging to it... and I also used it as a setting for my own novel! 

So it was nice to read about this house which I've always loved but where I have not been for several years now. 

Review: "The Buried Giant" by Kazuo Ishiguro

"You've long set your heart against it, Axl, I know. But it's time now to think on it anew. There's a journey we must go on, and no more delay..."

The Buried Giant begins as a couple set off across a troubled land of mist and rain in the hope of finding a son they have not seen in years.

Sometimes savage, often intensely moving, Kazuo Ishiguro's first novel in nearly a decade is about lost memories, love, revenge, and war. (blurb from goodreads.com)

Rating: 3.75/5

This is a strange, meandering book, rather like the journey undertaken by the characters. It is set in Britain, in a time after the Roman occupation. Half literary, half fantasy, the novel depicts a land where conflict between Saxons and Britons brew but where all the inhabitants are affected by a "mist" of forgetfulness. 

What can you expect from this book? It is nothing like The Remains of the Days or Never Let Me Go, the only two other books I have read by this author. No country house and aging butler. No clones and futuristic setting. Dragons and knights and many references to Arthurian legends. There are also pixies, monasteries, monsters and magical islands. 

However, all this is mostly part of the setting. On the centre stage are an elderly couple, Axl and Beatrice, on a journey to find their son and their lost memories. Theirs is a moving love story. They are well-written, believable characters the reader can easily sympathise with. The other characters in the story were not quite as fleshed out and their behaviour and speech was sometimes a little stilted, a little clichéed. I guess that this was the author's intention and part of this novel's intertextuality with medieval legends and epics. 

I was a little confused by the sudden, short changes, in the course of the novel, in the narration style (and narrator as well). In a way, I think this could have been developped more, because those changes were bit abrupt and left me wondering why the author had chosen to include them.

The ending, which reviews raved about, was indeed moving but I am not certain I truly understood it completely to be honest. As I've said, it was affecting, but I failed to see why reviewers thought it was so powerful and startling. In my opinion, it was the logical ending to this novel and did not come as a surprise. But again, I believe I may have missed the point and should reread it to make certain!

I did really enjoy reading this book, which, like the other novels I read by Kazuo Ishiguro, is beautifully written. It is however, a little bit perplexing, in terms of plot and structure. But isn't great literature meant to make you ask yourselves questions? 

Review: "The Mermaid and Mrs. Hancock" by Imogen Hermes Gowar

"One September evening in 1785, the merchant Jonah Hancock hears urgent knocking on his front door. One of his captains is waiting eagerly on the step. He has sold Jonah’s ship for what appears to be a mermaid.

As gossip spreads through the docks, coffee shops, parlours and brothels, everyone wants to see Mr Hancock’s marvel. Its arrival spins him out of his ordinary existence and through the doors of high society. At an opulent party, he makes the acquaintance of Angelica Neal, the most desirable woman he has ever laid eyes on… and a courtesan of great accomplishment. This meeting will steer both their lives onto a dangerous new course, on which they will learn that priceless things come at the greatest cost.

Where will their ambitions lead? And will they be able to escape the destructive power mermaids are said to possess?

In this spell-binding story of curiosity and obsession, Imogen Hermes Gowar has created an unforgettable jewel of a novel, filled to the brim with intelligence, heart and wit." (blurb from goodreads.com) 

Rating: 3/5

It's been some time since I read this book, over two years I think, so my memories of it are rather dim. I'd come across many positive reviews of it, which was why I wanted to read it. All the more so since it is in one of my favourite genres: historical fiction with a touch of magical realism. 

Reviewing it is not easy, and not because I read it some time ago. I remember my impressions after I'd finished it well enough. 

After I turned the last page, I was not sure to think of this novel... On one hand, I loved the style, the way the historical context was brought to life with details such as the clothing or the food. It was well-written, and particularly poetic. 

The characters were well-drawn, though, to be honest, I was not particularly drawn to any of them. However, they felt quite realistic, and even real - and their different motivations and actions were believable.

On the other hand, I was a bit disconcerted... Maybe because the story was not quite what the title had led me to imagine. But I will not say more, as to not give any spoilers. Only, do not expect to find in that book the sort of mermaid you do in fairytales... And do not expect the mermaid of the title to be an actual character, or rather a character like the others. 

Another point that bothered me was that the reader gets a glimpse of different stories, pertaining to  secondary characters, which remain unresolve, leaving you to wonder: what was the point of writing them in such detail in the first place? It's very frustrating to have no proper ending to those stories. Were they only there as filler to keep up the reader's interest? 

In spite of all that, this is still a book that I'd recommand for lovers of evocative historical fiction.

Review: "Once Upon a River" by Diane Setterfield

"On a dark midwinter’s night in an ancient inn on the river Thames, an extraordinary event takes place. The regulars are telling stories to while away the dark hours, when the door bursts open on a grievously wounded stranger. In his arms is the lifeless body of a small child. Hours later, the girl stirs, takes a breath and returns to life. Is it a miracle? Is it magic? Or can science provide an explanation? These questions have many answers, some of them quite dark indeed.

Those who dwell on the river bank apply all their ingenuity to solving the puzzle of the girl who died and lived again, yet as the days pass the mystery only deepens. The child herself is mute and unable to answer the essential questions: Who is she? Where did she come from? And to whom does she belong? But answers proliferate nonetheless.

Three families are keen to claim her. A wealthy young mother knows the girl is her kidnapped daughter, missing for two years. A farming family reeling from the discovery of their son’s secret liaison, stand ready to welcome their granddaughter. The parson’s housekeeper, humble and isolated, sees in the child the image of her younger sister. But the return of a lost child is not without complications and no matter how heartbreaking the past losses, no matter how precious the child herself, this girl cannot be everyone’s. Each family has mysteries of its own, and many secrets must be revealed before the girl’s identity can be known." (blurb from goodreads.com) 

Rating: 2/5

I thought I was going to love this book. Gorgeous cover, compelling storyline, rave reviews... The first chapter had me hooked. I reflected that I liked the style. The characters seemed interesting. I was quite engrossed with the plot. I read it quite quickly. But...

There was a huge "but." A "but" so huge that I was rather disgusted with this book and its author by the time I'd finished. Some would say it's just a detail. Maybe it is. Maybe I'm just overreacting. But in my opinion, the detail in question should not have been found in a book published in 2018.

Now, what am I talking about? 

There is in this book a very varied cast of characters. So varied that it screams "politically correct" writing. 

So one of the characters has Down's syndrom. This character I found interesting. I expected him to play a bigger part. I wanted him to play a bigger part. I'd never read a book before when a main character had Down's syndrom. Except that he wasn't a main character in this book either. Just part of the supporting cast. Here, in the background. For the sake of diversity. But that's OK. That's the author's choice.

There is mention, "off-stage," of a gay character. Now that's great. Except that this character plays no role in the story and is killed off before the plot even begins. He's just there to show how open-minded and wonderful another character is. Again, it really seemed to be a way for the author to claim her open-mindedness. And that's lovely, but for a cast to be truly diverse, it should concern the main characters. To just stick references to people who are "different" is more insulting than anything. It's as if the author was saying that they couldn't be more than references. As if they couldn't play a real role. But again, that's just my opinion.

Then there's a Black character. And he's a main character. Hurray! I should be pleased. I was at first. Except... Each time this character was mentionned, each time his point of view was used, his skin was mentionned. Constantly. After ten times of reading that he was black (*gasp*) I did get it. I also did get that everyone was racist and scared of him, except that handful of wonderful, open-minded white main characters. 

That could have been OK. It could have been taken as a way to reflect the racist attitude of many people in the 19th century. And then I came across this sentence, which shocked me. I don't remember it exactly. I don't especially want to remember it. In this sentence, the narrator, after describing people's attitude towards this Black character, concluded by saying that his blackness was only superficial. What?! I guess the author's intentions were not to be racist. But this is so badly phrased... It bothered me, along with all the other little details I mentionned.  

So that's for what bothered me most. Other things about the characters bugged me. The female characters for instance. They could have been interesting but they weren't really. And, again, the author tried a bit too hard to portray some them (one especially) as strong and independent, when their actions show they're not. 

As for the plot, it started off being quite compelling. However, the ending ruined it all, because the author tried too hard to explain it all and tie it all nicely and give the characters who deserved it their happy ending. At the beginning, she tried to dabble with magical realism but it felt as if she did not dare take it too far. A bit like with the "diversity" of the characters. A few touches here and there but nothing really deep. 

All in all, I'd say the main problem in this book was the overbearing presence of the author herself. That might sound a bit odd because, after all, a novel doesn't write itself. But as a reader, I do not want to "hear" the author, I do not want to be analysing why she did this for that reason. I want to be carried away by the story and entranced by the characters. I wasn't really here, at least not for the whole book, in spite of the atmospheric writing style

Review: "The Last Runaway" by Tracy Chevalier

 

"Honor Bright is a sheltered Quaker who has rarely ventured out of 1850s Dorset when she impulsively emigrates to America. opposed to the slavery that defines and devides the country, she finds her principles tested to the limit when a runaway slave appears at the farm of her new family. In this tough, unsentimental place, where whisky bottles sit alongside quilts, Honor befriends two spirited women who will teach her how to turn ideas into action." (blurb from my edition of the novel)

Rating: 3.5/5

I found that The Last Runaway was an enjoyable book, easily read in a few sittings. I would not say that much happens in it but it was compelling enough to keep me turning the pages and wanting to know what would happen to the characters. 

I learnt several things while reading it. I had little to no knowledge of Quakers and their way of thinking, and even less of the "Underground railroad" through which escaped slaves tried to reach freedom and Canada. The "railroad" was composed of the people who helped them along the way. Some of those people were Quakers and the author does a great job at showing the conflict between moral and practical considerations, as well as the double standards at play. 

The Last Runaway was also very instructive on the subject of quilts and on the difference between English and American ones. I did find that interesting, again because I did not have any previous knowledge of it, if a tad repetitive. Sewing and making quilts are Honor's main occupations and a good part of her life is centred round this. This makes for some interesting observations on fabrics, patterns, etc. 

I enjoyed reading the descriptions of daily life in Ohio, where Honor ends up settling. They were quite vivid and I had no difficulty picture how the characters' life was. I really liked the attention to detail shown by the author, from food to clothes to buildings. 

There was maybe one thing that disappointed me a little: I had somehow been led to expect that the Underground railroad would play a greater part in the plot than it actually does. I would have liked to see more of this, and for some characters to be more developped. In a way, I felt the book could have been 100 pages longer than it is, to allow it to deepen some aspects of the plot. As for the ending, it left me wondering if there would be a sequel as well as wanting to know more. 

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - extract 5

An illustration from Mr. Summerhaye's Horse

The fifth in a series of extracts from my novella....which is going to be published tomorrow!!! This passage follows the fourth extract. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

He stretches his neck to drink, unstable on legs still too long for his body. A ghostly horse comes to meet him in the water, a black horse with white legs and a white mark on his face. As he dips his nose in, the ghost disappears in a thousand ripples. A toad waddles on the water edge, bulbous and clumsy. Vaguely menacing as well. He takes a few steps towards it, but changes his mind when he hears it croak and decides to trots back towards his mother. 

The morning is cool, though he is aware now it will not last. He has accepted the succession of night and day, the succession of hours, of moods. There’s the time to nurse, the time to sleep, the time to play, the time to travel. They walk many miles, from one water point to the next, visiting the same ones at regular intervals. The tall blue mountains remain constantly in their background, keeping watch over them. Often he looks at them, wondering what lies beyond. They have not seen or heard men and horses again, though from time to time the wind carries a scent that reminds him of them. 

His mother paws at the water. Droplets become light as they splash above the surface. He runs towards her, nibbling a strand of her mane, hoping she will play with him, chase him. A vagrant fly lands on his rump and he bucks. As the day advances and the heat increases, the flies swarm, attacking him, targeting his eyes, his nostrils. His tail is too short for him to chase them like his mother is able to, so he stays by her. Or gallops as fast as he can: as long as he runs he has peace. But then they come back, more numerous, to feed off his sweat. 

An ibis prowls by the water edge, not far from the toad. It has a long, curved beak. Its head is covered in folds of pink, bald skin. He canters towards it; the ibis hops further away, spreading its wing as if to fly. It glares at him, leave me alone, horse, go back to your mother. 

His mother does not want to play. She leaves the water, rolls in the dust. He imitates her. The flies do not like the dust. He stands up, shakes himself, takes a deep breath. As he does, a smell he has never encountered before reaches him. What is it? He is not certain but he is struck with terror. He glances at his mother: her eyes are wide and wild, her head held high as she watches the other side of the water. 

And they see it. The tawny fur, the heavy, though supple, body. A rippling mane, covering the head and shoulders. Amber eyes and cruel jaws. Lion, lion, the ibis squawks, spreading its wings. 

We must run now, my little one, his mother says. Her nostrils are flared, her breath heavy. Her terror intensifies his own. You must run now, as fast as the wind from which you were born. Lion, lion, the ibis squawks again. And the two horses run. 

He runs ahead, his mother closely following him. He runs ahead, faster than he has ever run. Feeling his mother’s fear as clearly as his own. Running to escape the smell of the lion. Is it behind them? He dares not turn his head, dares not slow down. 

He goes on galloping, even when the lion’s smell does not reach him anymore. He goes on galloping, forgetting why he had even started. Intoxicated by the wind and by the rhythmical beating of his hooves on the rocks below. Delighting in the speed and power he never knew were his. He is invincible. He, the horse born of the desert and the mountain. Nothing will ever capture him, neither the lions nor the men. Not even the birds who fly high above can go as fast as him. 

His mother catches up with him, his mother makes him stop. Why, all of a sudden, are his lungs burning and his legs weak under him? Why, all of a sudden, is he too exhausted to take another step? 

You are silly, little one, his mother tells him, you are silly but you run well. The lion could not have caught you. You must learn that not all animals are our friends. The lions and the leopards are to be avoided at all costs. Remember the scent you smelled today. If you smell it again, you must run. Even if I am not there, even if you do not see me. You must run. 

His burning lungs cannot take in enough air. The flies buzz, louder, louder. Walk now, his mother tells him, you must not stand still. You are silly, little one. 

One step after the other, painfully, painfully, until she allows him to stop, until she allows him to drink her milk. He wonders what exactly is the terrible thing that would happen should the lion catch him. He wonders why he was filled with such terror. Are lions worse than men? he asks his mother. 

Lions eat horses, like you have seen birds eat insects, like we eat the leaves and grasses. 

It feels very strange to him, and terror clutches his heart again. He starts at every noise, at every shadow, at every rock, at every bush. But the breeze carries only the smell of juniper and pine. 

The first lion I saw, his mother tells him, the first lion I saw was one my Master had killed. Out on the mountains he had gone, riding a black horse, my father, leading a grey horse, my brother. When they came back, the carcass of a lion was slung over the grey horse’s back. I smelled and saw for the first time a lion and death. I came up close, to investigate. In spite of my fear and of my instinct to run away. My Master laughed, he said it was right that his Lioness should have a look at the lion. And I looked. At the yellow fangs, at the sharp claws. At the glazed eyes. And the black horse, my father, gazed at me with pride. 

How did you run away from the men who had taken you? he asks. 

They put a metal bit in my mouth that cut my tongue and made me bleed. They tied ropes around my legs and my skin was bruised and burnt. I fought, I kicked, and they beat me. But the more blows fell on me, the more enraged I became. I used my hooves, I used my teeth. For the first time in my life, I smelled and tasted the blood of men. Their eyes glazed over, like that of the lion. I smelled the blood of men, and it was drunk by the mountain. The bit broke, the ropes snapped. I ran, away from pain, away from men. I ran towards the mountain. It was calling me. I ran and a falcon screeched above me. I ran until the men and their horses could not catch up with me. And the mountain became my home. It is your home too, my little one. Remember, in spite of the lions and the leopards, as long as you can run the mountain will keep you safe.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - extract 4

An illustration from Mr. Summerhaye's Horse

The fourth in a series of extracts from my soon to be published novella. This passage follows the third extract. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

Night comes, and with it the peacefulness following a long, warm day. His mother has forgiven him, and already he forgets her anger towards him. What he cannot escape is the image of the horses and the men, of the golden bridles and silver saddles. 

Tell me about men, he asks his mother. You told me of the plants, of the animals, of the way the mountain breathes, of the way the desert lives. Now tell me about men. 

The full moon casts a milky light. Shadows dance, shadows laugh. I was not always wild, his mother says. I was not born like you, high up on the mountainside. My home at first, was in the dwellings of men. From the moment I took my first breath, the voice and touch of men was part of me. They gave me a name that was not the one my mother used. They called me the Lioness, for the colour of my coat, and because I came from a line of brave, courageous horses. The men fed me, the men petted me. One of them took special care of me. He was my Master. 

She gazes at the stars, at the millions and millions of stars above, and he watches her. The moonlight has turned her white legs silver, like the saddles of the men’s horses. He has white legs like her. Was it your Master who made you mistrust men? he asks. 

No, my Master loved me and I loved him too. He took special care of me, and with pride he watched me grow. He admired the way I moved, he praised my behaviour, he revered my beauty. He called me his Lioness. He told me I was the best of the horses he had bred. He stroked my forehead. He smoothed the tangles in my mane. I followed him where he went. Other horses had metal bits put in their mouths, but my Master let me go free. He whispered sweet words in my ears and I was always by his side. 

What happened then? Why did you leave your Master? he asks. 

Not all men are gentle and kind. Some burn with what they call envy and jealousy. What they do not have, they want to take. And I was taken from my Master. It was a night much like this one. A man I had never seen before came up to me. How could I have guessed he was not to be trusted? Men had always been good to me. It is only when I saw him carrying a rope that I knew he was bad. I tried to run away but it was too late: the rope was tied around my neck, cutting into my skin and flesh. I reared and tried to strike him with my front hooves. But he hit me on the head. Never before had I known such pain. Never before had I been hurt by a man. He dragged me away, and I did not resist anymore. I should have. If a man were to try to take me again, I would fight, fight until the life has been crushed out of him. Now I know better than I did before. 

She stamps her feet and pins her ears back, baring her teeth at an invisible enemy. He starts at the dry rustling of the bushes, half-expecting to see a man emerge from there. 

I was taken away, his mother sighs. I was taken away, stolen from my Master. The rope around my neck was tied to the saddle of another horse and we galloped into the darkness. It was a night much like this one. My neck was raw where the rope dug into my flesh. For the first time in my life, I knew the smell of my own blood. For the first time in my life, I realised that I should fear men. When we were far enough, far enough from my Master, far enough from the friends of my youth, we met other men. And I was exchanged for a handful of gold pieces. They glimmered under the moon. The other men came to take me. A metal bit was put in my mouth. I fought. I bled. I was beaten again and I learnt to stay quiet. I had to stay quiet, to save my strength. 

She sighs again, gazing at the stars, gazing at the round, full moon. Her eyes are filled with shadows. You must sleep now, my little one. You too must save your strength.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - extract 3

One of the illustrations from Mr. Summerhaye's Horse

The third in a series of extracts from my soon to be published novella. This passage follows the second extract. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

One day, they wander further away from the mountainside, looking for water, looking for food. And for the first time he hears neighs which are not those of his mother: it is not her voice, calling his name, a sound imprinted deep into his soul. His mother listens, then answers. It is not the soft, tender voice she uses with him. 

There are others like us, then? he asks her. She looks for a long time towards the place whence the neighs have come. We must walk on, she tells him. 

He follows her, but he is curious. From time to time, he thinks he hears the neighs again, and pricks his ears, and turns his head towards the sound. Walk on, walk on, his mother insists, and she even breaks into a trot. 

At last they stop, in the shade offered by a twisted cedar tree. His mother sighs and closes her eyes. He nibbles a needle-covered branch, spits it out. A lizard runs under a rock. He gazes at it with interest, until a small bird catches his attention. Hello again, hello again, the bird chirps. Do you remember me? I came down from the snowy mountains, on a frosty, frosty morning. You are much bigger now, you are much healthier too. The vultures were disappointed then. 

What did the vultures want with me? he wonders. You wouldn’t know, the small bird chirps. He sighs, ruffling the feathers of his white, spotted throat. 

Neighs again, not so far away. His mother opens her eyes and lifts her head, listening. Then goes back to sleep. He wanders off, the small bird fluttering behind him. 

Where are you going? Where are you going? You should not leave your mother’s side. But he is puzzled by the neighs. He is puzzled and does not want to rest. He will not be gone for very long, he only wants to have a look. Still the bird follows him, chirping in alarm. 

He smells the horses, like his mother, but not his mother. Smells them, yet there is another scent mingled with theirs, one he has not encountered before. One that makes him suspicious, and he advances cautiously, noiselessly, hooves making only a dull thump on the dusty ground. 

He sees them by the water and the trees, a group of horses. What are they wearing on their heads and on their backs? And what are those beings, standing next to them? 

These are men, these are men, the small bird chirps. And the horses belong to them, not to the mountain like you. That is why they have golden bridles and silver saddles. You should not stay there. 

The men are draped in flowing clothes, white as the snow on the summit of the mountains. Their voices stir something in him, an old, old memory, a memory that is not quite his. He stares at them, fascinated. Go back, go back, the small bird chirps. And his mother is beside him, ears pinned flat against her neck, teeth bared. What do you think you were doing? 

The bird flies away to settle on a branch above the horses and the men. The silver and the gold glisten in the sunlight. It was wrong of you to leave my side, his mother tells him, and pushes him back toward the mountainside. 

Why was it wrong? he asks. We greet the antelopes and the birds, the lizards and the snakes. Why do we not gallop with the horses who are like us? His mother pushes him on, ears back still, and her teeth bruise his neck. These horses belong to men, and men would capture you if they saw you. Men cannot be trusted. You must remain by my side if you want to be safe. And for the first time, the first time since that first night, he sees a strange new light in his mother’s eyes. He sees fear.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - blurb

I've showed you the front cover of Mr. Summerhaye's Horse, so here's the back cover, featuring the blurb.
The novella is now available for preorder as an ebook. You can find it here.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - extract 2

The second in a series of extracts from my soon to be published novella. This passage follows the first extract. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

Then his world is the mountainside, as he follows his mother, as they trot on the rocky ground. Then his world is the desert, the dust, the heat. Stay by me, his mother tells him, I shall keep you safe. Step into my hoofprints, you must not wander away. Not that he wants to. Everything is strange and alien to him. As the hours pass, as they travel, as the sun follows its course, the world around him changes and moves. Smells assail him from every side, some attractive, some menacing. A gerbil scuttles under his feet and he stops. The shadow of the bird has not left them. He does not like it. 

Do not pay heed, his mother tells him, it is a vulture, and no danger as long as you stay by me. His mother is tall and strong. She holds her head high, her coat shines orange and gold and her legs are pure white. She walks on, tirelessly, as he begins to feel weary. The horizon shimmers and trembles as the heat intensifies. The mountains, and their purple blue shadows, threaten to crush him. 

At last they stop. The ground is cracked where they stand. In a hollow there is water. More flowers, more plants. His mother drinks the water while he nurses. His eyes are heavy, his legs reluctant to bear his weight. Rest, his mother tells him, rest and sleep, my little one, while I watch over you. You will always be safe with me. So he lies on the rocky ground and closes his eyes. Sleeps and slips back into the darkness, the darkness he first knew, the darkness he comes from. 

*

Then his world is the mountainside. His world is the desert and a burning sun. His world is the dancing shadows of birds and the dust on the yellowing plants his mother eats. His world is the afternoon haze on the horizon. As the hours pass, he accepts it, I am part of it. Not so alien, not so strange, as long as his mother remains, his mother’s warmth, his mother’s smell. 

He nurses, he sleeps. He wakes and stands up and follows his mother. The shadow of the bird disappears after a while. He grows more aware of the life, of the hundreds of tiny heartbeats all around him, under the rocks and the bushes. The eyes of a sand cat meet his and he starts, half in surprise, half in fear. His mother tosses her head, you are in no danger, walk on. 

He sees a group of animals, with four slender legs like his mother and him. He turns his head with interest, but his mother does not stop. They are not like us, my son, see their horns? They are gazelles, we are horses. These are the names men gave to us. He does not know what men are and his mother does not explain. The scent of the gazelles drifts his way. No, they do not smell like his mother. On the mountainside they run and jump, nimble and delicate. A soft wind blows. He would much like to join them and play. Walk on, his mother nudges him. 

The sky, so blue before, becomes yellow and pink, and the shadows on the stony ground lengthen. The haze melts away. For a moment, the air is clear, sharpened by vibrant colours and by a cool wind. 

The sky, so blue before, darkens, melting into the sombre mountains. What is happening now? He does not understand. The world is turning, changing, and he can only watch in wonderment and awe. At last, the stars, appearing one by one. It is the night, the night into which he was born. The sun will rise again, his mother tells him, until the night swallows the day. The moon shines above them, a thin crescent of light. The hum of insects, a soft lullaby. He presses is head against his mother’s flanks. Stay close to me, my little one.

Creating the cover of "Mr. Summerhaye's Horse"

The different stages in the creation of the painting I used as a cover for Mr. Summerhaye's Horse.
If all goes well, it should be published on the 2nd of June 2020, in about one month from now.

"Mr. Summerhaye's Horse" - extract 1

The first in a series of extracts from my soon to be published novella. This is the incipit. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

At first his world is his mother. At first he knows nothing but his mother. His mother’s smell, his mother’s warmth in the darkness that surrounds them. 

At first he shivers and stumbles on legs too long for him, and his mother nudges him, his mother reassures him. Stand up, my little one, on your tiny hooves. You are born of the wind and of the desert’s soul. Stand up and soon you will gallop on the barren mountainside, soon you will gallop in the night. 

At first he stays close to his mother, to his mother’s warmth, to his mother’s smell, in the darkness that surrounds them. Trembling on thin, fragile legs too long for him. Holding his head close to her flanks. Why was he thrust into this cold, cold place? Above him, the night, lit by millions of stars. 

He drinks his mother’s milk and his body grows stronger. An insect sings, deep in the night, sings the turning of the earth. He drinks his mother’s milk and stays close to her. And gazes at the stars in wonder, in the darkness that surrounds them. 

The grey and pink lights of dawn surprise him, and he watches with fear the stars disappear. The world is changing, the world is moving. Colours creep into the darkness, chasing it away. His mother’s smell, his mother’s warmth remain, and now he sees his mother’s russet shape. He sees the ground on which they walk, he sees the white dust their hooves raise and the pale, pale skies above. 

The ochre rocks and blue shadows of the mountains block the horizon. The sun rises, and with it a warm haze. He blinks and lowers his head towards the ground. A small bird lands between his feet. A small bird lands and chirps, there is frost on the flowers and snow on the summits. Frost this morning, for it was a cold, cold night. The small bird hops ahead and tilts his head to look at him. You’re new to the world, new to the world, he chirps. New to the world and the frost is melting already. 

Another bird flies high above, casting an ominous shadow. Careful, careful, the small one chirps, and hops away. The dust settles on tiny yellow flowers and on the naked branches of a low-growing bush. The shadow circles on. On the mountains, touched by the light, the snow is incandescent.

Choosing the cover of "Mr. Summerhaye's Horse"

When I started to think about what the cover of Mr. Summerhaye’s Horse would look like, I decided to use the same process as for As Winter Came and Went: that was to use as an inspiration a painting from the same period and recreate it to fit the story. 

The cover of As Winter Came and Went already featured Summer the horse and was inspired by a painting by Horace Vernet. I copied it, changing the colour of the horse, as well as the background. 

The painting I used for Mr. Summerhaye’s horse was a French one as well, done by Theodore Géricault (1791-1824). One of Géricault’s best known paintings is "Le Radeau de la Méduse" ("The Raft of the Medusa," 1818-1819), but he was also a prolific painter of horses. I really like this part of his work, and the vibrant, expressive paintings he made of those animals, which he obviously loved – though his many riding accidents played a part in his premature death. 

When I was visiting the Château de Chantilly, near Paris, some time ago, and looking at the art collections on display there, my eye was caught by a medium-sized, undated oil-painting by Géricault, depicting a black horse being led by a man out of a stable. Somehow, this painting reminded me of the fictional horse who gallops through the pages of As Winter Came and Went. Probably because of his black coat with white markings, and because the horse in the painting is probably one who had been imported from a foreign land (he has a dished nose like an Arabian horse). 

The château de Chantilly where the painting is displayed.

At the time, I was getting As Winter Came and Went ready for publication, and had already made (and I think revealed) the cover. Gazing at this painting, I found myself regretting that I had not used this one instead of the other. 

Fast forward to 2020: having decided that I was going to self-publish the novella about Summer, I had no hesitation choosing “Cheval sortant de l’écurie” (“Horse going out of the stable”) as the basis for the artwork I would use for the cover of the book. 

I did not copy it faithfully (though I do wish I could paint like Géricault!) and the result is a simplified reinterpretation of the original: I used the portrait rather than landscape format (because it is more convenient for a book cover), I darkened the background (and took out a lot of details), I took out the man and changed the horse’s markings to better fit the description I give of Summer.

Cover reveal

And here it is, the cover of Mr. Summerhaye's Horse!

Watch this space for a post on the story behind it... 

Save the date

I've finally settled on a publication date! However, it is liable to change, depending on the evolution of the global situation. 

I'm soon going to do a cover release, so watch this space!

Review: "The Snow Child" by Eowyn Ivey

"Alaska, the 1920s. Jack and Mabel have staked everything on a fresh start in a remote homestead, but the wilderness is a stark place, and Mabel is haunted by the baby she lost many years before. When a little girl appears mysteriously on their land, each is filled with wonder, but also foreboding - is she what she seems, and can they find room in their hearts for her?" (blurb from my edition of the novel).

This retelling of a Russian folk tale, that of the snow maiden, built by an old, childless couple and mysteriously come to life, is a beautiful and well-crafted novel. I had bought it because I had liked another book by the same author. And I really enjoyed reading this one as well, for several reasons. 

One is the interesting mixture of realism - in the way the mental and physical struggles of the main characters are depicted, or in the description of life in the Alaskan wilderness - and magic - through the character of the snow child. Is it a fairy tale? Is it magical realist story? Or are the fantastical elements simply projections of the character's imagination? Different levels of reading intertwine, leaving the reader with a sense of wonder. The historical setting was also well done, with appropriate details on clothing, buildings, etc., and the intertextuality with the Russian tale and its different retellings cleverly brought about. 

Another reason is the description of Alaska and life in its wilderness. The author is an Alaskan and I believe it shows. The depictions of the landscape, the animals, the plants, the seasons were vivid and beautifully written. They transported me to this land which men were still trying to tame at the time, and made me want to actually see it for myself! 

The point of view in the different chapters shifts from that of Mabel to that of Jack, until the last part of the book where we enter the thoughts of another character. Mabel and Jack are ordinary, relatable people. I thought that Mabel was more complex and well-written than Jack. And in comparison, the third character whose point of view is featured could have been a little bit more developped. But that is only a minor criticism, and one that does not take away from the pleasure of reading this novel. 

I must point out that the is character-driven and that there is not much in terms of plot. Not that I found it to be a hindrance: it is still an oddly gripping read and the character's struggles, as well as the aura of mystery that permeates the story, kept me turning the pages. It is a book that will certainly appeal to lovers of literary fiction and even nature writing. 

A writer in confinement

Two of the illustrations that will feature in Mr. Summerhaye's Horse

France, like many other countries, is in lockdown. I am forced to remain at home for the forseeable future. And I wish I could say it is a great opportunity to write. Unfortunately, I have been spending more time frantically looking at the news and wallowing in anxiety and self-pity than actually being productive. 

Having more time at home is having more time to write. Even if the global sitation is more than worrying. Even if it's difficult to concentrate. Even if I wish this was not happening. Or if I could just sleep all the time and wake up when this mess is over. So I tell myself this: having more time at home is having more time to write.

But how can you write in those conditions? I, personally, have created a little schedule for my day. It's not a very ambitious one, but that means I've been able to follow it. It's quite simple. In the morning, I work on a brand new manuscript for one hour. This is quite an enjoyable task, as creating the story, imagining it, writing it down is fun. Then, for another hour, I edit another  work in progress. At the moment, it's the sequel of As Winter Came and Went. I had the ambition of releasing it in 2020 this is not going to happen: I was distracted by other projects. Then, in the afternoon, I work for 1 or 2 hours on the illustrations of Mr. Summerhaye's Horse. There will be a total of 21 and I have already done 10. 

As you can see, this isn't a schedule that will make me super productive. However, slowly but surely, I am making progress. Each day I add about 1,000 words to my new manuscript. Each day I clean up a bit more the messy, unappealing tangle that is the sequel to my novel. Each day I am getting closer to having my novella ready for publication. 

The goals I've set myself are easy to meet. Maybe, as the days (weeks) pass, I'll try to be more ambitious. Maybe I'll try to up my wordcount to 2,000/day, or even 3,000. Maybe I'll start a new project. I've done it before, even if the situation was very different. Now, we can control nothing. We can only wait and hope we escape unscathed. It appears, from what I've seen in different writers' online groups, that some authors are inspired by the events unfolding around them. Some are writing stories. Some are keeping a journal. Some are likening it to the apocalypse. 

The situation is indeed apocalyptical. I think that my little writing routine is helping me a bit to cope with it. At least, it's useful to while away the time. It's a way to keep a semblance of normality, when it's not even certain things will ever go back to normal. To what they were before. 

"From novel to movie..."

The cartoons are back! I often see posts on social media from people daydreaming about what they'd do if a producer wanted to by their novel to turn it into a movie. They almost invariably state that they'd only sell it if they had a say in what was done with it. Honestly, if a producer offered me MONEY to turn my novel into a movie, I'd let them do what they wish with it, from changing the gender of all the main characters to setting it in a different time period. 

Maybe that comes out as a bit...greedy? But hey, $ is $. And even if the film is rubbish, then you have the satisfaction of hearing people say that the book is way better. 

Announcement

Where in the world are you as you read this? I am writing from locked-down France. Life seems to have come to a standstill. The shops and schools are shut. And we are not allowed to go out, except for a very, very few reasons. Many countries are in the same situation or will be. It is all part of the fight against Covid-19.

Anyway... I'm writing this post because I've decided to follow the example of many writers who have decided to make their books available for free so people have something to do while they're in isolation. I think it's a wonderful idea (and wish I'd had it on my own!). As a result, the Kindle version of As Winter Came and Went will be available for free for a few days. It's a loooonnng novel, so it should keep you occupied for some time. 

You can find it there: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07K618J3M?ref_=pe_3052080_276849420

Stay safe! 

The Notebook Obsession

I love notebooks. I’m obsessed with notebooks. I collect and hoard notebooks and sketchbooks and journals like a squirrel hoards provisions for the winter. I have notebooks of all shapes and sizes and designs. Each time I see notebooks in a stationery shop, I make a bee-line for them. I have so many I forget about them and have been known to buy the same one twice, several months apart, not remembering I already owned it. 

In a way, it’s normal that I should like notebooks. I’m a writer. The notebook and the fountain-pen are the quintessential tools of a writer. Except… except that as my stack of notebooks grew and grew and grew, their pages remained empty. For years and years, I wrote nothing in my dozens of notebooks, or if I did, it was only a few pages before I gave up. And my notes were almost exclusively taken on torn scraps of recycled paper. 

Why? I was always afraid of “spoiling” those nice notebooks which had been chosen and collected with love. I wanted to keep them for special occasions – which never came. 

Was this reaction a derivative of the blank page syndrome? The beautiful emptiness of my notebooks paralysed me (and I’m sure I’m not the only writer suffering from this psychological blockage). 

Anyway, I recently decided it had to stop. If I wanted to go on hoarding notebooks, I actually had to use them. And I did. I was brave. I faced those blank, empty, beautiful pages. I took a pen. And I spoiled them. 

It started with a journal where I wrote down things I knew I’d like to remember in a few years’ time. I’m still keeping this diary of sorts, which has now filled 3 and ½ notebooks. In another, I jotted down observations made on walks in nature. In another, the beginning of a story. Right now, I am writing the first draft of this post in a pretty notebook, the cover of which is adorned with colourful fountain pens (very fitting). 

Now I’m using my notebooks fast, and what better excuse to buy new ones? I’m always finding new things to write (am I not a WRITER after all?) and I even wish I’d started earlier. 

Because writing is one of the best ways I know to crystallise memories and feelings. For instance, I wish I had written down my thoughts when I travelled. Now I still remember, but it’s a bit dimmer. 

I’ve realised that hesitating to “spoil” a nice notebook with random and not always well-expressed thoughts is rather like being afraid of starting a first draft. It’s underestimating yourself. It’s lacking self-confidence. 

Yes, 90% of what I write in my pretty notebooks is uninteresting scribbling, full of spelling and grammar mistakes. There are blots an tears and scratches. The gorgeous covers become a bit battered. The designs and colours fade. The corners show signs of wear. 

But those notebooks, which no longer look like they should be lining the shelves of a stationery shop, have become so much more precious to me. They have lived, and their pages contain part of me. With mistakes, with hesitations. 

I still have empty notebooks. And I still have the compulsion to buy more. Not for the same reasons as before. Not because I dream of writing, or hope to have, one day, something special to fill them with. They have become the means of capturing those important and unimportant moments I want to remember, on a certain moment, in a certain place. They have become the guardians of my journey as a writer and as a person.

The moment when I prefer to write

There is a moment when I love to write: very late in the evening, when everyone else is asleep and only I am awake. When the night is deepening outside and the world is hushed by darkness. 

It is a moment when I love to work on a first draft. And at that moment, working on that first draft becomes almost relaxing: I take a piece of paper and a pen and I write and write, caring only about the story that is slowly taking shape and not asking myself if it is any good. 

When I was a child I invented stories as I lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come. So, in a way, writing at night is a continuation of this childhood habit, especially since it fueled my dreams of becoming a writer and taught me to use my imagination, and to create characters. 

I love that moment when the night and sleep overcome the world around me. A shift in the atmosphere. An owl hoots outside. All is still. The floorboards creak. It is the time when ghosts awake and wander once again through the world they should have left, remembering times, remembering people now lost forever. 

Being alone awake at night is sharing a secret with the house you are in. Sharing a secret as the night breathes a strange new life into it. The house remembers. Previous inhabitants, from centuries past. Sorrows, joys… It remembers and it dreams, as owls hoot outside. 

What better time to stir the imagination than this moment between wakefulness and sleep? What better time to make up stories? What better time to create? In those stolen moments of quietness, as the whole house sleeps. 

I especially love those moments when I am in the countryside. Then, the first hours of the night have a song of their own. The frogs in spring, and their enamoured croaking. Crickets in summer as the nights begin to lengthen again. The rustling of autumn leaves as the winds strengthens and rain threatens. The cold stillness of winter as the smell of frost creeps on the hills. 

All this is what makes this moment magical in my mind. All this is what makes it special. Inspiration grows as the dreams gather, and the story grows with the night itself. 

Of course, there are other moments when I like to write. In the morning, with a steaming cup of black coffee. During the day, in a café maybe, sitting by the window, watching people going to and fro. Those are straightforward moments to write, to edit, to correct. 

But the first hours of the night are shrouded in mystery. And in the stillness that characterizes them, the story you create is a secret, shared with the house, and the darkness, and the moon.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse

Yes, Mr. Summerhaye's Horse will be the title of the novella about Summer, Dennys's horse in As Winter Came and Went. 

I have finished the first draft of this novella, which is at the moment 40,000 words (so it's a long novella, since a story is considered a novel when it's over 50,000 words). It still needs a lot of editing, but I'm hoping to self-publish it this year. 

If you are new to this blog, or have missed some previous posts and have not read As Winter Came and Went, Summer is a Barb (an ancient North African breed) horse who was imported from Morocco to England to become a racehorse. The novella will span the years 1815 to 1820, ending when we first meet Summer in As Winter Came and Went. 

I'm planning to illustrate the novella, so I'll have to work on several drawings. Pictured above is a preparatory sketch for one of the illustrations. 

This is a project I'm really excited about and I'll probably make more posts about it, my progress and the story and research that went into it! 

Writing goals

First of all, happy new year to all of you! How 2019 has flown... I hope it was a good year for you and that 2020 will be even better. 

One year ago, I made a post about my writing resolutions for 2019. I have just looked back at it, to see if I had actually kept them. 

My first resolution was about finishing the first draft of the sequel of As Winter Came and Went, before the summer. Though I did finish it, it was in the autumn. 

My second resolution was about my novel in progress called Cinnamon: I wanted to write at least half of the first draft. Though I still intend to complete Cinnamon one day, I am not working on it for now, because I have decided to focus on other manuscripts. 

My third resolution related to two non-fiction projects. One of them was the book of cartoons, which is done and published. The other has been abandoned for the moment. 

My fourth resolution was to engage more with the Internet writing community, but I’ve been rather lazy about that. 

My fifth resolution was to write short stories and publish them here. I have written one short story and am still wondering what I’m going to do with it. 

A good part of those resolutions were not kept. But that doesn’t matter. Sometimes, the most interesting, the most exciting projects are those that were not planned. I think that my best writing achievement for 2019 was my spur of the moment NaNoWriMo participation which allowed me to write, from scratch, the first draft of The Orchid Collector. In a handful of weeks, a vague idea I had in the backburner was turned into a completed (if not very good) first draft. 

Another unplanned project was the novella about Summerhaye, Dennys’s horse in As Winter Came and Went. I’m currently writing chapter 6 out of 7, so I’m hoping to self-publish it in 2020. 

This is my first writing resolution for 2020: to finish, illustrate and publish this novella. 

My second is to thoroughly edit The Orchid Collector and find an agent to represent it. 

The third is to finish editing the sequel of As Winter Came and Went and get it as close to publication as I can. 

The fourth is to learn about marketing and try to sell more copies of As Winter Came and Went. 

The fifth is to write short stories. 

The sixth is to unearth one of my unfinished manuscripts (maybe Cinnamon, maybe another) and actually complete it. 

The seventh is to read more fiction, and maybe to post reviews on this blog. 

And I’ll end this post like I did last year’s… 

The end of the year is like the end of a book. There is no way of knowing what will happen next. But you can write parts of the story, of the story that comes next, the one you want to read, the one you want to live.