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.