Procrastination, or Fear?

I know, I know - more blog neglect. I've been getting nudges to take my late great novel here seriously. I go from feeling inspired to take the next steps towards trying to get it published, to thinking there's no way it will ever happen, and then a sort of terror at the possibility!

This week, for the first time since the first foal of the season arrived, I've started back working on the sequel. I'm into a more serious re-write now, to see if I can make it something worthy of following the first book. It's kind of fun when where I'm at in the story kind of parallels where things are at this time of year. Last week I shipped out the two layups that wintered with me - one to a training centre, the other straight into Woodbine. The training track opened February 11, so things are picking up in there. First day of racing is April 4.

Now, my story is set back when Greenwood still operated. I have had the time frame of the novel questioned - can I take readers back to the early 80s and have them get it, or do I place things in the present and just hope the folks that know better to go along with me when I hang onto some of the old scheduling and omit something as huge as the Breeders' Cup? Including Greenwood plays a big part in my story, because winter and spring racing at Greenwood provides a much better contrast to the Florida sun than Woodbine does. I mean, racing when it's snowing isn't fun anywhere if you ask me, but it's just a lot nastier if you have to drive down the Gardiner to the Lakeshore there and back to do it!


The other place that I cling to that is no more is Hialeah. There are probably sentimental reasons that I do that, due to my own memories, but it was such a beautiful track, and even back then Gulfstream seemed commercial in comparison. I'm glad I haven't been to Gulfstream since the more recent changes, because I've heard a lot of complaints!

I've decided in the month of March I need to work on a synopsis and query for the LGN (that is, the Late Great Novel, haha). Once I have those, and work through a few minor edits, well, guess it's time to dive in. I figure those things are doable amid the tasks that actually pay their way - my usual duties running the barn, preparing for the next foal, getting things rolling for the new breeding season, and of course, continuing to paint. Maybe by posting my intentions here I'll keep myself accountable!

(Photos: cold mornings at Woodbine!)

Does the Editing Ever Stop?

Once again, this is the neglected blog. I have finished that last re-write, so now it's time for some serious research on the publishing business. I've been reading up on agents as I understand that's what one really needs to get published. I've also been reading up on things agents apparently hate, and wondering if that means I need to do some more editing!

For now, I'm back to my first re-write of the sequel. In the month of November I took part in NaNoWriMo and decided to work on a new idea for that. I've had this idea in my head for some time. I like to think of it as the other end of the spectrum. While Fifty Sovereigns is about a big stable, with well-bred horses, Nothing Special is – well, can you guess? It's about a by-nothing-out-of-nothing homebred gelding, and his owner's journey trying to get him to the races. I wasn't able to get there with my own horse, so I'll just have to go there in fantasy land instead!

Cold Mornings and Foal Watch

Last night was one of the coldest yet this winter, though it's been a lot colder other years. It's been a pretty good winter. I haven't started nightwatching the two mares I have here yet -- they've been vac'd, wormed, udders clean, and the babies in their bellies are shifing...but they're still a ways away. How long I can't know. I wish I could!

At the moment I'm just kind of writing "filler". It's actually "the sequel", which is something I really never intend to show anyone. It's more for me, sorting out details -- you know you're supposed to know your characters' whole histories. Maybe I'll change my mind, but right now it's got a lot of garbage, in my opinion! In a sense I'm writing just to write. I'm kind of using things that have happened, just to record the experience in a different context. There's not as much racing so far in this one, and that, to me, makes the story kind of boring. Too much personal stuff.

On a sad note...Dan Fogelberg died recently. His music will always live on...

Chapter Two, Part One

Time passed as quickly as the young filly grew, turning winter into spring, and now spring promising summer to follow. Delicate foals on gangly legs became sturdier, more graceful models, losing their baby fur and developing the characteristics that would make them racehorses — or not.

Green had gradually overtaken the gently rolling pastures of Triple Stripe Stud. The large maples that dotted the landscape now wore a fresh cloak of leaves, providing shade that would become vital for the horses’ comfort as the days brought increasing heat.

Pete Miller slowed from a run and sauntered up to the white stud rails of a large field where a group of foals frolicked. The warm sun was finally convincing him that winter was a thing of the past. If this late May afternoon was any indication, the summer was going to be a hot one. The lining of his black nylon pants was damp, and he mopped the sweat off his brow with the arm of his loose t-shirt.

Running had become a ritual for him since the more agreeable weather had returned. Last summer, shortly after his arrival, he had discovered the wooded trails weaving through the farm’s acreage, though winter had put an end to this outlet and forced him to go into a gym in the city for exercise. Even though he was in the city at the track just about every day now, he still preferred to come home for a run now the trails had started to dry up. He wouldn’t call himself anti-social, but he needed this time alone in the solitude of the trees to balance the people and activity of the track and the city. It was relaxing out here, and Triple Stripe Stud was not lacking in pleasant scenery, with well-kept grounds and more beautiful, classy Thoroughbreds than he had been exposed to in his life.

The black filly he had helped deliver back on that freezing January morning stood out amongst her pasturemates, and it wasn’t just because of her diminutive stature or her rare colour — she had turned out to be a true black, something he hadn’t seen before he’d arrived at this farm and come across the stallion Sheol for the first time. Her coat had the same brilliant blue sheen, revealed when she’d lost her fuzzy foal coat. There was undoubtedly something special about this foal. She was tiny, there was no denying that, but otherwise, he found her pretty hard to fault. Pete liked her spirit. For a filly, she was incredibly tough — she acted more like a colt. There were a lot of hopes resting on her, that much was obvious. So far the filly showed every indication she had what it would take, though picking Plate horses at this age was hardly a reliable practice.

It was the stud manager Geai Doucet who had dubbed the filly “Chique,” and Pete knew enough French to recall the meaning — she really was no more than a quid of tobacco to look at. The Anglophones, initiated by Pete’s intentional mispronunciation, had started just calling her Cheeky, and that was appropriate enough. Every ounce of her lived up to that title.

Her desire to run was strongly apparent. Pete’s eyes settled on her small black form as she reared and struck out at the group of other foals, enticing them to play, starting them off on a wild race around the field. Chique led the way, pinning her ears as a chestnut colt attempted to move up beside her. A snap at him with quick teeth and the colt backed off. Pete shook his head. The chestnut looked like the Northern Dancer colt Claude Lachance and Geai Doucet were both pretty high on. That filly sure was a pushy little thing. Her determined attitude was just what everyone liked to see.

She wants to be a front runner, that one, he laughed to himself. He wondered if she’d be where she was supposed to be three years from now — a month away from a start in the Queen’s Plate, as Lise was hoping? Lise was pretty close-mouthed, and he could tell she kept a pretty tight hold on her emotions, but her dream for this filly had leaked out. He wondered where he’d be by then. It would be good to stay associated with an outfit like Triple Stripe as he broke into the Woodbine riding ranks, though he was sure Lise would keep the mount on that filly herself when the time came.

The lively filly took the group for a lap before spinning to a halt by the mares. Pete saw her nip at the chestnut colt and both half reared, but the colt seemed to think it inappropriate to be playing with a girl, and wandered over to his dam to nurse. Pete laughed, thinking the little black looked insulted, left standing there. She turned around and trotted over to Sotisse, but the mare was no more willing to join in on her game, pinning her ears in warning at her daughter. Finally, resigned, Chique dropped her head to graze.

Pete smiled and turned away. The lining of his nylon pants was almost dry now from the warm breeze. He walked past the large broodmare barn, the wooded area extending to his left, and before long picked up an easy run once again.

Notes on Chapter One

Yes folks, two posts in one day. :-) I took a quick glance over what I had already posted. I've already been thinking Chapter One needs to be seriously looked at, tightened up, that sort of thing, but some of the commentary may remain.

The filly's destiny is supposed to be the Queen's Plate -- ironically, this year's installment is this coming Sunday. I was looking through the current condition book last night (that's the book that the track handicapper writes outlining prospective races for two weeks at a time) and the Plate is the feature on the last day of this current book. It includes pertinent info such as the nomination process for this prestigious stake. Things have changed in the process since I started writing my novel, and I determined I would keep it in the period of the early 1980s. Things have changed a lot in Canadian racing in general. My story takes place before Canadian Triple Crown race distances, surfaces and timing were altered to be more like the American series. Back then you would still see racing stories in the Toronto Star, where now the Star is so pathetic in its reporting on the local racing scene it might as well be non-existent. I used to look at the Star every single day. A story such as the birth of a notable foal likely would have made it into the Sports pages. That sure wouldn't happen today!

The reality of a breech presentation, from what I've been told by friends with more extensive foaling experience than I, is that it's the sort of case that would be referred immediately to the nearest Large Animal Clinic. Could a 100-pound female manipulate that foal? Might be a bit of a stretch, but for dramatic effect I'm going to go with it. It's not the most unlikely thing that will happen in my story. It's not impossible, either. It's what they taught us in high school English - the willing suspension of disbelief.

I hope you enjoyed meeting the three main characters -- Lise, Pete, and of course the filly! Please excuse my bad Photoshop job. Filling in for the Sotisse filly is Peaker!

Interlude...

I know I started this blog with the intent of including snippets of the infamous LGN, but besides turning out to be a lot more work than I anticipated, I wondered about the sense of it. Why not finish the silly thing once and for all and get it in print, one way or another? I'm not sure I have the time or energy to try and pursue publication in the traditional sense, what with the demands of my art career and layup business, so I may well consider different options. It's quite amazing when I start to realise how many of my fellow horse artists are also writers, closet or otherwise. Perhaps we'll form our own group!

In the meantime, I keep writing (well, re-writing) away as time and my commission avoidance allows! I lurk on a writer's forum called Absolute Writer, and came across a thread asking one to consider what song might be a theme for one's novel. I found out I'm not the only one who has a "soundtrack" of sorts for my novel, but to pick just one song is a bit more challenging. I think my choice would have to be Dan Fogelberg's These Days, from the Captured Angel album. There are other songs on the album that are relevant as well, but this, the opening song on the album, recurs in my head throughout the story. The irony is that the main character is Lise Lachance, but the male protagonist, Pete Miller, refused to take second billing. So These Days is really "his" song.

I used to think of myself as a soldier
Holding his own against impossible odds
Badly outnumbered, and caught in the crossfire
Of devils and gods.

...Oh but these days are just like you and me....

My apologies to Mr. Fogelberg for so blatantly quoting the lyrics! Copyright 1975! While I know that using lyrics in the actual manuscript is a no-no, I do keep Dan Fogelberg as Pete's musical hero. He's not stupid, Mr. Miller -- he knows DF is the "thinking woman's heart-throb!" ;-D

So perhaps this blog will take a slightly different path, just to keep it active. A paragraph here or there, some of my delusional thoughts -- what more could a reader ask for? Haha...what reader(s)?????

Chapter One, Part Four

Lise watched the filly cavort around her dam in the small turnout paddock the next day, the dark coat an obvious contrast to the powdery snow. The baby now wore a little foal slip — her first halter. The weather had warmed up nicely by mid-afternoon as promised, allowing for the filly’s first outdoor experience to be captured by the local and Metropolitan Toronto media. Reporters, photographers and film crew had recorded the arrival of Just Lucky and Sotisse’s first offspring for their Sunday evening newscasts and Monday’s papers. A nice, feel-good racing related story for the off-season. Her fame would last a few short days for now, and would wane until she was a two-year-old in training. At that point their interest would once again peak, critically, waiting to see if she would live up to her heritage.

For now the filly ran on spindly legs, bathed by the dropping afternoon sun, totally unaware of the weight she so unsuspectingly carried on her slight shoulders. A year from this coming December, when she was a yearling rising two, Lise would make Queen’s Plate nominations for the filly and the other young hopefuls designated as prospects that might carry the Triple Stripe colours in the prestigious classic. Through her ancestors, the first-born daughter of champions Just Lucky and Sotisse had inherited a destiny that pointed her to that race in three and a half years, the last weekend in June, on Woodbine’s main track.

Whether or not the filly made it that far was anyone’s guess. This dark foal would always be vulnerable to the same innate rules that governed the sport of Thoroughbred racing. Any number of evils could obstruct her intended path — it would be naïve to think otherwise, no matter how special she was. But she had made it this far, overcoming her first hurdle to be running around beside Sotisse with that gawky way of going unique to a newborn Thoroughbred. Right now, she was all hope.

Lise had been around to watch the filly’s sire and dam compete in the coveted event, but those two had been her father’s vision. This filly was hers. She was determined that, together, she and this little filly would pick up where their parents left off.

It was all about patience and time. It would be twenty months before the filly would be backed for the first time, in September of her yearling year. She would not race until the following season, and then only sparingly — enough to give her the experience that would set her up for the important sophomore campaign. The months that preceded breaking, though seeming long and uneventful, were a vital period of development. A careful feeding and blacksmith program were necessary to maintain strong, straight limbs and ensure proper growth and health.
It was all about foundation….breed the best to the best — that was only the beginning. Solid genetics, balanced nutrition, compassionate handling, progressive loading under saddle, careful monitoring of every step. For too many in this industry, it was all about the dollar, a quick return on investment more important than the well being of the animal. Bringing it all together to reach the ultimate goal took balancing and perseverance.

She had heard it said that the Kentucky Derby was the toughest race in America to win. Likewise, Lise felt the Queen’s Plate was the most elusive contest in Canada. Having the best horse a week before Plate Day didn’t mean a single thing — it came right down to the day itself. Next December, somewhere between three and four hundred yearlings would be nominated for the classic. As many as twenty might go to the post on race day, though more likely, twelve to fourteen. And only one would get their picture taken in the winner’s circle, under a royal purple and yellow blanket of flowers. Only one winning team would be on the podium accepting the fifty gold sovereigns and gold trophy from the Queen’s representative. Many are called, few are chosen…and only one comes home first. Lise looked out at the tiny girl poking her dark face out from behind Sotisse. At this stage of the game, it was a pretty lofty expectation of one so small.

Lise slid off the fence and into the paddock, calling Sotisse. It took time before both mare and foal came in her direction. The filly was already showing an amazing degree of independence, preferring to dodge snowflakes and dance away from her mother rather than follow. Sotisse nickered at her baby anxiously. The mare was easily caught and led to the gate, and finally the filly galloped urgently to her dam’s side. Lise snapped a second light rope onto the filly’s tiny slip and took hold of the active little body, popping and squirming to a chorus of her mother’s worried chatter before jauntily allowing herself to be guided back into the barn.

“Cheeky little girl, aren’t you?” Lise said as she turned the pair loose once they were safe in their stall. “Well, just hang onto that attitude, all right? I’ve got plans for you, miss.”

Hopes. Dreams. Nothing less than greatness.

Chapter One, Part Three

Lise kept an eye on her watch, and felt Pete looking at her again. She didn’t know how much he knew about foaling — he had to be reading the concern on her face — but she was beginning to think Sotisse’s agitation excessive. She told herself to wait until the water broke before getting any more paranoid.

“Finally,” she muttered as the placental sac appeared and soon released its contents, drenching the mare’s hocks. Lise was already discarding her coat and slipping off her sweatshirt, nervously adjusting her long hair in the elastic again and pushing up the arm of a long-sleeved t-shirt. “Okay,” she said, turning to Pete as she pulled on a long sterile glove. “Hold her for me?”

Lise ducked Pete’s questioning eyes as she slowly withdrew her arm and turned away, assuming she looked as pale as she felt. She removed the glove in the aisle and pushed back the dark fringe of bangs from her forehead. The uncomfortable warmth she had felt earlier was quickly replaced by a chill unrelated to the winter temperature.

“It’s breech.”

And a true breech. All Lise had found were hocks, the hind legs tucked all too neatly underneath the foal’s body, preventing delivery. No wonder Sotisse had spent so much time trying to shift this baby. The presentation was all wrong. It wasn’t going anywhere, the way things stood.

She was going to need all her strength for the job ahead. Lise had to work against the mare’s contractions as she pushed the foal’s haunches back and searched, struggling to get ahold of a limb and bring it into the birth canal. She wrestled the left hind free of the pelvic rim and felt a rush of relief as it joined her arms in the passage.

Resting was out of the question. The right hock was more easily found, but the force of the contractions was painful. Somehow she found the energy needed to grasp it, still fighting against the intermittent pressure exerted by Sotisse. Lise slid her hand down from the hock along the long cannon bone, through the wetness to the soft, strange covering on the tiny hoof. She took hold, and took a breath, telling her screaming muscles not to let her down now. The contractions miraculously cooperated and abated long enough to let her bring the appendage up to join its mate.

“Okay, Pete, just turn her loose.” Lise leaned back against the wall out of the way, trying to take advantage of the momentary break but ready to influence the mare if Sotisse picked a bad spot to deliver. Pete stood beside her as they waited once again. Lise closed her eyes briefly and refused to acknowledge the ache in her shoulders . They needed to get the foal out quickly.

Sotisse turned once around the stall as she looked for a spot to settle in the deep bed, sweat and straw matting her thick coat. At last the chestnut went down, then flattened herself, groaning.

“C’mon, you’d better help.”

Lise nodded to Pete, both moving in to take a now clearly exposed little hind foot, soles strangely facing upwards.

The struggle was obviously telling on the mare, and Lise fought her own fatigue as she and Pete worked steadily with each contraction. There was no time to think of the danger still involved. For all she knew the foal could already be dead, if the blood supply through the umbilicus had at any point been compromised…and if suffocation hadn’t yet occured, the possibility remained. They would know nothing until they got the foal out.

The long hind limbs of the foal lay stretched behind Sotisse, her baby now half expelled — caught precariously between the life she had known in her mother’s uterus and the potential of a new one which waited to welcome her. The mare’s sides heaved with her deep breaths, but Lise noticed anxiously that the contractions were no longer coming. “How is she, Pete? C’mon, ’Tisse…”

The shoulders, yet to come, were the largest part of the body. In a normal foaling, the head was out and clear by then. The comfort the filly had known inside her dam for ten months would now be suffocating her.

It was completely normal for the mare to rest partway through delivery, but in this situation, the seconds ticking could prove to be deadly. “C’mon, big mare, you’re almost there…”

They were both prepared when the next contraction finally came. The mare was striving with renewed strength, pushing the shoulders clear, and they quickly drew the foal out onto the straw bed. Lise was pulling away the amniotic sac before the forelegs were even free, cleaning the nostrils and anxiously looking for signs of life.

Pete reappeared at her side and started rubbing the fragile, dark body vigorously with dry towels. In her exhaustion Lise didn’t even protest when he gently pushed her out of the way to start respiration. He paused from his breaths to glance at the foal’s slight ribcage, waiting…they both saw the faint flutter.

“You got her,” Lise said, relief and suddenly considerable gratitude for Pete’s valuable presence washing over her. She sat back on her heels in the mess of straw, feeling her heartbeat slowly begin to return to a normal rhythm. Neither she nor Pete moved, staring at the tiny filly as each breath came more strongly that the last. Sotisse lifted her head slightly, murmuring at her new foal.

Chapter One, Part Two

Despite her determination to remain calm, Lise felt her hands trembling. Maiden mares — trust them to fool you. Often they foaled before they were due, but three weeks was almost too early. She left the stall and went back to the office to pick up the phone, dialling automatically and letting it ring. She unzipped her coat, feeling unusually warm all of a sudden.

“Allo?” A tired voice finally answered.

“Bonjour Papa. Got a surprise for you. Lucky’s first one is on the way.”

“What? Sotisse? Already?”

“She hasn’t broken her water yet, but this might not take long, the way she’s been so far. Are you coming?” It wasn’t meant as a question. She knew her voice betrayed her faltering composure. She didn’t like the pause at the other end.

“Damn, Lise, I’ve got an important meeting I have to get to.” Her father hesitated briefly. “You can handle this. Get Gilles up to help you out.”

Lise choked back a laugh. “Oh, that’ll go over well.”

“Well, he wanted to move into that apartment. Remind him that this mare’s probably still paying for his education. Call Ben, too, and make sure he’s around.”

Lise hung up the phone and glanced up the stairs that led to the apartment her brother shared with one of the farm’s exercise riders. She glanced at her watch — six forty-five. Not exactly the time Gilles would appreciate getting up on a Saturday morning. First she picked up the phone again and called Ben Thomas, the farm vet, expecting and getting his pager. Once she punched in the farm number, she put the receiver back on its cradle and then stepped lightly up the stairs. A vet’s presence wasn’t neccessary at most foalings — Lise had delivered many babies on the farm over the years — but with the value of this mare, and the fact that Sotisse was early, she would feel better knowing Dr. Thomas was aware.

Though she intended to knock softly, her hand beat an involuntary staccato on the apartment door. If Gilles had lived there alone, she wouldn’t have bothered with the courtesy; she simply would have gone in and dragged him unceremoniously out of bed.

It wasn’t a surprise when his roommate answered, but she found herself embarrassed because of her anxiety. That reputation with the farm staff of one always businesslike and under control was definitely not coming off at the moment. She was sure he would see the welling combination of panic and excitement in her dark blue eyes, or notice the tremor of adrenaline rushing through her body. This was it; this was the one. This foal would carry on the legacy created by its parents, who had turned the tides of chance for their Triple Stripe Stud. Nothing they had bred or raced since those two had come anywhere close.

“Hi.” Pete stepped back to let her inside with his usual warm, unassuming smile, though he was clearly a bit surprised to see her. “Pretty cold out there, I guess, eh?”

“I suppose there’s no point in asking if Gilles is up,” she said, adjusting to the new language, her English softly accented. She could hear the sound of a Toronto radio station’s morning show playing softly in the background as she tentatively stepped through the doorway, overly conscious about her presence in the apartment.

Pete laughed. “Yeah, he’s still dead to the world, I think.”

“Figured as much. I’ve got to get him up anyway. The big mare’s started, and my father can’t make it. I could call Jean to come over from the broodmare barn, but they’ll be starting to turn out soon and he’s got a couple people off today. I just want to make sure I have some help if I need it.” She heard her sentences running together. The well-heated room only made her nervous perspiration more evident, and she found it hard to recall just how cold it had been outside.

“Wow, she’s pretty early, isn’t she?”

“Three weeks. Not early enough to call premature, at least.”

“I could give you a hand,” Pete offered casually, seeming to disregard her mounting tension.
Lise considered his proposal quickly. Pete Miller’s help would no doubt be more effective than her half-conscious brother. “Okay. Great,” she said, deciding. “I’ll give Guy a call and tell him we’ll be late.” She eyed Pete— he looked ready for work, dressed for the cold with a turtleneck under his sweatshirt, wearing a pair of faded jeans. “Will you be long?”

“Right behind you,” he said, and reached for a coat that was slung over a nearby chair.

Chapter One, Part One

She was once just a dream, an image in the mind's eye....

Lise Lachance walked briskly through the darkness of the snow-covered lane, head buried deep in the collar of her down-filled jacket. The squeak of her boots on the hard-packed surface seemed to reverberate through the surrounding stillness, leaving little doubt that the night had been one of the winter’s coldest. Bare old maples loomed like huge shadows on either side, evenly spaced along the neat white stud rails that enclosed expanses of empty fields. A silent layer of snow rested protectively over the landscape.

Fading stars hung on in the clear sky, a colourful glow in the east giving wishful promise of at least some warmth to cut through the bitterness. She tried to pull the collar closer to her ears. Blue eyes picked up her destination about a hundred metres ahead, at the end of the fenceline on her left — a small white barn with blue trim, apartment overhead. With a sudden feeling of anticipation, she put her head down resolutely and picked up the pace.

The barn would offer a certain amount of relief from the cold, but something more drew her. Even though the six-year-old Thoroughbred mare stabled there wasn’t due to drop her first foal for three weeks, the mere thought of that rapidly approaching date set a whole rampage of neurons firing. Many foals would be born at her father’s King City breeding operation that year, but this one, more so than any other, would be special. This mare carried all the hopes and dreams that were the Sport of Kings in her belly, for the foal was destined to be a champion.

This baby’s birthright had been decided the first day the chosen stallion had covered the chestnut mare some ten months ago. There was a strong heritage in these bloodlines — both sire and grandsire of the precious fetus had won the Queen’s Plate, Canada’s most prestigious race, the expectant mare herself running second in the classic. The hopes resting on this baby were obvious. It was, admittedly, quite an expectation for the unknown, a creature as yet unborn, but that fusion of cells could do no less than inspire greatness.

She slid through the barn door and shook off the cold, immediately feeling the dampness around her eyes as the frost condensed on her dark lashes. Though the barn was well-insulated, it still amazed her that just two horses could keep the temperature bearable. It was only a simple four-stall barn, one of the original buildings on the property, and now housed the farm office. Lise flipped on the lights and loosened the collar of her jacket, automatically pulling the elastic scrunchie from her long hair and readjusting it. A single, distinct whinny greeted her over the rustle of straw.

The in-foal mare was noticeably absent from the routine, and Lise walked down to the stalls expecting her twinge of concern to be alleviated. Looking in as she flipped the blue feed tub hanging beside the door, she saw the mare standing quietly in the corner of the deep straw, oblivious.

The steam rising off the chestnut mare was a dead giveaway. Tail slightly raised, a hint of sweat on the flank and girth…Sotisse took a deliberate turn around the stall, huge belly swollen with the life she carried. Lise shook her head in disbelief. Damn, mare, this is it...

Fifty Gold Sovereigns -- A Novel

Introduction

When I was eight years old, I began writing a novel about a tiny black filly, royally bred, whose destiny was to run in the Queen's Plate. Through the years the story has evolved, as I learned more about racing and eventually worked extensively in the industry. Still, this story is based in fantasy, and I've taken some liberties as a result!

I won't be posting the whole novel here, only pieces, teasers of a sort, hopefully getting some feedback. I may add thoughts here and there as I go, little extras that aren't part of the body of the actual novel as it stands at the moment. The joy of the blog format is that it will allow me to include illustrations and photographs as I go, as in the "real world" I'm an equine artist. I do, however, appreciate the value of letting the reader form his or her own images of the settings and characters, so hopefully my additions won't get in the way of that. If this is so successful someone wants to make it into a movie though, I'm afraid we'll have to live with it! :)

So, here we go...hope you'll come along for the ride!