Do Me A Favour, Would You Tell Me When to Stop, Because I Don't Know How to Quit...

132,747.

I really never thought I'd get the wordcount on this longsuffering novel that low! Still long, by publishing standards...though once again I sit with three paperbacks on my headboard that are all greater than 150K...though only one is a first novel.

The thing is...I can be a bit competitive. In this case, with myself. Now that I've gone through and hacked an amazing number of words, I want to start all over at Chapter One, see if I can hack some more, because I'm sure as I got closer to the end, I became more ruthless. Of course, I should probably read through the silly thing once more anyway, to make sure it's still coherent!

I have to admit this week I've been trying to be realistic. If I'm *smart* I will try to write a novel of more appealing length, query that, try and get it published - put this one on the shelf. Chances of getting a book that "breaks the rules" published are much greater when it's not a writer's first attempt. My problem is, it's taken me much of my life so far to write this thing...what makes me think I have something else in me?

Oh well...maybe I'm like the perpetual student...destined to be a perpetual closet novelist! Off to dust one of my NaNoWriMo projects to try to prove myself wrong.

(My apologies to Switchfoot for the title, inspired by lyrics from "Playing for Keeps!")

So...Are Rules Really Made to be Broken?

Okay....is this close enough to a Vampire? Especially now that he's registered as Bat Out of Hades? :-D

I'm kind of excited, because I have the good old LGN down to 153K, and I told myself I'd be happy if I made it to 155K. Some of the trimming is good, I'm sure - it makes for much tighter writing - I just hope I haven't messed anything up in the process. Then, of course, I decide it's time to read Twilight - mostly since a few months ago both my sister-in-law and best friend/fellow writer said I should - and discover it's so many pages, apparently they stopped numbering! Seriously, the paperback I have from the library isn't numbered right to the end, so I don't really know how many pages it has. Five hundred, maybe? Either way, it's much longer than everything you read a YA novel should be in order to get published, at least for first-time authors. And guess what? This is a debut novel. Just goes to show, I guess, if you catch the right agent and/or publisher's eye, it can happen.

Someday I will write a YA novel. My last NaNoWriMo stint was an attempt at that. Problem is, there are no vampires, zombies or wizards. I wonder if I just gave all the horses names like that, if it would improve my chances?

Pruning, or Amputation?

In my quest to decrease my word count, I hacked out most of an early chapter, removing a whole event. That was hard, but I had to ask myself, was that section really necessary? How much did it add to the storyline? In my first draft, that part wasn't there - I'd added it to add some conflict and expand on some characters, but if you didn't know it had been there, would you miss it?

The joy of things these days is we have the internet. I don't know how many novels I've read where I wished I could read more, I just liked the characters so much. So why not post some of the cut sections on the blog? When you buy a movie on DVD these days, you inevitably get cut scenes.

I've been thinking about Saratoga this past week, trying to start planning the annual trek. So perhaps a little clip making reference to the Spa would be appropriate.

Lise glanced over to where her parents stood with the winning owners. She and Emilie had come with Claude and Anne, and Lise knew they didn’t plan on staying long. “We’ll probably have to go soon.”

“Oh, stick around for a bit. The way you’re skyrocketing to stardom, how often are we going to see each other from now on? Dean and I could drive you back. You too, Em.”

“I really should go with them,” Lise said. “I’m heading back to New York in the morning.”

“Yeah, and you probably don’t have to get up half as early as you normally would, so I’m not buying that excuse. But I guess it’s good to know New York hasn’t corrupted you, when I couldn’t.”

“You should come down for a weekend,” Lise said.

“Now that would be fun – if I could afford it.”

“Saratoga!” Emilie chimed in. “Road trip!”

“You’re sixteen, Em!” Lise said.

“So? You’re eighteen. And Faye’s just twenty, so she’s not even legal down there.”

Faye was looking thoughtful. “I might have to work on that.”

Lise felt a twinge of regret as she looked out from the back seat of her father’s Jag when he drove out of the backstretch, aware she was once more leaving the comfort of Woodbine behind. It was odd to feel like a visitor, making such a short stay. Tomorrow, it was back to Belmont. In three short weeks she had achieved renown there, but she still felt out of place. Before her string of winners in New York, she’d been a spectacle – a woman in a man’s game, Canadian, and the daughter of a major owner in her home country. Now, though she may have been forgiven some of those things, the scrutiny had only escalated. She hadn’t anticipated this part of her chosen career, and couldn’t imagine ever getting used to the public aspect of her inadvertent popularity.

164K

Well, it would appear I still have some work to do in the ruthless editing department. Wasn't that a show, the $164,000 Question? Am I really dating myself here? Naturally there is not $164,000 at stake here; not for me, anyway. I knew I wasn't going to make my goal of 150K...there just wasn't much I could hack away in the last two chapters, so it's back to square one. I did, however, write what I think is a rather nifty potential query letter. Ironically it's quite short and concise. Is that false advertising?

I have to admit these last few days - despite the warm temps and lovely sunshine - I've been in a "why bother?" sort of mood. My time would be better spent painting. Except that when I paint I feel more or less the same, and think I'm better off just working with the horses, because that I can sort of do, and they seem to actually appreciate it! All except for my own mare, that is! Ungrateful child....

"Good to know you have the whole hotwalker thing to fall back on..."

Fifteen for Fifteen

Anyone with an eye on the horse racing game has probably watched Zenyatta's 2010 debut in yesterday's Santa Margarita Handicap. I like to store bits and pieces of races in my head for future reference, to perhaps use in some scene somewhere along the line. From a strict racing perspective, I thought Smith's ride was kind of dramatic – did he really have to go inside and weave through horses like that? He said he didn't want to "tax" her; was the wild steering job really easier on her than a straight run on the outside? He never hit her, so I think it's safe to say she would have had enough to go around horses. From a fiction perspective, well, that race was great. The kind of ride Lise would have smacked Pete up the side of the head for. ;-)

"You never should have got caught between those two horses."
"What was I supposed to do? Take her down the middle of the racetrack?"
"Anything would have been better than getting yourself in that position."
"I should have let her set the pace."
"Either way, it worked out. You pulled it off."

Zenyatta is now on a 15 for 15 undefeated streak, one away from equaling the record shared by two of racing's greats: Citation and Cigar. For me, I'm having a "life imitates art" momment, because I've written this exact scenario in my novel. Maybe I'm feeling a little robbed, or maybe it serves me right for languishing over this story for so long that it's not out there yet! It's ironic that if it ever is published, readers will no doubt think I've borrowed from events in the last few years – bits here and there – when in fact, the storyline has been in place for (gulp) a couple of decades.

Meanwhile...the ruthless editing continues. I'm at chapter twenty of twenty-five, and down to 170,000 words. If I can get it to 150,000 when all is said and done, I think I'll be doing well, but whether or not that will still scare off agents remains to be seen! Wish me luck...

Just When You Think It's Not Going to Happen...

This time last week, I was pretty sure I was throwing in the towel on NaNo this time around. I had far too much ground to make up, and far to much other stuff to do...and far too many unexpected real-life twists were preventing me from maintaining my normal schedule. Friday I was scheduled for a gallery sit at our FASM gallery in the Milton Mall, where I'm taking part in a show this month. If I was going to have a shot at getting to that 50K, I needed Friday's four hour stint at the gallery to be productive! We weren't talking the 1,667 words a day needed to maintain a steady pace throughout the month, I needed to put out 5,000 words a day to make it there on time.

Lucky for me...I hit my stride. I kind of had to throw my MC into a bit of trouble, and that revived the story enough to let me really roll. And it's not polished, nowhere near perfect, but last night I was close enough to actually making the total ahead of schedule, that I pushed and wasn't going to be happy unless I made it. It wasn't as late a night as the one before, when I was up for the same reason - trying to get those words down as fast as I could! So sometime after midnight last night, I plugged my copy into the word verifier on NaNo, and finally...FINALLY! got the fireworks. Okay, so they're not like the fireworks we saw in Dubai. In fact, they're pretty static as far as fireworks go. But considering I thought I was a goner, to be done, and done *early*...wow, that felt good.

And I like this story better than last year's. This one has more potential. It's somewhere in between the LGN and last year's effort when it comes to storyline. Not quite a rags to riches horse racing plot, but something like that. It might merit some actual attention to see if I've got something there. And while I was sort of hoping it would fit the YA genre, I'm not sure it worked out that way.

The one thing I did with this story was write in a tense I absolutely never thought I'd write in. I've never been a fan of first person present - maybe there's another name for it, but I hope you know what I mean:

“Why don’t you just try him with your other mare here? You never know. She’s got lots of milk, and she’s pretty laid back, isn’t she?” Ben, our vet, says.

Dad nods, slowly, but I can tell he’s skeptical. It’s a little too much like Disney. He glances at me, and I shrug.

“Kinda don’t have anything to lose,” I say. Stranger things have happened. Like having two foals to deal with in the first place.

I think I maybe ended up enjoying it. It's kind of how I tell my informal stories, like if I was relating something that happened out in the barn. And now, of course, everything I write (such as this blog post) sounds a lot like that!

Who knows, maybe I'll go back to the beginning and start reading and hate the whole thing. Or maybe there's hope. We'll see!

Almost on Track

I've had a kind of up-and-down first week with this NaNo thing. With everything else that's going on right now - three art shows starting up, a horse to ride, commissions to do, on top of my usual responsibilities - I fell behind pretty quickly on my word count. Then on Friday this cold virus that I'd somehow been able to avoid finally caught up with me. The interesting this is, all I seem to be able to manage with the cold is - well, the horses of course, because I have no choice - then writing. I'm not quite caught up, but I'm pretty close, and hope today I will get there. I'm envisioning a Zenyatta-like run here: a bit of a poor start, hanging back, watching the others race ahead, then finally starting to move up, heroically weaving through traffic, and then hitting with a powerful turn-of-foot mid-stretch to gallop on by...hmm, nice analogy, don't you think?

I'm certainly at the point in this novel WIP that I have to get things moving. I've laid a foundation of sorts, spent lots of time in the MCs head, and now I need to pick it up a bit. It's the point when I realize, hey, 50,000 words isn't a lot...especially for someone like me who would really prefer to write an epic! I'm not sure it will ever be the kind of novel anyone else will want to read, and seeing as there are no vampires or zombies or wizards, probably not destined to be popular YA fare...but I'm having fun all the same. I think I'm indulging the inner wise-cracking teenager in me...the one that never really went away!

Uh-Oh - It's Almost November Again!

I've perhaps been floundering around in the writing department of late. If you follow my studio/horse blog at all, you'll know we've been through some tough times on the farm, and that always knocks me off my game a little. It's also been busy for me in the art world, but more with admin stuff - not a lot of painting going on, and a list of commissions to get rolling!

I failed to achieve my goal of continuing to work through that poor LGN (aka 'Fifty Sovereigns,' the novel to which this blog is dedicated!) and hacking the word count - I'm about halfway through that task. That of course means I haven't bravely queried. Yet. Or just skipped that and self-published. Last night, however, I did complete the first revision of 'the sequel' just to be doing something. If I'm true to my usual M.O., there are many more before I deem it "done!" I actually think it's just because I like to 'visit' with my characters, make their lives difficult, and miss them when I'm not around!

I'm going to attempt NaNoWriMo again this year. I haven't looked at what I wrote last year since I finished it - some things need some time to sit and stew a bit! One day I'll start a rewrite. I actually managed to come up with a new idea for this year, which I think I like a lot better. Now I just have to make it into a novel! I'm thinking about trying to make it a YA - I think the LGN is bordering on that, except for the length. If it ever gets published, it will be the horse-crazy teenagers (and older!) that are most drawn to it.

So...the countdown begins! At least this year I'm not attempting to do a painting a day as well!

Boldly go!

Ruthless Editing

Last week I went through every computer-owners worst nightmare - especially as it falls into the category of "I should know better!" My computer died. I am usually pretty diligent about backing up, but for the last while my backup drive has been a little flakey. A poor excuse, I know, but with the insanity the real life horses in my life have been throwing at me lately, I just didn't manage to get out to remedy that situation. And I really didn't acknowledge the subtle cues my little MacBook was throwing my way that suggested something might soon go awry....

Long story short...my hard drive had a meltdown, taking with it my most recent photographs (including the Queen's Plate) and editing of the 'sequel' to Fifty Sovereigns. Ouch. My tech friend has not given up entirely on the data recovery, but a week later, it's hard to be optimistic. I will be pleading with other photographers if I want to paint the Plate winner this year, and the writing, well, there's only one answer to that. Do it again! Sigh.

In the meantime, I decided to go back to this "LGN" of mine and take a stab at reducing my horrendous word count, so that at the very least, I won't be totally embarrassed when I start querying. Though I'm not sure how far I can take it, and if ultimately, I will be looking at going the self-publishing route (bleh!) I've decided either way, I will query, for the sake of experience. I have some experience when it comes to rejection, from my life as an artist. I've received the odd rejection letter from juried exhibitions. Thankfully I've received my share of acceptances too, though I'm not going to hold my breath for such a response when it comes to the writing world. Whole different ballgame, that.

So...that's where I am. I'm hoping to push through this rewrite/edit before my trip to Saratoga at the end of the month, and then look at forging ahead with some queries come September. August will have to be devoted to some painting, with a couple of very big gigs coming up in that department. I may post some of what gets cut from the novel on here, so that it will live on, somewhere! It's hard to let go...but it must be done!

Canadian Content: The Queen's Plate

Last Sunday Woodbine celebrated the 150th running of the Queen's Plate, the longest continually-run stake race (and sporting event) in North America. A documentary was produced and aired on CBC, and has also been released on DVD. I watched it when it aired, and was really impressed. It hit the nail solidly on the head, explaining what this race means to Canadians, and why it is more important than even the Derby to us on this side of the border. It's supposed to be available for purchase, though I haven't found out yet exactly where! I gladly scooped a copy at the Plate week festivities. Canadians can probably catch it on demand at CBC.

Watching some of the older footage, I was reminded how some things have changed since I wrote my story. When I was a horse-crazy youngster attending the Plate each year, it seemed it was the exception when the track was fast. There were many, many muddy Plates.

A crack of thunder woke her — there it was, finally. She glanced at the clock — two AM. Short moments later the torrential downpour began, and her spirits sank still lower.

She rolled out of bed, the thin shirt sticking to her body, and reluctantly closed the window as the rain blew in through the screen. After so many weeks of dryness, it should have been welcome. She lay down again on top of the sheets, on her side staring out darkly at the brilliant flashes of light, coming now in quick succession.

Bloody rain. It was traditional as the fifty guineas.

Now, with the new Polytrack, that variable has been eliminated. The verdict is still out on whether or not Poly is a safer racing surface, but I have to say for the purposes of fiction, it's far less interesting!

Last Sunday was a model first day of summer - sunny, warm and clear - one of the nicer Plates I've been to. And to be standing in the paddock, for the first time connected to a starter - even being that close was special.

Derby Day

The twin spires were still lit in the diminishing darkness, and he imagined them critically viewing the contenders from their noble post, deeming each one worthy, or not, to grace these grounds and contest the Run for the Roses...

The black filly looked casually across the infield towards those lofty spires as if to suggest she was up for the challenge, and would not be intimidated by their ghosts.

Something a Little Different: A Book Review

Part of writing is reading - scouting out the competition, so to speak. I read a lot of horse-themed books: the good, the bad and the ugly! Just finished this one. I'd heard about it as it was set between Woodbine and Fort Erie, and finally ordered it. Following is my very brief Goodreads review!



All Hat: A Novel by Brad Smith

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
I'm surprised I gave this as high a rating as I did, given that the horse and racing related details are so completely WRONG in this book I wanted to throw it in the woodstove. They became so frequent I gave up and convinced myself to enjoy the book in spite of this very consistent inaccuracy. The characters won me over, and were a major redeeming feature. Fantastic dialogue. Too bad this guy didn't get the horse part right, it would have been a really great book if he had.


View all my reviews.

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.