I Promised Something Last Week, Didn't I?

Hi Gang,

Last week the floodgates opened. No... bad choice of words. What I'm trying to say is that after long gaps between posts, I'm ready to start blogging again on a semi-regular basis. Being a virgin empty nester has its perks if you set aside the "missing your kids" part.

I've been working on a murder mystery for a while, and I'm ready to dive back into it. If you're a member of Book Country, you might have seen a pretty big chunk of Mallet as it was being developed.

I'm a Certified Pantster, so whatever you read today might not be the same tomorrow. I decided to post a sample of the book, just to whet appetites - yours and mine.

Now, where to start? The Beginning, according to all agent rules? Or a little piece in the middle, just to keep everyone guessing? I'll let you guess, since I'm still guessing anyway.

Saturday dawned hot and hazy. I blew the dust bunnies off my navy blue pumps, cinched myself into a steeply discounted designer sundress, and headed for the polo grounds on the Montgomery farm in Gormley. A few signs with red arrows pointed the way to the venue, and I scanned for the entrance.

A long line of cedar fencing bordered the farm to my left, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed a rail had snapped in two, leaving a gap. Someone should fix that, I thought.

I returned my attention to the winding road. In the same moment, a huge reddish-brown object filled my view in front of my car.

"Shit!" I slammed on my brakes and struggled to keep the Toyota from spinning out of control. Gravel spit in every direction. I managed to bring the car to a halt on the soft shoulder, facing the way I had come.

I gulped and gasped, gripping the steering wheel. When my heart and the dust settled, I searched the roadside, wondering if I'd hit the deer.

It wasn't a deer. It was a horse.

It shuffled back and forth in the ditch on the west side of the road, doing a little pirouette on its hind feet before trotting in the opposite direction.

With a deep breath, I undid my seatbelt and opened the door. I stood on the gravel shoulder for a moment, wondering about my next move.

The horse stopped for a moment and pricked its ears before flattening them and resuming its dance in the ditch. There was no sign of a limp, and a quick glance at my bumper reassured me I hadn't made contact. Thank God.

I had no idea how I was going to catch it. I looked around for help, but for the moment the lane was empty. No freaked-out farmhand came running from any nearby property, so it looked like I was on my own.

"Come on… girl?" Or was it a male? I didn't have time to peek at its undercarriage. I just kept my eyes fixed on a pair of flared nostrils while I slithered into the dry ditch.

The horse gave me a look that said, "Oh, no you're not," and flattened its ears again.

It wore a leather halter, but I knew from experience it wasn't a good idea to try to lead a nervous horse without a rope of some kind. One toss of the head and I could end up under its hooves. I crept closer, speaking softly while unbuckling my navy blue cotton belt. I slid it from the loops on my dress and held it to my side.

The horse snorted and nosed the sky, eyes rolling, but briefly stood still.

I stepped forward, and it stepped backward. I tried again, and it retreated.

I remembered a move I'd learned back in college when I took care of the school horses. I turned my shoulder and walked along the ditch, ahead the horse. I extended my closed fist as if I were holding a lead.

The trick worked. It followed me and I slowed my pace until it strode alongside. I looped my belt around its halter and hoped it wouldn't rear up, as I didn't have quite enough slack to keep the horse from hauling me into the air.

We scrambled out of the ditch, my genuine imitation patent vinyl pumps slipping on the flattened grass, and my arm almost yanked out of its socket as the horse unceremoniously assisted me to higher ground.

A car approached and slowed, its tires crunching the gravel. I raised my free hand and the driver rolled to a stop.

"Need any help?" The guy asked from his open window.

"No – I got it." I struggled to keep the bay still as it danced about, trying to jerk the belt out of my grip.

The driver set his hazard lights and got out of his car, halting the increasing lineup of vehicles that had built up behind him. He waited until we passed through the gates of the nearest driveway, and then returned to his car with a friendly wave.

By now the horse had finally decided to cooperate, and clopped calmly beside me. I hoped this was the right farm. This property was either on the polo grounds or adjacent, since the line of cars had turned into the next driveway.

A voice drifted through the trees from a loudspeaker, calling out the itinerary for the day's festivities. The first game was due to start just after lunch. I pictured Dionne sitting with the chairpersons and polo players' wives, sipping mimosas and making excuses for my absence.

 At this end of the grounds, silence surrounded me except for the occasional sleepy tweet from birds high in the pines that lined the driveway. A whinny drifted from a gargantuan century barn, and as I got closer, I heard angry male voices.

The Fun Side of Research

Remember a couple of years ago when I told you about a super opening for a polo mystery? Well, I'm about 10K words into my WIP. It's been a slow process, probably because my confidence in my writing has been sagging lately.

But I'm not here to whine. I wanted to share my experience while researching for the setting of my book. I'd been to several charity polo matches nearby (thanks to my employer), but nothing compared to the events of the past year.

You see, my girlfriend met a millionaire, and they soon started dating. He had taken up polo a few years ago and plays in Florida and here in Ontario. After meeting him, I was pulled into the world of the rich - massive estates, horses by the gross and handsome people. You'd think they'd be snobby like in the movies, but they aren't. They're all wonderful and warm.

I attended matches at the polo club, watched my girlfriend taking lessons and went to some really great parties. They weren't wild parties - it seems horse lovers are just like me - lovers of animals, good food, music and conversation.

Recently my girlfriend and the millionaire parted ways (amicably) and are still good friends. I ran into him at this year's charity event (he and my girlfriend both volunteered on the committee) and we exchanged warm greetings. I'll always admire his easygoing openness and generosity. Because of him, my novel has taken on a new level of authenticity.

Here are a few of the events that kept me from blogging (and sometimes writing) the past few months:

Nacho Figueras, six-goaler and Ralph Lauren model, tearing up the pitch at Pace Polo For Heart 2011. I didn't meet him, but he seemed nice.

Me on Maya, a gift to my girlfriend. A sweet pony - I hope I didn't confuse her too much.

Me with Princess Diya Kumari of Jaipur. Her husband was on the Royal Jaipur Polo Club team, invited to this year's Polo For Heart.

And finally, my own sister's brush with royalty on Monday. Cathy Elliott is musical director of The Talking Stick, the first all-Aboriginal original musical at this year's Charlottetown Festival. Her troupe performed for the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and got to meet the newlyweds. I'm so proud of my sis!

I hope to "get back on the writing horse" with more regularity this summer. I might no longer be in the inner circles of the rich, but I was sure to take notes!

My Brain is so Frazzled I Can't Even Think of a Title

I don't think I've experienced writer's block before, so I'm not sure I'd recognize it if I saw it. Is it that feeling everything you write is crap? Is it the brick wall you face when you're supposed to be writing a story? Is it opening your Twitter account instead of your WIP?

Or is it lack of confidence, second-guessing every word you type, backspacing and starting over about a hundred times? To me, it feels like neglecting a house until the paint peels and the windows are broken. The muse needs a coat of paint and a little TLC, but the job seems overwhelming.

The last several months have been... interesting. I had two WIPs on the go, and had to decide which to finish. One was literary women's fiction and the other was an up-market thriller with a premise that changed every time I looked at the world news.

After consulting my writerly pals, I decided to finish the women's fiction and started querying almost exactly a year ago. I had enough requests to keep me going. One agent requested revisions and I complied. It was close, but no cigar. I don't regret the exchange with the agent - she was so encouraging and made me feel like I was creating something worthwhile. In the end, she passed, but I have a cleaner, leaner and meaner book in hand.

Others offered similar feedback which compelled me to chop the manuscript in pieces and convert it into a YA novel. Now I'm starting a second round with the new title in hand, and there is still a lot of nibbling going on, but no real bites... yet.

All the while, I was asking myself, "Why am I doing this? Why don't I quit and do something else?" Everyone says an author should be working on the next book while querying.

After all, we don't wait until one kid is in college before having another one, do we?

It's like waiting to see if my first kid is going to be a ballet dancer or a rock star. After all, it's easier to hand down a set of drums than to buy a whole new set. I could continue with character-driven novels or switch gears and write a romantic suspense. I enjoy both, but I don't know if my future agent will.

While I'm mulling it over, I'll tell you about my first experience with a polo pony. How's that for switching gears?

My best friend had been taking polo lessons all summer and her boyfriend presented her with a polo pony. The pony's name is Maya and she's white with little brown freckles all over her. The first thing my friend did was commission me to paint a portrait of her, which I did. I'm posting a copy over there with my other paintings.

Maya was a rescue horse and hadn't been ridden for a while. She had become a bit "green" and needed to be brought up to speed with careful training. Much like my WIP *laughs*.

Earlier this winter, I had a chance to ride her.

Polo tack is a nightmare to put on a horse. There are so many straps and buckles, you need a diagram to remember it all. Maya stood patiently while I fiddled with her bridle and almost put the bit up her nostrils.

I hadn't ridden in five years, so when I got on her, I felt like I was going to slide off. I walked her around the arena while three youngsters zoomed circles around me in preparation for an upcoming indoor game. My friend, still a novice polo player, watched and laughed from the viewing room. I wasn't doing a very good job of warming up her horse.

Polo ponies are ridden in a different style from Western and English. There are two reins, and you hold them in your left hand only, even if you're right handed. The right hand is supposed to be for the mallet, but I wasn't holding one. The horse is trained to follow the ball, much like a cutting horse is trained to follow a dodging steer. Thus, steering isn't as much of an issue. Just stay on!

The stable owner's son, who was about ten years old, sidled up beside me on his bay mount. Our legs gently bumped together as he explained how to make the horse go faster. I guess he was tired of watching me playing it safe while he booted around at top speed.

He leaned forward and guided my rein hand up Maya's neck. "Its okay to canter, ya know. Just put your hand up here, behind her ears."

I laughed. "Trust me; you don't want to see me canter. I'm so out of shape my legs already feel like rubber. I'd fall off."

"Suit yourself," he responded with a shrug. He shouted, "Hyah!" and kicked his horse into a hard run while his mother shouted at him to slow down.

I nudged Maya to a trot, but when she speeded up I lost my nerve and slowed her down again. She must have thought I was some old fuddy-duddy.

I enjoyed my ride, but it was before Christmas and I haven't had a chance to visit again. I was given permission to ride Maya anytime, but I'd like my busy friend to be present to help saddle her because I still haven't figured out all those leather straps.

Thanks for listening to my rant. I promise to whip my flagging confidence in the butt and to get cracking with my writing again.  I'd already started a polo mystery, but now I wonder if it should feature a teen protagonist. There I go... second-guessing again.

It's time to canter.

Mallet

I've been meaning to write a novel based on the beautiful sport of polo. Last week, as I was tootling along Leslie Road, I noticed a broken cedar rail along the roadside. My imagination took hold, wondering what I would do if a horse got loose, wandering along the country roadside. Would I stop and capture it? What would I use as a lead? My belt? Would the horse shy, nervous because of the passing cars along this country road?

I think I found the opening to my next novel. Of course, this will be after I finish the two languishing on my hard drive at the moment.

Today my daughter and I attended the 30th Annual Polo For Heart tournament in nearby Gormley. The Sifton family owns the farm and club, along with a local airport. Since I started at the newspaper, I've attended every competition that wasn't rained out, either as a corporate guest or as one of the hundreds of General Admission picnickers on the north side of the pitch.

This time we went corporate and dressed accordingly. The secret is to wear a wide brim hat and sunglasses in order to look mysterious, a cotton dress cool enough so you don't sweat, and heels wide enough not to sink into the soft turf.

There was no competition today due to the heavy rains yesterday, but we enjoyed demonstrations, good food and bright sunshine. For some reason the volunteer staff kept replacing my empty wine glass with a full one, much to the chagrin of my teetotalling daughter.

The food was to die for. They kept the dishes warm by perching searing cast iron frying pans on hot bricks -- chicken, steak, seafood, and also had a variety of salads. I'm proud to say I consumed my daily minimum of fruits and vegetables (fermented grapes included).

The Silent Auction featured many items beyond my reach, including a trip to the Antarctic and several NHL signed sweaters and pictures. Beth loved the dragon cane with hidden sword, and I liked the replica Spartan spear and shield a la 300. The Mick Jagger guitar wasn't half bad, either.

A lady approached me to bring my attention to a prominent former editor sitting at the next table, suggesting I should confront him regarding his publication of a book 'outing' a former Prime Minister. I responded that although I worked for the newspaper, I wasn't a journalist. I eyed the gentleman in question, wondering what he had done that was so wrong. I have his autobiography somewhere in the house... I guess I should read it.

Tomorrow I have the day off. Off to the Zoo!