(…) He grins, his face caked in mud, and yanks harder on the root. A large clump of earth breaks away and tumbles to his feet. It is followed in quick succession by several other clumps leaving a gaping hole in the tunnel roof through which I can see only darkness. Using the fallen earth as a stepping stone, Mart clambers up and peers out.
When he says nothing, I scramble up next to him, my arm slung around his waist for support. His body gives off such welcome warmth in the biting night air, I huddle close. I peer out through a forest of blades of grass that grows around the gash in the earth, and as my eyes adjust to the pale light of the moon, I see a tangled mass of leaves and branches writhing in the wind. Here and there, shifting patches of colour catch the moonlight like willowy dancers weaving their way across a darkened stage.
The sight is extraordinary, but the surrounding soundscape enthralls me more. Against a backdrop of groans of age-old branches struggling against the wind and the accompanying complaint of leaves, the shrieks of nightbirds, the high-pitched cries of bats and the throaty calls of animals on the prowl set the scene for a nighttime drama that is both enticing and menacing. Nearby, a creature moves unseen through the grass, only the rustle giving away its presence.
A sharp hiss to my right has my head swivelling in that direction. I freeze at the sight that awaits me: only a foot from my nose, a cobra surges up out of the grass, its hood spread wide in defiance, its tiny eyes bulging, its tongue flicking in and out. (…)
See my review of Trudi Canavan’s latest novel, Thief’s Magic.
As with many of Trudi Canavan’s earlier books like The Black Magician trilogy and The Age of the Five trilogy, I really enjoyed reading her new novel Thief’s Magic, book one of Millennium’s Rule… (read on)
Sir Ken Robinson in a recent BBC interview with Sarah Montague as part of a programme called The Educators, talked about how a careless criticism of a teacher put him off singing for years. He added:
“…. When you’re that young, it doesn’t take a lot to be encouraged or discouraged … On the positive side, if somebody says you can do something, it lifts your whole expectations of yourself. You think: well maybe I can do that…”
School, amongst other things, leaves many young people with a feeling that they are not up to standard, that they can do nothing exceptional. It was my case with English and writing all those years ago. It took me another forty years before I dared write my first novel and what a joy that was.
In all my novels, I tell stories of young people (Sally, Brent and Keira in The Reaches for example or Peter, Kaitling and Fi in Boy & Girl) who, despite the immense difficulties that abound, discover their own talents and manage to do the exceptional. The achievement is all theirs, even if there is an adult nearby who has the wisdom to believe in them and to encourage them, like Professor Rafter in the first three books of The Storyteller’s Quest (The Reaches, The Keeper’s Daughter, The Starless Square) or Dr. Grant and Fi’s mum in Boy & Girl and In Search of Lost Girls.
Here’s a sneak peek at the cover of the revised edition of Boy & Girldue out in September to mark the official release of In Search of Lost Girls. Apart from changes to the cover, most other modifications concern layout. The story remains unchanged.
Thunder rolls in waves across the lake and rumbles from mountain to mountain up back. The house is built above a steep drop and the trees below bend and twist in the wind and rain, but nothing like last week’s gale that carried off the old chimney, smashing two skylights in its wake. Through the open doors and windows that look out over the valley and lake, I see swallows darting here and there, unperturbed by the storm. The air is cooler now, cleaner and more refreshing. A good moment to write.
My latest novel, In Search of Lost Girls, is ready. Only the ISBN is missing. I’ve paid for a new batch and it should arrive in a few days. Then I will be able to order the proofs. With the effort of preparing the sequel to Boy & Girl over, I find myself suddenly restless if not rudderless. Next on my agenda is the dystopian novel which I began a while ago with twelve chapters already written.
It’s always difficult to plunge back into a story, here all the more so because I want to make a number of changes before going on. My way of writing requires me to be immersed in the story such that I can follow the characters rather than dictating where they go and what they do. If the builders hadn’t done away with the fireplace when they put in the central heating some twenty years ago, I would willingly pull up an armchair by the log fire to read what I have already written. I’ll have to make do with the occasional flickering of lightning instead…
Today I finished the final edit of In Search of Lost Girls. For all the technical nature of editing, the end of the story still moves me greatly. The picture above depicts the famous Chapel Bridge in Lucerne that Peter crosses on his way to St. Leodegar’s church where the book culminates in a series of emotional fireworks.
I signed up for a new batch of ISBN this morning and now I need to make one or two modifications to the cover and do the final text layout before I order the galley proofs. On track, then, to publish In Search of Lost Girls at the latest early September.
You could well read In Search of Lost Girls on its own, but to get the most out of it, I strongly recommend you read Boy & Girl first. You have just the time to order it now and read it before In Search of Lost Girls becomes available.
I’m doing the final edit of In Search of Lost Girls which should be published early September. Here’s a brief extract I have just worked on. The pretty girl from the bakery, whose name was Bonnie, must have been waiting for him, because the moment Peter entered the little church she pounced on him, slung an arm round his shoulder, much to Fi’s disgust, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Peter struggled to get free, but she clung to him with the force of desperation.
She looked like a character from a fairy tale, although certainly not the sort you could trust, Peter thought. She had put on a green dress trimmed with white lace that barely reached her knees and wore white tights and dark green shoes to match. Her auburn hair was attached in a ponytail fixed with a silver clasp of a celtic design.