#ThrowbackThursday: Markus

 

TFW Facebook sucker punches you with one of those "remember this?" posts and you have to go blog about your man-eating horse.

***

Patrick said, "There's this horse I want you to go see."

He was the farrier who'd worked miracles with Cosmo's dinner plate feet, and he knew it had been a year since I'd been able to ride anything other than lesson horses. I trusted his judgement, and he knew the horse I'd tried to lease had been an absolute nightmare. "Okay, tell me about him," I said. 

The horse was a 17.2hh imported Dutch warmblood gelding. "He's big and old school, like Cosmo," Patrick said, "and he knows all the tricks through Prix St. George. His owner wants to sell him, but I told her all about you and your situation, and she's willing to lease him to you to start." 

"Sounds too good to be true," I said. "What's wrong with him?"

He folded his arms over the wash rack divider and said, "I think y'all will be a good match. I think you'll get along with him real well."

"What's wrong with him?"

"I think he'll like you."

"Patrick, what's wrong with him?"

He grinned. "Just go see him. What've you got to lose?"

Nothing. I had nothing to lose, and it turned out that we really did get along. 

I came to discover that he'd been for sale for six years; that he'd thrown a woman through a fence; that he was so well trained, in fact, and particular about his rider, that if he didn't like you, he was going to smash the eject button - and it's a long way down when a 17.2hh horse bucks you off. I met someone who'd test ridden him, and she scoffed and said, "I tried him, and he's not very nice," while she slopped around on a friend's horse like a split-open bag of oatmeal. 

He was out of shape when I met him, recovering from a pasture injury, quiet and lazy, and that was fine with me. After the Sparky fiasco, I wanted a little quiet and lazy, and I had tons of experience with sports rehab after Cosmo. 

It was probably two months before I saw the real Markus. We'd been plodding along, doing our little strengthening exercises. I would free lunge him in the arena because he wasn't strong enough to lunge in tight circles on the line. I ran around the inside of that 100'x200' arena with a whip that I never used; he was content to run with me, keeping right on the rail the whole time. One night, after dark, under the lights, after all the boarders had gone home, I was working him like that when all of that slow rehab work came to fruition. I had him trotting down the long side, trying not to trip and fall on my face in the sand, when he made this great roaring sound like a dragon, lifted his back, tucked his head, and started to float. From plow horse to dressage horse in a blink, and then he shook his mane and elevated some more, like he was saying, "Yeah, I still got it." I turned toward my Mom standing in the doorway of the barn and shouted, "Are you seeing this??" The horse that nobody else wanted was dancing for me. 

He was a powerhouse. Not a prancy mover, but a strong one. He kicked at my trainer, and he kicked at a judge in the booth at a show, and I never had one moment's doubt that if I yelled for him, he'd come surer and meaner than any guard dog. When I was talking to workmen at the farm, he ran the fence, screaming and pawing until I got on the other side of him, so he was between them and me, and only then would he graze quietly. He would stomp a dog if given the chance, and it wouldn't have shocked me if he'd killed a man in a past life; he sure hated them at any rate. 

I don't believe that God's going to put the "right man" in my path - he'd have to find one who didn't tell me how physically ugly I am to my face, and that hasn't happened yet - but I believe he sent that horse to me. That we needed each other. When I tell people that I owned an imported grand prix jumper and dressage horse from the Netherlands, they think I'm wealthy. *Snort* I paid next to nothing for Markus, and his sweet owner even let me make monthly payments on him. 

I miss you every day, my Widowmaker. Thanks for haunting Kit Kat - but could you lend her a little caution so she doesn't poke out her other eye? That'd be swell, bud. xoxo

AQHA Futures

 

I finally figured out how to properly voice what’s been bugging me so much about the whole Taylor Sheridan issue. (My issue.)

Do I like his work? Not really. Whatever. He’s just Kurt Sutter 2.0. Enough decent content to capture male audiences who think he’s saying something profound without ever actually touching on the unique magic that is the American West, or its enduring literary themes. Any clip from Ree Drummond’s cooking show is more authentic than his shows. (Please don’t go after Ree.)

Two: I wish Beth was an actual tough-as-nails horsewoman instead of a shit-talking harridan.

Three, and my biggest and actual real-world issue: He’s bought 6666 Ranch and is flooding a ton of money into the AQHA breeding and showing industry. While I’ve seen some people be thankful for the financial backing – and I totally get that – I have this concern that we’re looking at the long-term Amazonification of America’s most important breed of horse. The American Quarter Horse foundation stallions, whose lines we’ve been preserving for decades, were usually bought for next to nothing by non-wealthy people who recognized talent. The thought of a very wealthy Hollywood star inserting himself so heavily into the industry, in such a bold way, feels like this breed registry is about to go commercial, and I HATE that. The AQHA Journal is almost nothing but 6666 now. None of it feels organic to me; I think we’re looking at a man with an ego trying to take over something important and diverse.

He didn’t invent performance horses, or the West, and I think he’s done a shit job of honoring either…or horsewomen. The sad part is, he’s becoming the face and name associated with all three.

If you’re thinking, “Lauren, aren’t you glad someone with enough money bought 6666 Ranch and is continuing it?” Yes!! Most definitely. I want equine sports to endure for America's next 250. But his fictional work doesn’t prove to me that he’s worried about the same things I am in the industry. And the thing that MAKES an industry like breeding is difference of opinion. Different eyes, different preferences, different bloodlines. I’m worried we’re approaching a one-man AQHA. This is the most popular breed of horse in the world, but like America itself, it’s one of the youngest acknowledged breeds. I care SO MUCH about how this spectacular animal is managed and reproduced.

None of this is meant as an attack on his character. But I very genuinely feel that to work with horses is to stand at our ancestors’ feet.  If he’s to become the face of the AQHA, I’ll argue with him publicly when he can talk to me about pastern angles, and longevity, and topline shape, and how we're going to keep the breed healthy for generations to come. Come talk to me about what we've learned from Impressive, and how we can further his legacy (which is important) in a positive and careful way. If he's going to steer the ship, I want some reassurance that he's a suitable captain. Otherwise, I guess I’ll have to wait and see.

#WorkshopWednesday: Effective vs. Empty

I wrote a book review/Workshop Wednesday post on Substack a couple weeks ago, and then expanded on it in an Insta reel last week, because why would I keep it simple and consolidate all my musings on one platform? The book was Hell House by Richard Matheson, I do not recommend it, and one of the novel's most egregious sins was its lack of meaningful, tangible characterization. Today, I want to talk about the ways strong characterization can elicit strong reader reactions, and why those are sometimes negative reactions, and why that's almost more of a compliment than a five-star review. (It's not, but it IS satisfying in its own way.)

If you're not watching House of the Dragon on HBO, I can't tell you that you should be watching it, because you might be like my mom (Hi, Mom) and not be down with all the dragons, bloodshed, and backstabbing. If you are watching it, you no doubt have strong opinions about it. Are you Team Black or Team Green? Do you sympathize with Alicent? Or wish Rhaenyra would stop being so damn nice to her? Is Caraxes the best boy? He is. Does Daemon have the kind of swag the OG Thrones characters could only envy from afar? Yes. 

My point being, viewers are invested. The analysis, both silly and serious, is insightful and fun. The memes are pitch perfect. And it's not because of the dragons (though I love them, big, fanged horses that they are), or the battles, or the twists, the turns, nor the political intrigue. All of these elements draw us in for one reason and one reason alone: because these characters feel incredibly alive for us. 

I read the novel Fire & Blood when it first released in 2018. Stylistically, it's a little different than A Song of Ice and Fire because it doesn't read like a moment-to-moment narrative, but more like a history text. The stories within are abridged and told from a historian's perspective, rather than the intimate third person limited POV of the original series. The events taking place in the show are only a portion of the Targaryren history - but, for me, it's the most interesting portion. Daemon showed up in all his Lestat/Loki glory and I was there for it. I was also immediately on Rhaenyra's side in the Dance, Team Black all the way. As a result - and I think with good reason - I got to a point where I loathed Team Green. Aegon, Aemond, Alicent, all of them. Because they were bad people by comparison? No. But because I'd come to care so much for one set of characters that their enemies became my enemies. It had nothing to do with morality, and everything to do with favoritism. Say what you will about Martin's writing, he immediately and indelibly establishes characters we love and hate, but who we always find to be believable. 

The last decade or so has seen a sharp decline in general media literacy with regards to fiction. Some readers feel the need to justify things they enjoy or like best through a moral lens. "This is my favorite character, which means she's morally correct, and the opposing character is evil." Fiction is fiction; it's there for enjoyment. It's perfectly acceptable to love an awful gremlin character best, and it isn't a reflection on your own moral code. 

Similarly, characters behaving badly in a way that angers a reader isn't a sign of weak writing. Chances are high that if a character pisses you off, it's because that character feels real to you; they're so deftly drawn that you're having a sincere emotional reaction to a character's flaws and mistakes. When someone expresses dismay that one of my characters has done "something stupid," I smile to myself. That means I've created a character who is three-dimensional, and whose actions impact you emotionally, for good or for ill.

The next time you're rating a book, and you want to knock a star or two off your review because a character misbehaved or made a mistake, stop and ask yourself if that character's actions are a sign of a writer's poor writing...or of a writer's very human and effective writing, and if maybe they earned those stars after all. Empty, papier-mache characters inspire empty responses. You can't get angry with someone who isn't real in any way.

Just saying.

#TeaserTuesday: Dream-Walking

 

I will readily acknowledge that, at this point, Mia isn't nearly as interesting as her centuries' old companions. That was an inevitability. But you didn't think she would stay that way, did you? This series is a slooooooow burn.

“Hello,” she greeted.

He inclined his head the barest fraction a gesture of respect that floored her. “Hello.” It still seemed so odd that Vlad the Impaler could say something as mundane as hello.

He crossed to the desk and plucked up the heavy crystal decanter there. Fulk’s in another life? She still didn’t understand—and was afraid to ask—how a seven-hundred-fifty-year-old English baron wound up owning a manor house in Virginia. She hoped that one day Annabel would offer up the tale on her own; with Fulk’s permission, of course.

Vlad poured ruby-colored wine into a matching crystal goblet and returned to his chair. He gestured to the chair opposite. Sit.

“Can I do that?” she asked, and, when his formidable brows lifted a fraction added, “I’m not really here.”

One brow lowered, and she swallowed the sudden urge to laugh. Was he…funny? Maybe just on accident.

“I’m not here in my actual body,” she elaborated, when she was sure she wouldn’t giggle. “Am I able to sit?”

“Your mate is able to swordfight in his astral projection form.” He nodded pointedly to the chair.

She took a deep breath—or the astral equivalent of one—and folded herself down into the chair. She expected to sink down through the seat like a ghost, and for a moment, she felt herself…glitch. Quiver. The room started to fade, bight sparkles dancing at the edges of her vision, and a tug at the back of her mind warned her that if she didn’t struggle against it, her body would call her back, and she’d slip from the astral plane.

No. No, I want to stay.

She hadn’t asked Val how to shore herself up in this situation, but she fumbled her way through it on her own, and then the room solidified, and she was sitting in the chair, legs crossed, as if she were truly present.

“Huh.”

Vlad sipped his wine and regarded her over the rim of the glass.

“Well. How was I supposed to know?”

Another sip, followed by a return of the Single Brow. It was very black, and bold, and its lifting was loud as a shout. “Val hasn’t told you?”

She felt her cheeks warm, though that wasn’t possible. “It’s been difficult for me to project at all. We haven’t talked about sitting in chairs yet.”

His nostrils flared, a subtle motion. “Ah. He doesn’t know you can.”

“What?” How could her heart race when she didn’t have one on this plane?

Vlad’s head tilted to a sinister, knowing angle. “You haven’t told him, have you? You don’t want him to know that you can dream-walk? Or you don’t want him to know you’re dream-walking here?”

“I—” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this: caught in a lie, like a kid sent to the principal’s office who might cry rather than admit to her transgression. “I’m not hiding anything from him.”

“But you haven’t told him.”

“Because I don’t want to disappoint him!” she snapped, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. She’d snapped at the man who’d impaled a forest of his enemies.

He didn’t seem bothered about it. Sipped more wine and made a lazy gesture with one hand that she took to mean elaborate.

Favorites Scenes 1/?

 

Fearless

Price of Angels

#ThrowbackThursday: A Prince

 

White Wolf

Book One of the Sons of Rome series

The man wasn't supposed to be here. Sasha didn't know who he was, or where he was actually supposed to be, only that that place wasn't here. 

Between one blink and the next he appeared in front of Sasha, haloed by the early morning sunlight, sunk up to his calves in the snow, though there were no tracks coming or going in either direction to indicate that he'd walked here. He simply was. Standing there, shaking his head, dazed and bewildered-looking. 

Sasha stumbled to a halt, tipped his head back, strangely without fear, and stared at him. 

He wore his blond hair long, down well past his shoulders, gleaming gold and faintly rippled at the ends. His hair alone - clean and regal and uncovered by a hat of any kind - would be enough to indicate he didn't belong, but his clothes furthered the impression. They were the kind of clothes that Sasha had only seen in the illustrated books his mother read to him - clothes like a prince in a fairy story would wear. Cream breeches and knee-high boots, and a long, red coat with golden embroidery and buttons.

Nobody in Siberia ever dressed like that.

The man looked around, at the trees, the snow, the sunlight sparkling off it, and finally, when he'd run out of other things to see, looked at Sasha. He asked a question in a language Sasha didn't understand. 

"I'm sorry," Sasha said. A small voice in the back of his mind wondered why he wasn't frightened, but he couldn't bring himself to be. Nothing about the man seemed threatening. "I don't know what you're saying."

The man's golden brows lifted. "You speak Russian?" he asked in flawless, though accented Russian. "Where are we? St. Petersburg?"

"No, sir. In Tomsk."

"Ah. Siberia." He looked disappointed. Sighing up toward the sky, he muttered, "What the hell am I doing in Siberia of all places?"

Sasha had no idea what to make of that. "How did you get here?" he asked. And then, because it had to be true, even though there were no more princes in Russia: "Are you a prince?"

The man smiled, and his teeth were very white, and the eye teeth, especially, were very sharp. "I am, yes." He crouched down so that he was on a level with Sasha; his eyes were sky-colored. "And who might you be?"

#TeaserTuesday: Your HOTD Fix

 

Court intrigue, battles, dragons, magic, monsters, and all the messy family drama you love in House of the Dragon can also be found in The Drake Chronicles, books one through six now available while I write the seventh and final installment. Things get worse before they get better, but I can promise it won't end in tragedy.