Horses play a central
role in my historical novels A Difficult
Boy and Mending Horses. In the
first book, a horse helps two indentured servants overcome their differences
and outwit their tyrannical master. In the second, horses help heal the broken
lives of three misfits—a peddler, a young runaway, and an Irish horse
whisperer--who join a traveling circus in 19th-century New England.
I guess that’s only
natural; as a kid I was one of those horsey girls. I read every Black Stallion book I could get my hands
on. I cut horse pictures out of magazines and played with them the way my
sister played with paper dolls. I assembled a make-believe horse of old trunks
and suitcases in the basement and pretended to be National Velvet leaving the
competition in the dust. Long before My Little Pony, my favorite toys were my
plastic horses. I followed televised races passionately, falling in love with
Secretariat and weeping inconsolably when the beautiful filly Ruffian died in
1975.
The only thing
missing from my passion for horses was an actual horse. My family could afford
neither horse nor riding lessons, so the occasional trail ride was the closest
I ever came to the fantasy horses galloping through my imagination. Then I went
to college and put away my horsey dreams. It wasn’t until my late twenties that
I could finally afford to take riding lessons. Frankly, as an adult learner, I stank.
Much as I enjoyed working with horses, I had the hardest time getting the feel
for riding. I could tuck in my elbows, keep my heels down, hold my posture, and
keep a light hand on the reins until the cows came home, but I didn’t really
connect with the horse the way I’d read about in my favorite novels.
Then the stable hired
a new instructor, who had an intuitive method of teaching. She showed me how to
feel with my entire body what the horse was doing, to relax into the horse’s
motion and communicate with my legs, my seat, my hands, in a way that none of
her predecessors had shown me. While previous instructors had focused on
showing me how to control the horse, she showed me how to listen to the horse.
And all of a sudden, I could actually ride—not
just sit on a horse without falling off. What had been a challenge became a
joy, and I finally understood what the connection between horse and rider was
supposed to feel like.
It wasn’t until
Sheila invited me to guest-blog here that I realized how many similarities
there were between my experiences with riding and writing. In addition to my
horsey fantasies, I enjoyed childhood dreams of becoming a novelist. But as
with riding, I set that fantasy aside. I did write non-fiction as part of
various jobs. But those were mostly “just-the-facts-ma’am” projects, with
minimal creativity required. It wasn’t until my thirties that I decided to give
fiction another whirl—not as a prospective profession, but as a hobby, the way
one might take up knitting or woodworking…or horseback riding.
Unlike my first
experiences with riding lessons, though, fortunately my first attempts at
writing didn’t stink (at least not too badly!). Instead, I discovered the same
sense of rightness that I’d felt when I’d finally gotten the feel for a horse.
It was as though I’d been plodding along with the non-fiction writing I’d done
in the past, and all of a sudden fiction allowed me to break into a lovely,
soaring canter.
For me, the
relationship between story and writer is very much like the relationship
between horse and rider. It seems that the harder I try to control the story,
the harder it is to connect with it. Like a horse, the story moves more
smoothly when I relax a little, when I strive more for guidance than control.
I’ve found that writing involves a lot of listening to my characters, even
letting them have their heads at times. And when everything goes just right,
there are sudden joyful breakthroughs when the story gallops along, and all I have
to do is hang on and enjoy the ride.
I still don’t have my
own horse, and probably never will. But I got to create a fantasy horse in Ivy,
the mare at the heart of both my novels.
So I guess, in a way, fulfilling my writing dreams fulfilled my riding dreams
at the same time. As an author, I can have all the horses I want for free,
right there on the tip of my pen—and no need to muck out the barn after I’m
done with them.
M.P. Barker is the award-winning author of two
historical novels set in 19th-century New England—A Difficult Boy (Holiday House, 2008) and
Mending Horses (Holiday House, 2014). A
Difficult Boy received awards from PEN New England and the International
Reading Association, and Mending Horses is
a Kirkus Prize nominee. Her background includes work at Old Sturbridge Village,
a living history museum, where she experienced 19th-century New
England life firsthand.
You can find out more at her website – www.mpbarker.net
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