On Walking: 27th September

I’m trespassing, along the margins of a crop that last week was barely more than seedlings. It’s stubble turnips, for sheep, and now the leaves curl like tongues above the bridge of my boot.

I like this field, it has lemon-yellow toadflax in it and a small neat peachy flower called (fabulously) scarlet pimpernel. There’s a wide swag of wildness across the top, and we’re walking beneath it, looking up at blonde grasses taller than me. The hogwart skeletons are laced and beautiful against the blue of the sky. Today is the sort of day that refills my happiness banks, far quicker than they can ever be depleted. Which is a good job, because earlier, I heard back from an agent who had my book, and it was a no. A nice no.

When an agent turns you down, it’s a relief, meaning I can be disappointed and get it over with. It’s the anticipation of the disappointment that’s so horrid – the bit where you peer over the edge of the balloon, and imagine the fall.

But recently, I’ve learnt something from my teenage daughters, the way they are with ponies and their dream of having one for their own. They fall passionately in hope, then once the pony’s proved unsuitable (too loopy, too small, too much money), they’re quiet for a bit, then out comes Horse and Hound or Pony Mag, and they start looking for the next one.

Their determination is rock-solid, they’ve saved every penny from baby-sitting and dog-walking and lizard-wrangling. Their complete faith that it will happen, that they’ll find their pony, makes my heart afraid for them. Their budget is so small, their dreams are so big. But they’re so inspiring, and the reason why I’ll be re-writing my synopsis and intro letter. Why I’ll start trawling agent websites and blogs and Twitter hashtags.

According to my daughters, there’s always another chance for  hope.

Re-filling the banks of happiness.

On Walking

We’re the first of the walkers up into wood, I can tell by the single gossamer-light cobweb lines that catch my face. The hawthorns are heavy with deeply red berries, and they’ve bent to make a tunnel that meets just above my bare head. The early-morning sun lights the ash and goat willows in white-gold patches, and I have to steady myself, or else I’d run skipping like a loon, to dance in the richness.

Yeats wrote that ‘too long a sacrifice, makes a stone of the heart’. Jilly Cooper had one of her characters say the line when he’d waited for a woman he’d loved, and I’ve been thinking it these past few weeks, waiting, waiting to hear back from agents about The Badly Born.  Part of me whispers let it go, let it be still-born, like the others. The other part of me is defiant, and thinks good: be a stone. Stones endure. Stones hold down balloons of hope.

The agents have had my book for seven weeks, now, and with every passing day, I tried to make myself more stone-like, more weighted against lift-off and the possibility of a fall.

Last night, though, I had an email from one of them, telling me I was yet to be read, but would be soon, and I lay in bed, clutching my phone, recognising how utterly I’d failed in the stone stakes. I’ve no defences at all, no weight for that slippery, silvery bubble of hope. I can feel it rising despite all of the times I’ve trusted it and we’ve been so high, and I’ve fallen. Falling hurts so damned much.

What makes us do this? In love, or work, or art, or whatever it is that terrifies and fascinates us. To reach for something we’ve such little chances of touching. How much more content must people be, that can control their hope.

I’ve walked almost the length of the woods unseeing. I’m breathless with an exhilaration I know must not be trusted. I call in the bigger dogs, then let them go again. Dora stays beside me, shooting me suspicious, disapproving looks. She’s checking I’m still beside her, not spriting around in the tree tops.

Oh, that hope. It’s glimmering in the sky above my head, the dappled earth is falling away beneath my feet. Dora’s barking at something but I can’t look round, can’t look down.

Steady, I think. Steady. Just hang on, and don’t let go.