Thursday, 6 February 2014
Lorraine Campbell: My Heart Belongs to.....
Today sharing where her heart belongs is Lorraine Campbell,
Lorraine and sister Pam are co-authors of the Ellie Campbell novels. They write together despite living in different countries. Pam in UK and Lorraine in US.
They find writing together the perfect excuse for endless phone conversations. Together they've published four novels, How To Survive Your Sisters, When Good Friends Go Bad, Looking For La La and To Catch a Creeper.
They love any chance to connect with their readers and you can find them at;
Facebook: Ellie Campbell Books
Like many small girls, I imagined my romantic future involved a handsome cowboy or gallant knight on a dashing white steed, with wild adventures, galloping across plains, passionately rolling around in wildflower meadows. Well it did – sort of. Only no one told me my true love would be the horse.
Sylvarr – even his name is poetry. First met as a fiery 7 year old (and soon to be gelded) stallion, he was dapple-grey racehorse with a proud Arab head, huge dark eyes, and the haughty sneer of a pedigreed aristocrat. I fell helplessly in love and, by a fairytale twist of fate, five years later we were joined by a piece of paper proclaiming that he officially owned me.
It was a tumultuous dangerous passion. Oh, he was gracious enough, deigning to offer his soft mobile lips in a quest for carrots. But on the back of my aptly-named charger, life became a battle of wills. Riding the whirlwind my eyes would blur as brush and sage flashed past, followed by volcanic bucking if I managed to pull him to a stop. He was a ladies man, spinning and bolting back home when I suggested leaving his mares and he was a fighter, often bruised and bleeding from challenging larger, stronger males. Friends warned of broken hearts and broken necks. There were easier souls out there. Why stick with a defiant headstrong rebel?
But he was – and is – magnificent. I’d fallen in love with his looks and his spirit. Who could resist a horse that invented little games like galloping up when called and rearing high before me, purely for the joy of showing off?
Now snowy white he still prances around, head high, tail raised like a flag, reveling in his handsomeness or races the younger horses, taunting them to catch up. In horse years he is mature, some might say old, and yet he wrestles with our two year old colt, both of them dropping to their knees, biting at each other like young playful stallions. And he is brave.
The same individual that once refused to pass a terrifying horse-eating mailbox now marches in parades, ignoring firing cannons and screeching bagpipes, in regal certainty that the cheering crowds and waving flags are there to honor him.
And, yes, like Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, like Elizabeth Bennett and Darcy, our bond has deepened. Over years and miles of trails, we’ve crossed raging rivers, traversed rocks, forests and mountains, adventuring together and resting in sunlit meadows where I admire the glorious wildflowers until they vanish into Sylvarr’s grazing yellow teeth.
He has carried novice riders and children with tolerant care. Everything he has – speed, wisdom, power and courage – he has generously shared with me. Along with whiskery kisses.
Now I have a perfectly loveable husband who I adore and would never exchange for any dusty ole cowpoke or rusty mail-clad knight. But my heart and soul are captured forever by that dashing white steed…
A huge thank you to Lorraine, I think I'm in Love with Sylvarr