Blog

Featured

The Goose Road

I’m turning hay in the top meadow when I hear the squeak of rusty wheels and look up to see Monsieur Nicolas, the postman, pedalling up the lane. I stiffen, suddenly afraid that I know the reason why he’s here.

            Please, God, let it not be Pascal.

Soft summer sounds surround me now that I’m still. Grasshoppers. Distant birds. The eternal hum of bees. The creaking of the bicycle is like some infernal machine, let loose in the Garden of Eden.

            Please, God, not my brother, Pascal.

I think about that other August day two years ago, when the jangling of church bells shattered the peace of the valley. Pascal and I dropped our pitchforks and ran to the village square just in time to hear the mayor announce, “Men of France! To arms!”

Father left straightaway, but Pascal stayed long enough to show me how to gather the harvest, how to scythe and how to plough. I was twelve years old and so excited. Now my hands are calloused and my back aches like an old woman’s.

Monsieur Nicolas clatters slowly past the orchard, waking the geese. They flap and hiss as they waddle towards the fence. Mother appears at the kitchen door, wiping her hands on her apron. Her back is very straight.

Monsieur Nicolas clambers awkwardly off the saddle and pushes his bicycle up the hill towards our gate. I hold my breath. My legs shake. My vision blurs with tears.

            Please, God. Not Pascal.

Monsieur Nicolas stops again. He rests his bike against our fence. The geese clamour and shriek as he opens the gate to our yard. Stifling a cry, I pick up my skirts and run.

 

Toulouse geese
Toulouse geese

 

It’s Father, Mort pour la France on some distant battlefield. The letter telling us is crushed in Mother’s hand. I bow my head and make the sign of the cross, then ask, “Who’s the letter from? May I read it?”

She turns hollow eyes on me. “It’s from your brother, my angel.”

Pascal! Is he safe? Is he well? Oh, Maman, does he say when he’s coming home?”

Relief bubbles inside me. I’m torn between laughter and tears. But when I reach out for the letter, Mother’s knuckles whiten as she tightens her grip on it.

“Your father is dead, Angélique. Have you no feelings at all?”

I hang my head, the pain in her voice cutting through me. For her sake, I try to remember something nice about him. One small thing. But I can’t. All I recall are his fists and his belt and his leather razor strop. Pascal got the worst of it, but sometimes late at night I’d hear Mother whimpering as well.

“Well?” she asks, sounding weary now rather than angry.

My gaze remains fixed on the earthen floor and the dust-flecked shaft of sunlight falling across it, while the ticking of the kitchen clock grows louder between us.

Am I wicked, I wonder, a heartless, unforgivable child because I’m not sad he’s dead?

I try to squeeze out a tear, but inside my head I can hear the thwack, thwack, thwack of his drunken anger, and Pascal’s sobs as he rushed up to his room, and Mother’s muffled voice through his closed door, hushing him, telling him not to fuss.

“I am sorry,” I say at last.

“Are you?”

I give a tiny shrug. “For you, yes.”

She sighs, then turns her back on me and takes her apron off.

“See to the animals,” she says, “then come in to change. We’ll go to Mass this evening.”

 

My mourning dress is stiff and tight, a laced-up hand-me-down. Mother is almost invisible behind her long black veil. As we walk down the lane to the village through the warm, rosy dusk, I half expect a bat to blunder into her or a fox to stop and sniff the air as we pass.

Outside the church the village widows flock around Mother like crows. There are Madame Villiard and Madame Arnauld, and poor young Madame Besançon, whose husband was just nineteen when both his legs were blown off at Verdun.

Old Madame Malpas draws me aside, wringing her bony hands and crying, “What’s to become of you, Angélique? You’ll very likely starve! La Mordue will go to rack and ruin without Monsieur Lacroix!”

“Pascal will be home soon,” I say. “Maman and I can manage till then.”

“Manage, child? When your corn’s still in the ground in August?”

“The farm men have been promised leave.”

“And you expect the generals to keep their promises?”

She sniffs loudly, then stumps off, calling to Mother, “Madame Lacroix! What terrible news! Tell me, did he suffer?”

My best friend, Béatrice Lamy, hurries over to me.

“That woman!” she says, rolling her eyes. Then she kisses me on both cheeks and hugs me tightly. “This is unbearable, Angie. I can’t begin to imagine how you feel.”

Guilt prickles me because, just then, I’d been thinking how much I hate wearing black and having to pretend to be sad. I wish I’d told her the truth before, but Mother always said the beatings would get worse if Father suspected we talked about him behind his back.

And now it’s too late. I can’t speak ill of the dead, condemn a brave soldier Mort pour la France. What would Madame Malpas say?

“I’m fine, Bee,” I say. “Really, I am.”

She cups my cheek in her hand. “You’re so brave, Angie. I’d be in pieces if I’d lost Papa. How did you hear the news?”

I lean forward, hiding a smile, and whisper, “Pascal wrote.”

Pascal!

“Shhh, Bee. Not so loud.” I glance around, but the village women are too busy comforting Mother to take any notice of us. “Come on. Let’s talk inside.”

The cold stone church is empty. We sit in the front pew, the one allotted to the newly bereaved. Béatrice takes both my hands.

“Is Pascal safe?” she asks. “Is he hurt?”

“I don’t know. Mother wouldn’t let me see his letter.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, you know. She’s upset.”

“Of course. Silly question. I’m sorry.”

Her eyes brim again with sympathy.

Quickly I say, “Do you want to hear the good news?”

Good news?” Her eyes widen.

I smile conspiratorially. “The farm belongs to Pascal now – the house, the land. Everything! It’s his.”

“Oh.”

“Bee! Don’t you see what this means?”

She shakes her head.

“He can get married whenever he wants!”

“Oh!” Her eyes widen further. “But … Papa won’t let me. I’m too young.”

“Pascal will wait, I know he will. And when you’re both ready you’ll live with us, and we’ll be sisters, a real family. Won’t that be wonderful?”

Her eyes shine, then she blushes. “I do love him so much.”

We start to hug, but just then the door opens and the village widows seep inside like shadows, a horde of veiled and silent wraiths.

“I should go,” Béatrice says.

“No. Please stay.”

“But your mother– “

“She won’t mind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

I slip my arm through hers while we wait, each looking up at the brightly painted statue of Saint Joan of Arc, high on her pedestal. She’s wearing a full suit of armour, and spearing the devil through his blackened heart.

“I hate that statue,” Béatrice whispers.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “I rather like it.”

Buy The Goose Road here.

cropped-20180116_082123.jpg

Five editing exercises for flabby drafts

A few years ago, when I was looking for an agent, a unique ‘Voice’ seemed to be the single most important thing they were looking for in debut writers. Maybe they still are. Yet when it came to editing with publishing houses, style seemed secondary to structure: the story was the thing.

I heard that sentiment echoed elsewhere in the industry, including from luminaries such as Barry Cunningham and Robert McKee. But I can’t think those agents were wrong; the trick, it seems, is to nail both.

Voice is a big topic, one I’m not comfortable holding forth about since it’s not a big thing my own writing. Rather, in The Goose Road and now in a World War 2 work-in-progress, I’m aiming at a coherent style – a sort of stepping stone to an identifiable Voice. Editing helped me achieve this no end.

So here are five editing exercises which I learnt while writing my debut novel. Not only did they help cut the flab from early drafts, they also pulled the manuscript together, purging a variety of styles that had crept in over the course of several years of writing.

  1. Read the text aloud.

This, I think, is almost universally accepted as a great thing to do. Reading aloud reveals clumsiness, repetitions, logical and stylistic inconsistencies, and complex sentence constructions that are bound to trip a reader.

One trick to speed up a spoken read through (and this advice, I think, comes from the marvellous Book Bound UK team) is to print out the manuscript – or at least sizeable chunks of it – and read it quickly, without interruption, marking in the margins every place where you stumble, and only going back afterwards to sort out the problems.

Personally, I can’t do a read through on-screen. It has to be a paper exercise. And worth every hour it takes!

  1. The Rule of ‘2+2’.

The rule? Never give ’em four!

My early drafts were littered with examples of me telling the reader the answers to an internal, rhetorical question or explaining a cliff-hanger, which left the reader nothing to figure out. Which is boring.

It may be that 2+2 isn’t actually a stylistic issue at all, and has more to do with the process of learning to trust the reader, which until I had a realistic expectation of having readers – as opposed to critique partners – felt way too abstract to worry about.

It was Stephen King’s fantastic On Writing that blew this misconception out of the water, and explained how the reader is integral to the story. As a writer, we must ask: what do I want the reader to know that my characters don’t know? How will they know it and when? For storytelling purposes, that takes precedence over details such as choosing active verbs and laying off the adjectives.

That epiphany, in turn, made me wonder whether other, purely stylistic issues can’t be left until the end as well. Can we, in effect, retro-fit Voice?

I know many writers (and some agents and editors) will say, ‘No. You can’t.’ For them, discovering the right Voice is key to unlocking the story itself. Maybe, then, it is a matter of degree. If Voice is all important, it’s not a question of style. Otherwise…

  1. Tidy up dialogue attribution.

The convention that ‘said’ is better than ‘expostulated’ or ‘remonstrated’ seems pretty well universally accepted these days. But don’t all those saids get boring!

I allow my characters to cry, shout, answer, mutter, spit, protest and a few others, too. I also love this formulation: ‘“That’s absurd!” She laughed.’ Where an action substitutes for attribution.

And if there are only two people in a conversation, I cut out attribution completely so long as it’s clear who is talking.

  1. Observe. Emote. Analyse. React.

Thus, ‘The bomb exploded. Her heart leapt into her mouth. The sound was terrifyingly close. She scrambled to hide herself under the desk, and waited for the ceiling to fall.’

Just as adjectives fit most comfortably into a particular order, and jar in any alternative sequence, so this progression somehow imparts the clearest sense of immediacy, allowing the reader to experience an event at the same time as the character.

However it works, THANK YOU, Em Lynas, who taught me about this order.

  1. The filter-ectomy.

It was the ever-brilliant Emma Darwin who opened my eyes to this fantastic editing tool.

Filtering (so named by John Gardner) is the process by which the writer shows the reader something via an observing ‘consciousness’ – usually through the eyes of a character – rather than describing the thing itself.

In her blog, This Itch of Writing, Dr Darwin quotes Janet Burroway saying, ‘Generally speaking – though no laws are absolute in fiction – vividness urges that almost every occurrence of such phrases as “she noticed” and “she saw” be suppressed in favour of direct presentation of the thing seen.’

Apparently, early in our careers, we all tend to write: ‘Turning, she noticed two soldiers’ bodies lying in the mud.’

After an edit, this becomes: ‘She turned. In the mud, lay two soldiers’ bodies.’

While homogenising every observation in this way would be dull and unoriginal, a thorough filter-ectomy works wonders for pace.

Emma Darwin’s blog is always a gold mine of good advice. Here’s the link to one about filtering:

http://emmadarwin.typepad.com/thisitchofwriting/2016/07/filtering.html

This blog first appeared on Awfully Big Blog Adventure on Aug 15th, 2018. This is a corrected version!                                                                                                     

“At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them”

At the start of the centenary of the 1914-18 war I had a notion that we would by now, as a nation, have found some sort of collective closure on the individual suffering of the dead of the Great War, and be ready to move on, to toss their bones in the air as it were, and free the spirits of the fallen to join with our distant ancestors.

As a writer, I agreed with Pat Barker’s comment that World War I had “come to stand in for other wars … it’s come to stand for the pain of all wars.” Our stories might be about that particular conflict, but the larger subject was war itself.

Researching and writing my own First World War novel, The Goose Road, dented that conviction. Wherever I looked, the power of individual suffering endured and the personal stories were endlessly shocking, intimate and enthralling.

I fell under their spell time and again while listening to the first-hand accounts of veterans of the Western Front, their scratchy voices forever locked in a sound archive, or when reading a collection of letters home, or interviews granted to earlier researchers. I’d suddenly be caught unawares by a moment of humanity or courage, or dark gallows’ humour.

Occasionally an old soldier would admit to cruelty. More often they shared memories of the drudgery of the trenches, punctuated by terror. To walk those trenches – or at least one of the few fragments that remain, in Beaumont Hamel, say, zig-zagging through a meadow – is to walk in a haunted place.

Near Verdun, there’s a hill called Mort Homme. The name isn’t connected to the 1914-18 war, although the WW1 artillery battles fought there between the French and the Germans were so fierce that engineers found afterward that meters of the entire hilltop had been blown off. Local farmers still aren’t allowed to plough its soil because of the human remains.

When researching closer to home I found that WW1 objects as well as places had the power to take my breath away. Once I was in the Royal Artillery Museum in Woolwich Arsenal, investigating a particular week in October 1916 and a specific section of the Western Front near the occupied French town of Peronne. The archivist bought me out a trolley laden with original material from that time and that place, on top of which was a small moleskin notebook, written in pencil by an English major, the pages still stained with the mud of the Somme. I sat and stared at it for ages, feeling as if the battle itself was within touching distance.

Just before I returned for the second of four research visits to France, my mother died unexpectedly. It was a release: she’d been ill for a long time. Among the heirlooms she left to me was a forget-me-not locket with a photograph of her father, Frederick Clarke, in his WW1 uniform. A stern old lady stares out of the locket’s other frame – my great-grandmother, Selena, I believe.

Mum also left me a heart-shaped locket, which I think must have belonged to Selena as it contained the pictures of two uniformed soldiers, her sons. One is Frederick, who served in the 10th (Irish) Division as a medical clerk and stretcher bearer in the Dardanelles in 1916 and later in Salonika. The other is Frederick’s older brother, Thomas Clarke, a private in the 19th King’s Liverpool Regiment, killed in action on the Somme, on July 30th, 1916.

I’d never seen Thomas Clarke’s picture before I inherited this locket. Mum thought he’d died near Ypres, and as far as I know, until my husband tracked down his regiment’s military records, no one in the family knew the details of his last day. The official War Diary and Intelligence Summary of that engagement is chilling:

“29/7/16 battle position in the MALTZ HORN TRENCH.

30/7/16 BATTLE began. Zero hour 4.45 am. The Battalion reached its objective, but suffered heavy losses, and had to evacuate its position owing to no reinforcements. At 12 noon the roll call was 7 officers and 43 men.

Total casualties were: Lieutenant-Colonel G. Rollo wounded.

KILLED. [Six officers named]

WOUNDED. [One officer named.]

WOUNDED AND MISSING. [Three officers named.]

Total casualties in Other Ranks: 425, of which 76 were killed, 172 wounded, 177 missing.”

Barry Cuttell’s account of that morning in 148 Days on the Somme is more detailed: “Morning mist prevented communication by visual signals, and almost all underground cables had been damaged. The only way of relaying messages to divisional headquarters was by runner, which would be a dangerous task once the fog had lifted as the runners had to cross the open ground between Guillemont and Trone’s Wood, over which German machine guns … enjoyed an excellent field of fire.

“While waiting for zero hour, 19/King’s Liverpool were subject to High Explosives and gas (shelling) … The 19/King’s in the centre was also badly hit by enemy fire, only a few men reaching the road. A little further north, a company of the 19/King’s succeeded in getting forward towards the south-eastern entry to Guillemont.” But later that morning, “Under the impression they were cut off, the 19/King’s withdrew from the edge of Guillemont.”

Thus out of 486 soldiers of the 19th King’s Liverpool Regiment who advanced at dawn on that summer’s morning, north and east from the Maltz Horn Trench towards the German artillery and machine guns, only fifty remained standing seven hours later. The rest were wounded, dead or “missing”, that is, their bodies were either too badly mutilated for individual identification or otherwise unrecoverable from the battlefield.

The rolling fields where Thomas Clarke fell were bronzed with ripening wheat when I saw them, flanked by the once devastated trees of Trone’s Wood. My husband, a former Royal Marine, returned there on July 30th, 2016, to pay our respects, both on the battlefield and at his graveside in the Bernafay Wood cemetery. Perhaps his locket – the brother to the forget-me-not one I inherited – is buried there with him.

This article first appeared on The History Girls on March 18th, 2018. See the original post here including comments and photographs.

When the urge to give up is overwhelming

Back in February this year, in the run up to the launch of The Goose Road, the work-in-progress stalled and I was seriously thinking about quitting the world of fiction. Three months later I’m up to my ears in historical research again, and carefully crafting the opening scenes of Book 2.

Why the change of heart?

Because in the intervening months I came face-to-face with the reality of not writing another novel – and ran away screaming.

I won’t go into details about the alternative career path I thought I could follow, beyond saying it would have been full-time for at least 18 months, then, potentially, given me some free time to write.

What I will admit is that on Day One of the initial training course I found myself in tears, because beneath the surface of the rational decision ‘to get a proper job’ there were demons who turned out to be worthy of Hieronymus Bosch.

These demons demanded more than time in return for a wage. My public behaviour and the sort of values I would have had to promote were also prescribed. When faced with such a loss of autonomy I couldn’t go through with it.

There were other, more practical factors at play as well, but standing at that cross-roads, with a yes/no decision to make, I saw more clearly than ever what a privilege it is to be able to express one’s worldview through fiction, and how much I’d regret turning my back on the opportunity to do it again.

So where next?

In terms of the work-in-progress it’s back to France, this time in 1944.

Continue reading the full post on Awfully Big Blog Adventure here.

On the centenary of the death of Gavrilo Princip: WW1 assassin, poet – and victim?

princip

Gavrilo Princip (1894-1918)

His is a haunted face: thin, sunken, hollow-eyed, vaguely familiar perhaps as the teenager who shot dead Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, the act that precipitated tit-for-tat mobilizations across Europe and the slaughter of millions in the First World War.

Details of the deaths of his victims are infamous: on June 28th, 1914, Franz Ferdinand had been travelling through the Bosnian capital, Sarajevo, with his wife, Sophia, in an open-topped Graf and Stift automobile.

When the driver slowed at the corner of Franz Josef Strasse and the Appel Quay, the assassin stepped forward and fired a 9 mm Browning semi-automatic pistol into the couple at close range.

Sophia died of wounds to the abdomen, Franz Ferdinand from a bullet in his neck. The death of the assassin, Gavrilo Princip, is less well known.

He confessed to the crime, was tried and sentenced, and sent to Terezin prison in what is now the Czech Republic but was then part of the sprawling Austro-Hungarian Empire.

He died there on April 28th, 1918, as far from his home as the Hapsburg authorities could send him.

His peasant mother never visited him; none of his family did.

By the time of his death Gavrilo’s body was wasted to the bone by tuberculosis of the skeleton. His ulcerated skin suppurated and his right arm had been amputated.

He was buried under a path in the prison cemetery, along with a delinquent’s corpse: a deliberate insult.

But the young Czech officer in charge of the burial party, Frantisek Lebl, sketched the grave’s supposedly secret location, and returned to it after the war to place a Czech flag on top of the body, the Hapsburg Empire having collapsed under the colossal burden of its own contradictions and military defeat.

By then, the Czech people were recognised by the United States of America as oppressed nationals, rather than part of an enemy Empire, and thus the Czechs ended the war on the side of the victorious Allies.

Gavrilo’s objective – the overthrow of the hated Hapsburg oppressors – had been achieved.

A small irony? A mere footnote in history? I don’t think so.

From what I’ve read in these centenary years of the 1914-18 war, there is a great deal more to the assassination of Franz Ferdinand by Gavrilo Princip than is generally taught in schools.

I have read, for example, that a powerful Austrian politician knew perfectly well what the half-educated, impoverished 19-year-old Gavrilo was planning in Sarajevo that fateful June day, and did nothing to stop him.

I’ve even read that this powerful Austrian prevented the local Chief of Police from foiling the assassination plot in order that the attack could create the conditions for Austria-Hungary to declare war on Serbia.

If true, such events would imply that the war-guilt so often laid on Gavrilo’s thin shoulders is ill-deserved, and that generations of schoolchildren have been misled.

And I can’t help wondering, too, that if Gavrilo’s mother had known he’d been used in this way, would she have disowned him?

Balkan political history is a thickly layered, complex and highly contended subject, one which deserves to be treated with caution and respect. Thus I’m not for one moment pretending to know the truth about that assassination.

But on the 100th anniversary of Gavrilo’s death, I am publishing these snippets of intriguing, second-hand information to mark the beginning of a personal research journey into the life and death of this small-framed, Bosnian Serb poet-assassin in the hope of one day understanding his role in the great events that enveloped the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

UPDATE: The Goose Road launch articles & interviews

Today’s the last day of The Goose Road giveaways over on Twitter so I thought I’d pull together (one final time) all the links to the launch interviews and guest articles published in the past few weeks, in which I think I’ve said pretty much all that’s worth saying about writing the book.

There is one article outstanding: the acknowledgements, which are lengthy and will appear in due course, because I’d rather say something meaningful about the contribution of people I want to thank, rather than list names and gush generically about them, which won’t mean anything to anyone else.

Meanwhile, here’s what’s to be found online already:

Articles

Books as emotional stepping stones to World War One on ABBA

WW1 research and remembrance on The History Girls

Myths, mistakes and other inner debates about the title The Goose Road on JoshAndABook

Why is it still so hard to hear female voices from World War One?  SarahLikesBooks

Why I love (some) historical fiction. Ramblingmads

Tips on getting published.  TheBumblingBlogger

5 best bits about being a debut author – and the 5 worst on Michelle Toy’s Tales of Yesterday.

“Inspirations that led me along The Goose Road” is on a Tumblr account that inserts the entire thing directly onto WordPress (!) so I won’t post the link here. It’s locatable via Alex’s Fiction Addiction and is also pasted in full in this earlier blog.

Interviews with:

Kerry Drewery on  Author Allsorts

Louise Twist on  Books For Boys

Carly Chambers on fictionfascination.co.uk

Torchlight Anthology here.

Author interviews by me & lots more articles about the craft of creative writing, hazards of a writing life, the First World War and more can be found via the Practical Writing Tips search box on the Welcome page of this website.

 

Giveaway update

THANK YOU to everyone online who’s tweeted, liked, shared or reviewed The Goose Road over this launch fortnight. It means the world. Truly. Today is the last day for Faye Roger’s giveaway. Thank you so much to her, Jemima Osborne and Louise Twist for all their support: your competitions have been amazing successes in spreading the word. Good news, too: the marvellous Michelle Toy has FIVE copies to giveaway. Hurrah! Massive thanks to her and Walker Books for being so generous with these prizes. Here’s where you can find online competitions to win a free copy of the book:

Rhoda Keller here.

Alex Pattinson via http://alexsfictionaddiction.tumblr.com Details nestled at the base of my post about the inspirations behind The Goose Road

Faye Rogers retweet her giveaway tweet and follow her on @daydreamin_star

Alyce Hunt retweet her giveaway tweet and follow her on @everythingalyce

Emma Stickley details at the end of the fourth extract  here.

Michelle Toy follow @ChelleyToy & RT her (currently pinned) tweet about my final article in the blog tour: the 5 best bits about being a debut author – and the 5 worst!

Finally a huge THANK YOU to @TorchlightMAWYP for including The Goose Road in their giveaway bundle of stories from fellow alumna of Bath Spa University’s MA in writing for young people. I’m SO proud to be in such great company, and extremely impressed by the quality of your work in the Torchlight’s anthology. I hope your launch is a massive success as well, and leads to great things for you all.

 

 

Myths, mistakes & other inner debates about naming The Goose Road

Journalist me: why did you choose The Goose Road as the title for your book?

Author me: I wrote the story under the working title of The Butterfly’s Wing, which is a metaphor I borrowed from the founder of modern chaos theory, Edward Lorenz, who once asked, “Does the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?” in order to explore the mathematics of how microscopic disturbances in complex systems like the weather have immense knock-on effects.

In my original story, the actions of my protagonist, Angelique Lacroix, caused terrible, unintended consequences, but my editor at Walker felt that was too cruel to her as a character, and too shocking to the readers, so I let this element of the plot sink beneath the surface in later edits. That meant The Butterfly’s Wing didn’t work as a title anymore.

So your editor told you to change both the book and the title?

She asked me to change them, yes. But that’s one of the great things about working with an editor: they see things in your story that you don’t. They also understand the readership with their readers far better than a debut author. Also, I absolutely agreed with her that there’s no point whatsoever in having a title you have to explain to the reader. That defeats the whole point of a metaphor.

Where did The Goose Road come from, then?

I’d read a lot of First World War fiction and poetry while researching the background to the story. The Western Front in 1916 was a terrible place to be. The full weight of industrial-scale artillery shell production was crashing down on soldiers of both sides. So for the new title I went back to the soldier-poets for inspiration.

In 2014, the Imperial War Museums had published a wonderful collection called First World War Poems from the Front, edited by Paul O’Prey. I drew up a long list of possible titles from imagery in these poems.

Read the rest of the original guest blog via this link: Myths, mistakes & other inner debates about naming The Goose Road