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Tuesday, 20 November 2012

Treasure books - the gold is in their leaves.

Writing is a solitary pursuit, however it is not without compensation.  It is my niece’s birthday soon, she will be 8 years old and some would say that she has reached the point of maturity in her magical mindset, a short tenure in which society permits her to dream and her realm is expansive and filled with treasures of the imagination. Be a child at heart, discard numerical age and cherish the horizon that cannot be reached, invoke angels to be your guides on Earth.

For many days, I paced the Log Cabin pondering what to send my niece, perhaps a copy of my soon to be launched fantasy novel?  I have no care whether she finds some aspects imponderable in her early years, because it is written in tissue layers and a child’s heart is wise beyond age.  She will possess my gift forever if she is careful and one day when she is old enough, it will be understood for the wisdom contained within its leaves. However, what she will not be aware of is how my heart will swell, when she opens the lavishly  illustrated cover and her eyes fill with the richness of the prose. To cheer a child who longs to escape into a land of faeries weaving daisy chain bridges, to be present on the same page as Clara’s (the heroine) Unicorn protector and to wonder about the identity of a black puma who longs to be by Clara’s side – is a fitting reward for this author. 

A short extract should suffice for now, dear reader.  Be patient and all will be revealed before the year is at a close:--

"Unblinking, she watched him raise his head to reveal a striated horn which shimmered gold and with each movement he released a cloud of stardust, her neck was tight with emotion and she arched her back, willing the unicorn to see beyond its pure light into the realm of mortals. Imperiously, it shook its mane, and scattered spangles which danced along a path encircling Clara’s head and garlanding her body. Kind eyes alighted on Clara, who did not move a single nerve ending, her breathing was shallow and she did not care whether it was her last breath, humble in its presence, she offered a message straight from her heart. Thank you for believing in me". 
An extract from "Do dragonflies lose their colour when they die?"

A fantasy novel by Phyllis Anderson (c) 2012.

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