MG Magical realism set on a farm
I’m Emma, a transplant from the UK to the USA and now living in my fifth state – Virginia. I write Middle Grade and it normally involves talking animals. I have two children who are middle grade readers, which is handy, and am married to a Marine – who is also handy. The ginger cat completes the set.
Hobbies include: playing the violin in a community orchestra, gardening, knitting, and I joined a women’s choir for the first time recently. I love to read middle grade, but also like to delve into other genres, especially historical and murder mysteries.
I started writing more consistently a few years ago, when the children finally started leaving the house for school, and have been a member of SCBWI for over three years.
I love great descriptions of characters and settings – especially when the writer can evoke a whole image in just a few, well chosen words. I like to hear a strong voice, preferably one with a sense of humour, and prefer fast paced plots to something which meanders.
I don’t do well with horror or graphic violence. I prefer polite murders.
The animals at The Flabbergast Farm prefer to keep it secret that they can all talk. Talk, sing, crack jokes.
But it will take all their talents to help Molly (aged 10) save the farm from nasty neighbours and the interfering Inspector who wants to close them down.
The half-crazed chicken zoomed between Molly’s legs, with a great cackling and squawking and flailing of wings. Molly looked up and watched her wobbly path between four horse hooves, over a back of a pig and across a puddle. Mud flew and feathers ruffled as she flapped her way through the farmyard to safety, straight up the ladder into the chicken house.
“Bella,” called Molly, “Are you alright?”
But before she could follow the distressed chicken, an enthusiastic bark crashed past her knees. Somewhere under all that barking was a sheepdog, Molly was sure, but the grey and white blur was gone in a flash and this time she toppled over and landed in the biggest, wettest, muddiest puddle in the yard.
“Winston!” she yelled after the bumptious ball of fur, but he was gone. “Oh, Winston. What will we do with you?” said Molly, to no one in particular. Winston was usually to be found in the middle of any chaos going on in the farmyard, although he never thought it was any fault of his. The shaggy haired bundle of woofs was nearly up to her waist nowadays and yet still thought he was an adorable puppy. Molly struggled up from the squelchy ground and stumbled across to the chicken house to rescue Bella. Poor Bella, she was often Winston’s favourite target. He loved to chase, he would chase anything, and a flapping, squalling chicken was the best of fun for him.
I am currently in the middle of a first draft of another MG novel – The Music and Mouse.
I’m tinkering with a couple of spooky MG short stories too, so may bring those together eventually.
Also have an idea for a Western/ ghost story for Middle Graders.
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