Readers Up #39: Racetrack Rogues

It appears we've reached the end of the line. 

(I'm searching for the appropriate racing term and coming up blank, which feels like a sign from an impassive yet understanding universe.)

One thing I learned early in life was to hide my natural flightiness, because flighty girls aren't taken seriously and to be taken seriously should be the aim of everyone, always*, but especially girls, whose inherent seriousness is eternally in doubt**. Because I like to read and have an overall staid, tedious air, flightiness is not something assumed of me as an adult. Nevertheless: rest assured that my brain is 99% useless at all times, and never so useless as when it's decided to like something new. The flighty brain burns the candle of desire at both ends. In this way, I've collected a lifetime's worth of intense, disparate interests, a trivia night's worth of unconnected facts. Ask me about chaos magic, or 90s-era white power groups; ask me about power metal, pole weapons, Candomblé, mid-century Greek communism, the Batfamily. Ask me, someday a few years from now maybe, about horse racing.

In a lot of ways, Dawn LeFevre's new novel Racetrack Rogues is the perfect inverse of where my brain and heart are at. A its core a story of homecoming, Racetrack Rogues explores racing-world and family dynamics through Dahlia, a whiz kid whose rocky relationship with her mother never reaches closure--at least not while both participants breathe. A born-and-bred racetracker who grew away from the backside after a rift with her groundbreaking jock mom, Dahlia's journey completes the racetrack circuit. Her return to the grind of training Thoroughbreds brings her closer than she's ever been to her mother's legacy, and to the woman beneath the facade. But as I was reading, I realized I felt very far away--from New York's racetracks, certainly, although Aqueduct hovers at the corner of my eye like a fata morgana. Far away also from what makes me reach again and again into the towering stacks of Thoroughbred books around my apartment, and farthest of all from the desire that produced manuscript after manuscript of full-throated appreciation and interest.
 

LeFevre's first novel announced her as a fresh and formidable voice in the niche area of our interest; her second outing cements her place among the constellation of indie racing writers. Her books' appreciation of regional tracks like Garden State, of hard-knocking stables and local trailblazers, make them feel timeless. Her own experience feeds the narrative, informing Dahlia's emotions and motives, undergirding the racehorses' personalities and physicalities, and ringing through each line of dialogue. Thinly-veiled Baffert jokes, jock's-room commentary, a thorough seeding of real-world stakes races and track names, plus LeFevre's trademark hair metal appreciation--this new book has everything. Above all, Racetrack Rogues has that elusive, imperative element so prized by railbirds: heart. It takes heart to create stories about America's overlooked, formerly great pastime. It takes heart to create stories from whole cloth, period--to do the writing, the editing, the cover design, the formatting, the promotion--to retain belief that the whole venture is worth doing. In that way, DIY publishing shares a lot in common with blue-collar racing. 
 

The past couple of years have not been easy for anyone. All told, I'm among those who've had it easiest--healthy, employed, without childcare or schooling to arrange. That said, things are kind of bad! The pandemic has not ended; indeed, the Powers That Be's commitment to pretending it has will likely prolong it indefinitely. I'm hella depressed in a lot of ways. I had a fair amount of fiction published this year, but wrote almost no new stories. I went to a racetrack exactly once, and I've noticed the distance all along. 

It's difficult to look at something that used to inspire joy and feel... doggedness. 

I can't even say where my love has gone; it hasn't been replaced with something new and shiny, merely misplaced when I wasn't looking. Next month's year-in-review newsletter will be the final newsletter for some time. I won't say "forever" because I don't know if that's true; I do know there are many books on my to-react list that I haven't reached yet, not to mention the fact that they keep publishing more books. Every Tuesday, in fact! Who can ever say how long hiatus lasts? (Twitter hiati rarely outlast the time it takes to change your display name) The only thing we really know is that when horses lose heart, they should stop running. Emotionally, I've been out to pasture for a long time.

My thanks to Dawn for sending me an advance review copy of her wonderful new book. My thanks also to every author who's shared their thoughts and stories with us here. And if you're reading this, know that the dream of my heart is to hang on a rail with you at the racetrack of yours.

Racetrack Rogues is available now--check it out, devour it over the long weekend if you've got one, and cross your fingers for more from a truly horse-hearted author. Other fun holiday gifts, if you're shopping, include this fiction anthology and this one of essays, this membership, and maybe a few dollars to the New York Racetrack Chaplaincy or BEST.

Until next time,
Diana



*comedic hyperbole
**neither comedic nor hyperbolic