There is something quietly glorious about a novelist who identifies a furrow for their writing and then ploughs it diligently and skilfully from one novel to the next, with little concern for reinvention.
Ward is the future self that many young musicians dread becoming: booze-wracked and jaded but still plagued by the compulsion to turn everything into lyrics.
Then one morning a horse appears in the snow outside, battered and half-blind, and Ward is forced to reckon with something other than the broken dreams and dysfunctional relationships of his past.
It's easy to conclude that the horse is a mirror of sorts in which Ward can confront the ruins of his own life.
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