The blossom is almost out here in East Yorkshire and we get occasional bursts of sunshine, but it's still very cold and I can't yet divest myself of warm joggers, sweatshirts and thick socks as I sit at my desk.
I have had mixed fortunes since I wrote my last blog. I told you of the paperback launch of The Innkeeper's Daughter on February 14th and was then delighted to hear that it climbed into the Top 50 official charts and up to last week was still there at number 39. It does make me wonder what it is that makes one book a best seller whilst others never reach the charts. Readers of course have their favourites; perhaps within a novel there's a reminder of some loss or joy or remembrance of their own which gives a book a special appeal. I have been re-reading Barbara Kingsolver's
Prodigal Summer, a delightful book and wholly suitable for bedtime reading which is the only time I read fiction. I know that in a couple of years I will fish it out again and read it once more.
February and the first two weeks of March I had a hectic signing schedule but managed to finish and send off my new novel His Brother's Wife to my editor. I thought then that there would be time to dig out my office and dust my desk before beginning the next one. But life has a way of travelling its own course and sweeping us along with it. John Lennon famously said, 'Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.' It is true. Life and death stops us in our tracks and makes us aware that we are not in complete control after all, although many of us might think that we are until we discover otherwise.
I have spoken publicly on Dying Matters, was asked to speak on the subject as it was known I had lost my much loved husband to Dementia - but there, I have fallen into my own well sprung trap. I haven't lost him, he is still close to my heart. He died. Death is a difficult subject to discuss, but here I am writing about it again as I grieve over yet another sister, who died quite suddenly in March after heart surgery. I find I can speak of her or write of her if I imagine I am speaking as someone else, the third person, as we would in a novel. Wanting to telephone her to tell her something or entering through her front door when she is no longer there, is something else entirely and only time will change that.
The secret is keeping so busy that you don't have time to feel sad; that is until a piece of music or someone being nice to you can open the floodgates. To keep my equalibrium I have given two talks - speaking in the third person again, attended a literary lunch as a guest, had meetings with fellow authors and attended live concerts to hear beautiful music and shed a silent tear. I do believe that when a sibling dies, comes our awareness that life is short, and there's nothing more certain that I personally will avoid the tragedy of dying young, and that none of us will live forever in this life though your views on the life hereafter may bring up another story.
This year is the twentieth anniversary since my first novel The Hungry Tide was published and plans are afoot to celebrate. I know that they will be tempered by loss, but also am aware that those who are missing from my life would want me to continue living life to the full on their behalf.
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