It has been a very busy year. A Baby's Bones came out to a good reception, which was great. I wrote Finding Noah, which I am editing right now, and completely rewrote A Shroud of Leaves (the sequel to A Baby's Bones). Which all sound very productive except the whole year has been taken up with other things, with writing side-lined to odd moments and days when I could sneak off to the computer. There have been a lot of promotion events from library talks to festival events, all of them different and interesting. I've taught workshops, read manuscripts for people and worked on next year's book idea.
But it's felt like it was all too much, too complicated and difficult because real life was so emotional and complex. My father-in-law from my first marriage reached his mid eighties, had a heart attack and died, bang, there in the bathroom. His son, my husband, suffered a haemorrhage caused by unsuspected leukaemia, and died. Light out, gone, and much missed at the age of 33. My second husband's parents haven't been so lucky. They are wrestling with dementia, struggling to remember who they are and understand what's happening around them. My father-in-law has been devastated by Parkinson's, the disease which he shrugged off for many years but has suddenly combined with three strokes to limit his mobility, even his speaking and drinking. This year they had to give up their home and their independence. They are living through the moment of dying in slow motion, and it's cruel to see. It's a sadness at the back of every moment of our days. I visited my mother in law yesterday and she genuinely didn't know who I was or even if she knew me, that was hard. It took her a few minutes to download the file that is me, now relegated to 'that lovely girl's mother'. She clings to fragments of memory of the grandchildren and the baby, she remembers men better than women. But a woman who can't physically care for herself is fighting to remember who she is now even the distant memories are out of reach. Her main concern is 'Can I stay here?' and 'Where's my husband?'. He's on another floor, fighting off a chest infection. It feels like just writing their year down would be the most awful drama.
Other transitions had to be weathered too - our youngest child went off to university. That left us looking at each other with nothing to talk about except selling the in-laws' bungalow, getting the care home right, transitioning their medical and social care to a new town. At first we couldn't even get their tablets transferred, let alone the funding they were entitled to. The house is empty and quiet or filled with talk of illness and work, and my husband has taken every opportunity to get out of it to play music.
So, I haven't blogged because it would all seem so sad. Now, it's out there, I've vented, and can get back to writing about writing. Because there's a lot to say, it's a steep learning curve even now, with five books written and more to work on. Each editor teaches me a new focus to work on, highlights a new skill. I feel like my editing has come on more than my writing, which comes easier with each book. The gap between my first draft and anything publishable, however, gapes ever wider... My next blog will be more hopeful.