Hmmm, this is all mightily inconvenient. There are monsters to create, gifts to wrap, cards to write, garments to make … but the new novella (working title, Listen) has taken over my brain, lock, stock and barrel! No more uninterrupted nights for me. No peaceful journeys. No relaxing with hobbies or other people’s novels.
The main protagonist has got her passport; found her birth certificate; she’s travelling! I’m trying to keep pace. She’s on a rail journey from Aberdeen to Penzance knowing a major crisis awaits her at the other end. Diversions along the way take her – and me – off at a tangent, but the train thunders relentlessly towards that endpoint. Tweakings, refinements, reorderings, present themselves at all hours at nobody’s convenience. That’s the writing life.
But of course, at this time of year, concerts and charity sales and visitors wait for no man. I dart between kitchen and study, exchange wooden spoon for keyboard … ahhh, yes, an analogy in the making. At this stage the story’s a bit like a main meal almost ready to serve; all the component parts present, but every time you taste it, there’s something not quite perfect …
A little more seasoning, maybe?
Something to give it a lift?
A sweeter ending perhaps?
No time to linger here, I’m afraid. Can’t let it all go cold!
Eebie jeebie! Life’s on a steep slope and gathering frightening momentum this week. Where are the brakes …? Anyone seen the safety nets?
Outside, hard frosts have made works of incredible beauty out of ordinary spiders’ webs around here, and I couldn’t help but feel an affinity with them. Unbelievably strong, amazingly intricate, yet so fragile if touched carelessly. A bit like the ideas the brain conjures up in creative mode. So, why is the writing life more than usually frenetic at the moment?
Well, to begin with it’s Book Week Scotland; I’m doing a couple of author events locally for that. Lovely to go out there and meet real live people who read my books, and want to know about why and how I do what I do, and wonderful librarians who are so enthusiastic and dedicated to their task of encouraging reading, but space needs to be found to prepare mentally for each one.
I’m also writing not one, not two, but three books simultaneously right now. Three, do I hear you shriek? Yep, three. Completely unprecedented, as regular followers will know. Madness, probably. So why break my own rules?
Well, Christmas is fast approaching, so I absolutely MUST complete the grandchildren’s annual story/play due to be enacted on 28 December to a full house. I need to order props and make costumes before then, and allow for postal hiatuses, so first I have to finalise the text to be sure about what I still need/want. In spare moments, and by way of light relief, I’m also making monster heads – details are top secret (suffice to say that hair and glitter and strange white particles linger stubbornly in the warp and weft of certain carpets). And one whole room is definitely off limits to all, no exceptions.
Then my ongoing novel, Killing me Gently, mustn’t be allowed to lose momentum. Pleased to say I’m still with the thriller genre on that one. However, as a safety valve, I’m letting the back burner dictate the pace of this book at the moment, only sitting down to actually commit words to the document when they’re too insistent to ignore, or jotting down thoughts that wake me in the night.
And the third book? It’s brand spanking new, jostling for attention at crazy o’clock, keeping me at the desk long past the witching hour. It’s got a working title of Listen and is designed as a shorter story in my usual vein (contemporary fiction set in the world of medical ethics) which can be offered as a free download to give potential new readers a window into my books. I’m having a ball writing this! It’s about a Professor of Medical Ethics who goes on a train journey from Aberdeen to Penzance where a crisis awaits her … I now know some amazing statistics about high speed trains! And about atrocious experiments performed on black people in the 50s in America. Intrigued? Watch this space.
I keep reminding myself … this is all entirely self inflicted!
I’m one of those irritating people who can’t function in a clutter, and that’s nowhere more apparent than in my writing life. I need to clear up any unresolved issues and outstanding tasks before I can psyche myself into the creative zone.
This week I’ve been flitting from an intriguing system for finding new readers (yawn, yawn), to consolidating material for the children’s Christmas story (great fun!), preparing for forthcoming author appearances (mmm, lovely communication with real live people), and delving into the ethical dimensions behind ongoing medical questions (round and round and round, we go). Oh, and a little bit of digging into the past in our family and communicating with archivists – related to Remembrance Day and my Uncle Harold who died on the Somme a hundred years ago this year. All in all a very raggy kind of week. And definitely not conducive to serious stints of writing.
So, I’m busy tidying up loose ends to put me in a calmer place. Not exactly headline news, not remotely interesting to anyone else, indeed, so I’ll just share one activity with you that closed – nay, more like permanently deleted – one of the many open files in my brain.
In my stack of ideas for possible future novels I have a wallet labelled ‘HIV/AIDS’, so when I saw a review of Tell the Wolves I’m Home I just had to buy a copy. I read it over a year ago but somehow never got round to writing about it here. This seems like a good moment to rectify that omission.
It’s a debut novel by Carol Rifka Brunt, an American writer now living in Devon, who was selected for the New Writing Partnership’s New Writing Ventures award, and funded by the Arts Council to write it. Lucky woman, huh?
Essentially, it’s a well written tale of love and compassion, secrets and prejudice, forbidden relationships and the legacies left by bittersweet memories.
The narrator is a fourteen year old girl, June Elbus, the younger sister of the slimmer and more beautiful Greta. June is a curious mixture as she hovers on the brink of adulthood: still fantasising about the Middle Ages and wolves, playing like a child in the woods, one minute; showing a maturity beyond her years as she faces death and loss, tortured by her own inappropriate longings, the next.
The girls’ Uncle Finn is a famous artist and he’s painting a picture of the sisters, hoping to complete it before he dies of AIDS. June is obsessed by Finn Weiss, who is also her godfather – in love with him in fact – and his death devastates her. But Finn has made provision for her grief in the shape of his hidden lover, Toby, who materialises unexpectedly at the funeral and becomes very much part of her secret world. Gradually June gets to see the impact Toby had on the uncle she thought she knew.
The Elbus family are riven with tensions arising from Finn’s fame, his illness, Mom’s reaction to it, Toby’s part in it, Greta’s insecurity, the parents’ ambitions, sibling rivalries. Jealousies, conflicts, and divided loyalties drive them to re-examine their lives, their strengths and weaknesses. Greta is not the confident, popular older sister June thought she was. Finn is not the man June thinks he is. The painting is not revered as a masterpiece should be.
In a former life I actually carried out empirical research in the early days of HIV/AIDS, and Brunt’s portrayal of the family’s reaction to the illness rings true for the time. It’s sensitively and sympathetically wrought. So too are the dynamics of the Elbus family. I liked the way the author gradually unravelled the characters and showed us their true selves – cleverly done through the eyes of an adolescent first person narrator. It’s a multi-layered book, successfully weaving and merging many threads until the tale is told. A worthy winner of a prestigious award.
But the time for writing a novel on the subject myself is passed; all my books on the subject can be consigned to a good cause. That potential novel can be crossed off my list. Result? Space on my shelves and in my brain! Wahey!!
It was enough of a shock coming from 28 degrees in Portugal last week (and yes, the sky really was this blue) to snow on the Pentlands here this week (currently in the minuses).
Then, as if the Brexit vote wasn’t bad enough back in June, this week the unthinkable, the unbelievable, has happened on the other side of the Atlantic. A staggeringly unqualified, openly racist, xenophobic, mysogynist has been chosen as the next president – yes, chosen! – to lead the world’s most powerful nation. I felt so despairing yesterday morning when I woke to this news I had to tramp the streets and divert my attention to doing something practical to help the aged and lonely and disadvantaged amongst us. No mood for writing anything more exacting than the annual Christmas story for the grandchildren.
So nothing erudite today. I’ll just share with you something I came across during the week. As you know, I’m still considering writing a thriller this time around, so my attention was instantly caught by Doug Johnstone’s five tips for writing an unputdownable novel.
In essence they are:
- Start the novel in the thick of the action with your central character. No preamble, no prologue.
- Cut all the extraneous detail to make the language crisp and sparse. No gentle musing or scene setting.
- Give the reader breathing space, a moment of respite from the fast action, to give the story emotional punch. Allow the characters to reflect on their experiences occasionally, but keep it brief.
- Vary sentence length. Mix staccato statements with longer poetic flowing passages.
- Use dialogue but sparingly. Arrive as late as possible to the conversation and leave as early as you decently can.
Hmmm. Interesting, and slightly different from other advice I’ve read. Sounds good, though, and lots of food for thought in my case. As soon as I’ve recovered my equilibrium I’ll be testing out the wisdom of these tips.
In the meantime, let’s just pray for the American people and world peace, huh?
This past week was intended as a complete break away in sunny Portugal (high 20s every day!), but somehow the subject of books kept cropping up. Wry smiles each time. I’m just back this afternoon (to 8 degrees!) so a few illustrations must suffice.
In Lisbon, large banners advertise a Story Centre in the main Commercial Square. Story Centre? Yes!! It’s my first day there, antennae are instantly quivering. But this is actually an exhibition of the history of the city, not the story-telling mecca I was imagining.
A beautiful bust of the French playwright Molière put me back on track, however.
And this, together with many amazing ancient illuminated manuscripts in the fabulous Gulbenkian Founder’s Collection elsewhere in the capital, gave due reverence to the written word. (This one was under glass so apologies for the quality of the photograph.)
I was amused by the initiative of some bright person in the lovely little town of Óbidos, who’s created a breathtakingly precarious tower of shelves using open wooden crates, edges overlapping by mere centimeters, and combining hundreds of books for sale with stalls loaded with fresh fruit and vegetables.
Perhaps unsurprisingly Harry Potter kept cropping up. After all JK Rowling was married to a Portuguese man and taught English there years ago before she became famous. The Hogwarts book store in Oporto is a huge draw for many pilgrims, recreating as it does, features from the stories.
And enormous placards broadcast recent publications. Somehow one expects the author’s name to be translated too!
Nor are books limited to bookshops. Converted churches are adapted in enterprising ways – this one with concentric circles of bookshelves.
Fences and wooden structures are used to advertise books. All ingenious and attractive ways of capturing the attention of readers.
Then there’s the ancient collection of books in the famous baroque library at Coimbra University. People whisper and tiptoe about these sacred portals, and cameras are definitely a no-no. (Check the link if you want a glimpse of the magnificence.) No Dewey decimal system here! Dear me, certainly not! The huge number of tomes are stored according to colour of binding and size, with large books on bottom shelves, smaller ones at the top. And there’s no grubby thumbing by the masses. Students must wait while staff climb ladders three storeys high to select the volume of their choice, and must then wear white gloves to handle the precious publications. A magical place to visit by appointment.
Nor is storytelling confined to the written word. The main station in Oporto tells the complete history of transport through the ages from donkeys to trains in ceramic tiles.
And my children’s-fairytale brain went into overdrive in Sintra with its plethora of palaces scattered over the steep slopes, including a fantastical one perched on top of a mountain which would make a fabulous – if unbelievable – setting for the film of a book.
A brilliant break away and so warming to see books featuring so prominently.
What is it that makes us pick up a book and then buy/borrow it? The author’s name? Title? Cover? Back cover blurb? A combination, maybe?
What makes us open the book and having started, keep reading? First line? First page? First chapter?
Well, last week I told you about Ian Rankin releasing the first line of his new novel. I doubt very much if that will ever become an oft-quoted introduction, but it led me to thinking about famous first lines and what it is that makes them memorable. Ones that spring instantly to mind are …
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. (Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice)
Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. (Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina)
The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. (L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between)
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. (George Orwell, 1984)
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. (Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca)
Marley was dead, to begin with. (Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol)
But I rather think that some of these have acquired legendary status, not just for their literary merit, but because they evoke fond memories of classic favourites.
There are other first lines, less well known, that instantly grabbed my attention and made me want to read on to see what the book was all about. If this author could write a few words this well, I’d be happy to commit a day or two/a week or two to finding out what he/she has to tell me.
It was the day my grandmother exploded. (Iain M Banks, The Crow Road)
Not an everyday occurrence, grandmothers exploding, so intriguing. How? Why? Where? When? What happened next?
The scent of slaughter, some believe, can linger in a place for years. (Nicholas Evans, The Loop)
Who’s been slaughtered? Who’s smelling their deaths today? Is it true?
I am a lawyer, and I am in prison. It’s a long story. (John Grisham, The Racketeer)
A story I want to hear. Why? What’s he done? How will he be treated? Is he guilty?
In their sacks they ride as in their mother’s womb: knee to chest, head pressed down, as if to die is merely to return to the flesh from which we were born, and this is a second conception. (James Bradley, The Resurrectionist)
Makes your skin crawl, doesn’t it? Who are these people condemned to such a death?
When the first bullet hit my chest, I thought of my daughter. (Harlan Coben, No Second Chance)
Was there a second one? Who was shooting him? Why was it his daughter who sprang to mind?
The clothes of the dead won’t wear long. (Barbara Vine, The Brimstone Wedding)
There is so much wrapped up in this thought that transcends this one story, but I want to know what happened to make it an apposite statement.
My name, in those days, was Susan Trinder. (Sarah Waters, Fingersmith)
So, why has it changed? What happened when she was Susan Trinder? What has transpired since?
I’m now thinking hard about my own first line. To date I’ve tended to concentrate more on getting the first page gripping. That introductory bit is so important; if you haven’t hooked your reader from the outset, he/she’s probably not going to bother to read on. I’ve actually often written the beginning last, spent ages refining it, for that very reason. I’ve sometimes even added a prologue to bring all the key intriguing elements to the fore and make the reader want to know how everything was resolved.
But first line? That’s a different level of demand. Fascinating to ponder.
Moving mighty wardrobes …
… craning the neck to mitre corners on ceilings …
… up and down stairs with forty years worth of accumulated
detritus possessions … none of these things are kind to muscles and joints already suffering wear and tear and the ravages of arthritis. So small wonder that sleep has been rather elusive during the latest stages of big renovations chez nous.
But hey ho! the old brain is safely protected in its rigid bony cage, and it’s been busily plotting the next book (well, two actually if you count the children’s annual Christmas production) in the darkness of long nights of wakefulness.
The scenes are vivid: a young woman wandering up and down the aisles of the chemists shop, reading labels and safety warnings … back at home titrating doses … cradling baby as he gulps down the milk … watching him sink deeper and deeper into unconsciousness … removing all traces …
Lying there with the video scrolling in my head, it’s so real and the sense of dread so acute, aches and pains simply vanish. And as soon as it’s a decent hour, I’m up committing the scenarios to the computer. OK, I may be knackered by the evening but I’m fired up on the adrenaline – progress with the house AND the books! Silver linings and all that jazz.
But hang on a minute …
Lying in bed: constructs perfect plot
Standing in shower: constructs perfect characters
Hanging out washing: constructs perfect setting
Sitting in front of screen: where did perfection go?!
Hey ho! Perfection is dozens of drafts away.
I’ve been toying with the idea of releasing some tempting little titbits closer to publication to whet the appetite. So I was intrigued to learn that Ian Rankin (or his publisher more likely) has just revealed the first line of his new Rebus novel – his 21st publication – Rather be the Devil, due out on 3rd November.
Rebus placed his knife and fork on the empty plate, then leaned back in his chair, studying the other diners in the restaurant.
‘Someone was murdered here, you know,’ he announced.
Would this tempt you to buy the book?
Normally I stay clear of religion and politics in my blog, but this week I just can’t ignore the craziness bombarding us. There comes a time when staying within the safe and respectable writerly world, simply won’t do.
We’re rather inured to improbable happenings on our screens in dramas, aren’t we? Professors of neurosurgery who beat the living daylights out of a colleague who taunts them, and then walk straight into theatre and perform some intricate ground-breaking surgery on a patient to widespread acclaim. High ranking detectives who get suspects into quiet corners and extract information by foul means. All without repercussions. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about. And yet, reviewers are wont to criticise authors quite harshly if their characters don’t ring true; a person in that position in those circumstances just wouldn’t behave like this, wouldn’t say that.
Well, if I were to include in my novels some of the real-life activities in the news recently, I’d be accused of writing unbelievable fiction too. Or dubious hyperbole, at the very least. I ask you.
Mature (in years) men, MEPs, indeed, brawling … abroad … when they are supposed to be representing their country …?
High ranking ministers promoting harsh discriminatory ideas completely opposed to views they themselves expressed as their deeply-held beliefs when they were lower down the food chain … ?
A last-lap US presidential nominee, bidding to lead the largest and most powerful free country in the world, who has already openly scorned many minority groups (eg muslims, immigrants), now admitting he has sexually abused women …, seeing them as the entitlement of any ‘alpha male’ … especially ‘a star’ …?
Hugely important questions about Brexit being decided by a tiny cabal with neither MPs or the people having a say …?
Large numbers of high-earning BBC employees being accused of dodging taxes …?
Hmmm. Looking at this list I note they’re all except one about politicians. OK, I could develop that theme but it could get nasty, so instead I’ll share my thinking about the matter of credulity.
Decent civilised people living in decent civilised communities tend to assume the integrity and honesty of public and professional figures. We want to trust doctors, lawyers, policemen, teachers, clergy, royals, social workers … we want our children to be able to trust them. But coming on top of all the scandals exposed by the media in recent years, these current horrors challenge our credulity. Can this really be happening? How is it possible? The more I thought about this, though, the more I realised that this is the stuff of thrillers. When apparently trustworthy people step outside the boundaries of the acceptable and believable. Unreliable narrators, unscrupulous colleagues, immoral perpetrators.
For example, this week I watched the film Shutter Island, a disturbing glimpse inside the world of insanity. US marshal, Teddy Daniels (Leonardo diCaprio) is sent to Boston’s high security prison for the criminally insane, on a remote hurricane-blasted island, to investigate the disappearance of a female murderess. Daniels himself has a traumatic past having witnessed the aftermath of the atrocities at Dachau and lived through his wife’s murder. But on the island he is determined to gain access to the ward where the most dangerous patients are housed, a ward in a lighthouse to which the medical team are denying him entry. It’s a film that challenges received wisdom, professional facades, and the limits of humanity. What is believable? Can I trust what I’m seeing and hearing?
Nor is it just thrillers that do this. I’ve also been reading All the Light we Cannot See by Anthony Doerr, a beautifully written, haunting novel about a blind French girl, Marie-Laure, and an orphan German boy, Werner, whose paths cross in occupied France as both try to survive the devastation of World War II. It’s by no means a thriller, but inevitably there are troubling scenes that make us question just how far humans can sink and still retain their humanity. Happenings which Marie-Laure’s great uncle says ‘sound like something a sixth-former would make up.’ In other words, unbelievable. But of course we today know about the atrocities of that era, and much as we might inwardly recoil and think, Surely not, we know these things were real and do/did happen. They become utterly credible in a spine chilling kind of way.
Spine chilling. Now that’s what I’m pondering in my own writing at the moment. I’ve always worked consciously to make my characters believable. For each book I’ve asked a raft of experts as well as discerning readers, to check the manuscript for credibility before it goes for publication. But I’m starting to wonder if any of us can predict how low human beings can sink, or how unlikely any extreme behaviours really are. And now that I’m experimenting with thriller-writing, perhaps I can push the boundaries further in my writing about a young mother who exhibits pathological behaviour, without being condemned by the literary critics. Certainly I need to keep pushing that ‘What if’ button. See how far I can go.
Thanks to all the recent adrenaline surges from thriller-reading, my current novel is starting to take shape. The old brain needed a swift kick-start it seems. The story (working title: Killing me Gently) includes a parent/child relationship where things go seriously wrong so I’m also looking at more reflective works, books that don’t have you biting your nails or fearing your own shadow, but nevertheless haunt your thoughts after you’ve turned the last page. What makes them work?
Please Look after Mother by Kyung-sook Shin, an acclaimed South Korean author, is one I’ve just finished. It tells the story of So-nyo, an illiterate wife and taken-for-granted mother, who has lived a life of sacrifice and unremitting work. A few years earlier she’d suffered a stroke leaving her with terrible headaches, confused and vulnerable. When the story begins she’s travelling from her rural home to Seoul to see her grown up children, but somehow she gets separated from her husband when the doors of the packed train close behind him leaving her still standing on the platform. He gets off at the next station and returns to get her but she has vanished.
Her daughter and sons do their best to find her. Disappointingly little prospective happens in the story post-disappearance, but along the way places, events, chance comments, keep triggering retrospective memories of So-nyo and her life. The family see her differently now she’s gone, regretting the things they never said to her.
She’s always been there in the background, unremarkable, low-achieving, self-effacing. A simple impoverished South Korean housewife. Boiling octopus, sauteeing anchovies and toasting seaweed. Forcing a left-handed child to become right-handed with the simple expedient of punishing left-handed activity. Money always scarce.
‘When the malt fermented, the entire house smelled of it. Nobody liked that smell, but Mother said it was the smell of money. There was a house in the village where they made tofu, and when she brought them the fermented malt, they sold it to the brewery and gave the money to Mother. Mother put that money in a white bowl, stacked six or seven bowls on top of it, and placed it on top of the cabinets. The bowl was Mother’s bank.’
Her devotion to her children is not reciprocated. She is a wallpaper figure. They don’t even notice her periods of mental absence, or the obvious signs of extreme pain.
‘Mother was always Mother. It never occurred to you that she had once taken her first step, or had once been three or twelve or twenty years old. Mother was Mother. She was born as Mother. Until you saw her running to your uncle like that, it hadn’t dawned on you that she was a human being who harboured the exact same feeling you had for your own brothers, and this realisation led to the awareness that she, too, had had a childhood From then on, you sometimes thought of Mother as a child, as a girl, as a young woman, as a newly-wed, as a mother who had just given birth to you.’
But now, the longer she eludes them, the more her disappearance troubles them. And a deeper and more universal mystery is unravelled: ‘affection, exasperation, hope and guilt add up to love.’ They begin to appreciate just what a powerful influence this insignificant little woman has been in their lives:
‘When she was younger, Mother was a presence that got him to continue building his resolve as a man, as a human being.’
I must confess, this wasn’t a book I’d rave about. It left me unsatisfied somehow; I wanted more resolution. And I really really really dislike second person writing; it’s one of my all time pet hates. What’s more this particular example has the temerity to make the ‘you’ refer to a different person in different sections, compounding my aversion!
But that doesn’t stop me valuing the healthy message it conveys. And learning lessons for my own writing. We would all do well to revisit the sacrifices our mothers made for us. Willingly and without complaint. To ask ourselves, can I do for my family what she did for us? It’s all too easy to take our nearest and dearest for granted.
‘Before she went missing, you spent your days without thinking about her. When you did think about her, it was to ask her to do something, or to blame her or ignore her. Habit can be frightening thing. You spoke politely with others, but your words turned sullen towards (her).’
I doubt whether Please Look After Mother would feature highly on that jolly little bestseller-ometer I told you about a couple of weeks ago, and yet it’s contributing to the sum total of books which can encourage us to empathise with human beings and help to create a more civilised society. That’s worth more to me than whopping sales figures.
Strange how real life often throws up weird coincidences. By chance I was actually sitting next to a South Korean translator at a meal a few days ago. I had something relevant to talk about, thanks to Kyung-sook Shin.
Ahhhah, now this one is right on the knuckle for my ongoing research. Relationships, mental health, the law, professional boundaries … it’s all there. Settle down for the long haul … glass of wine, top notch chocolate, notebook at the ready …
It’s a psychological thriller: Plea of Insanity by Jilliane Hoffman. Full of fascinating medical and legal information. At once spine chilling and yet sympathetic to those suffering serious mental illness. Cliff hangers at the end of each chapter. Brilliant. Hoffman was an Assistant State Attorney herself and has advised special agents on complex investigations. She also had a friend caught up in a similar situation to the protagonist in Plea of Insanity. She writes with real authority.
First then, the storyline. Dr David Marquette is a successful surgeon with a dream house, pretty wife and three gorgeous kids. Then one day, emergency services take a tremulous call from their house: a child’s voice pleading for help. The police race to the scene. What do they find? A shocking bloodbath. Scenes so horrific that veteran officers are reduced to sobbing wrecks. All three kiddies and their mother brutally butchered; the doctor seriously wounded.
And now Dr Marquette himself stands accused. Is he guilty? Could a man who has dedicated his life to caring for patients be capable of such brutality? Could any sane man kill his entire family in cold blood? But is he sane? If so, he must be a monster. Or is he suffering from schizophrenia? I changed my mind several times as to his guilt or innocence – all part of the mesmerizing experience.
State prosecutor, Julia Valenciano, is hand-picked to unravel the truth and bring this man to justice, but as she delves into the mind of the criminally insane, personal baggage emerges from her own past, dark secrets from her family history that will destroy her present peace and haunt her whole future. ‘Too many lies told to too many people, too many secrets kept for too many years …’ If I’m being really nitpicky, I found the parallels a bit too contrived, but that doesn’t stop it being a cracking good read.
And it’s set my mind racing along several productive tracks for my own next book. As so often I’m hugely grateful to all these authors whose work inspires and influences me. Thanks, guys.