But I’ve had some interesting experiences, and learned a thing or two about how to seduce an audience. (I come to these events with two agendas: what can I learn about this author and this book? And what tips can I take away for my own appearances at literary functions?)

The Festival brings in some cracking chairmen. Journalist, Ruth Wishart is one of my favourites and she’s a whizz at getting the best out of authors whilst bringing her own style of wit and banter to the event. She was chairing for Lionel Shriver this time, so I knew we were in safe hands.

Lionel Shriver. Hmm. In the flesh, and talking about her personal experience of losing a dear friend to cancer, she seemed somehow more fragile and vulnerable than I imagined from her writing. And she spent a fair bit of time assuring everyone that her latest book, So Much for That, dealing with disease and death, is ‘fun’, and that her unlikable characters are ‘fun’, and that spending her working life writing about objectionable people is ‘fun’. Methinks the lady doth protest too much. ‘Fun’ certainly isn’t the word that I’d apply to her books myself.

Nevertheless, I loved We Need to Talk about Kevin; dark, macabre even, but brilliantly conceived and executed. It’s written in the form of letters from Eva to her husband, Franklin, about their teenage son, Kevin, who has committed a series of gruesome murders. She’s a wonderfully flawed character, and positively ruthless in exposing her own doubts and failings. Her musings explore the origins of evil, the responsibility of parenthood, and the old nurture-nature debate. And then there’s the brilliant twist to the tale at the end – sent shivers up my spine. A clever book, both gripping and thought-provoking, and a very worthy prizewinner. It launched Shriver’s career.

But before I went to hear her I decided to read something else she’d written: Double Fault. What a disappointment. In fact, it fell squarely into the category of ‘a real slog’; only my obsessive tendencies made me persist with it. It’s a story about a young couple whose lives are ruled by tennis, and the effect of success and failure on their characters and relationships. Admittedly, I was starting it on a train with a little girl sitting beside me playing an electronic game with the sound up. (Sigh. Yes, in the Quiet Zone. Where else? Don’t get me going on that subject. But the kiddie had just hopped off the lap of her disabled mother slumped in her wheelchair in the space opposite. Only a heart of stone would have deprived that little soul of a few hours of innocent pleasure.) But I duly gave Double Fault a fairer crack of the whip by reading more on the return journey with fingers in my ears, and then at home in the absolute silence of my study. It didn’t improve.

But it got me thinking. Very few authors can be brilliant all of the time; or appeal to all readers all of the time. How much does a reader persevere once he/she becomes uninspired? Do I give people a second … or third … or more chance? Well, in my case I guess it varies.

I’ve read loads of Jodi Picoult’s books because she writes about ethical dilemmas: My Sister’s Keeper; Nineteen Minutes, Plain Truth, The Pact, Handle with Care, etc. My kind of subject matter. Though I do occasionally get a bit Picoulted-out, (well, her writing is rather formulaic, isn’t it?) and some books haven’t really lit my fuse, I’ve remained loyal, and even travelled to Glasgow to see this phenomenon, who produces bestsellers so prolifically, in the flesh. But then I read one of her earlier works – before she hit her stride: Songs of the Humpback Whale. It left me feeling very jaded. Another hard slog. So why do I give her another chance? Because I’ve enjoyed lots of her work, I admire what she’s trying to do in opening up important debates, and I know she’s not a one-book wonder.

Audrey Niffenegger’s another phenomenon. She’s both a visual artist and a writer – so talented you’re not sure whether to envy or dislike her on sight. She hit the headlines big time with her debut novel, The Time Traveler’s Wife … sickening, eh? But seriously, I still stand in awe of her ability to juggle all those time-frames so expertly. So I came to Her Fearful Symmetry with high expectations. Oh dear, oh dear. It’s one of the least appealing books I’ve ever read. Two dimensional, static and totally unbelievable. But in Niffenenegger’s case, I’m in no hurry to return. It feels like she’s forfeited my loyalty.

OK, I know that I, more than most, ought to be more forgiving. After all, I don’t want people to be too hasty to dismiss my work if they find one story that doesn’t appeal. Sigh. It’s all so subjective, isn’t it? But the reality is, there are just too many books out there; we can all afford to be fickle fans. Which leads me to make a confession … I’ll tell you next time.

This is the second week of the Edinburgh International Book Festival, and Charlotte Square, with its landmark marquees and wooden walkways, is positively seething with visitors paying good money to attend the hundreds of events. And yet there have been no publicity campaigns, no flyers being thrust into reluctant fists, no headlines emblazoned on the sides of buses, no billboards. Indeed, I haven’t seen a single advert for the event.

No, people just know it’s on. As soon as the box office opens they queue for hours to snap up precious tickets; they travel huge distances; they brave the inevitable rain … simply to listen to authors talking about their work. Shows are sold out – sometimes before tickets are even available to the masses. Devotees queue to buy books at full price; they earnestly discuss their favourite authors at chance meetings. Books are truly valued.

And in return, those attending get to be up close and personal with the big names. Luminaries like Alexander McCall Smith, Will Self, Philip Pullman, Simon Callow, Margaret Drabble, Iain Banks, AS Byatt … are within touching distance. They are to be seen strolling between the authors’ yurt and their venues looking to all intents and purposes like ordinary mortals; they chat amiably as they scribble personal inscriptions on fly leaves; they engage in eye contact with members of the audience whose tongues untie soon enough to ask questions.

Yes, there’s no doubt that in the capital this month the book is very much alive and well. Indeed, this particular festival is the largest celebration of the written word in the world!  And thanks to my Edinburgh publisher, two of my books are there on the shelves in the famous tented bookshop. How privileged am I?

More about specifics next week, when the frenzy dies down and we go back to our ordinary personae.

And it’s rainbow time.

But before I antagonise anyone by seeming too idealistic, let me hasten at the outset to acknowledge a basic reality. No-one wants to develop dementia. No-one. Neither patient nor family will embrace it willingly. If it does snake its way into our lives, it’s natural to be sad and to grieve for all that is, or will be, lost. But the very fact that we can’t reverse the process makes it doubly rewarding to learn that the glass can still be half full, or maybe a quarter, or … And having been through a kind of grieving process myself this year, I want to share something of that discovery.

I’ve read too many things to bore you with anything comprehensive, but three books make me want to send an email to everyone who is dealing with dementia in any capacity. They are

Contented Dementia by Oliver James
And Still the Music Plays by Graham Stokes
I’m Still Here by John Zeisel

All three are
- written by people with real hands-on experience
- built on the premise that understanding the inner world of the person with dementia can have a considerable effect on the lives of all concerned
- designed to be read reflectively not quickly
- starting points that prompt contemplation, questioning, and perhaps even a little experimentation.

You might find aspects of them irritating at times – I know I did! But I’m an impatient ratbag anyway. Bear with them anyway. Why?

Contented Dementia describes in detail a method of responding to someone with dementia in such a way as to minimise confusion and distress, and to steer them into a safe and happy place. The strapline captures the sense: 24-hour Wraparound Care for Lifelong Well-being. It puts a different slant on behaviours that are potentially trying – even the endless repetition! – and shows how they can be made to work for good. This book is written by a psychologist, and I was much struck by his introductory comment at a session I attended in the Edinburgh International Book Festival: ‘I’m probably the only man in the country who, if I develop dementia, would like to be cared for by my mother-in-law!’ Some recommendation, eh? But it was she who devised the Specal scheme outlined in his book.

And Still the Music Plays is a series of very readable stories about people exhibiting challenging behaviours. It provides insight into what might be causing someone to wander, to be agitated or aggressive, and how to channel that understanding so as to prevent or reduce distress. This one is the easiest and most entertaining read of the three, but gives a way through the most demanding of experiences. And it offers a glimmer of sanity for carers at their wits end trying to deal with violence and severe hostility.

I’m Still Here offers a gentle, artistic approach, describing ways of connecting with abilities and emotions that remain intact, and of enhancing the quality of life of the person with dementia (and their loved ones) by maintaining those connections with people and the wider world. There’s more medical and specialised language in this one but it opens up avenues to pursue which are accessible and available to most of us – art and culture, drama, meditation.

So, to anyone who is working alongside or living with people with this illness, I recommend one or more of these books. To everyone else I say, if you avoid contact with people with dementia, or have a horror of the disease yourself, give it a whirl. It’s possible that knowing more could just reverse your opinion, increase your capacity for compassion, and even enhance your own life.

As for me, I’m lost in admiration for the people in these books who have cared enough to search for understanding, and who have enriched the experiences of those who would otherwise have been left anxious, agitated, apathetic or aggressive. I salute them all and hope their philosophies will percolate far and wide, and make the world a better place to live in.

The two books were Samantha Harvey’s Wilderness (about a man with Alzheimer’s) and Sleeper’s Wake by Alistair Morgan (about a man regaining consciousness after a road accident, to learn that his wife and daughter died in the car he was driving). Both debut novels. Both prize-winners.

First salutary observation: tiny audience. Hmmm. Is it true that in this climate of a global recession the public don’t want to read about depressing subjects in their fiction? I asked the question – minus any tactless reference to the size of the audience, of course.

The answer? Morgan said he didn’t himself want to read about relentless cheeriness and everything going well, because it’d make him feel he was somehow substandard when his own life wasn’t wall-to-wall perfection. Hmmmmm? Harvey said she was always conscious of the potential to be depressing so she worked at introducing levity and humour. I’m with Harvey on that one. With care, though, so as not to mock the seriousness of the reality.

Lessons learned?
- I’ll lose some readers who don’t want ‘dark’.
- I need to stress the positive, upbeat side of the story on the jacket in my next book, Remember Remember (about Alzheimer’s).
- I need to go to more sessions with such authors and really listen to and learn from their answers to questions. Gain without pain.

Interestingly. someone else asked the authors if, having written ‘dark’ books they’d do the same again. Answer: they’d both determined to be ‘jolly and light’ next time round. Me too. But found they couldn’t be; hence more of the same forthcoming. Me too! I gave my ‘happy’ version to two of my preliminary readers and they were emphatic: it just wasn’t me.

Is it something in our genes?

For those of you who don’t know, the EIBF takes place in Charlotte Square in the heart of Edinburgh, which is full of marquees for the occasion. It hosts 17 days of events – hundreds of them, and lots of famous names. And it always rains! But nobody cares about the puddles and drips, or the sound of each thunderous deluge on canvas. Or even ploughing through the maze of roadworks caused by the coming of trams to our fair city at some future date – which incidentally keeps receding like the pot of gold at the foot of a springtime rainbow. No, the rewards for coming far outweigh any minor inconveniences like that.

Every year I’m utterly staggered by the thousands of people who turn up to listen to authors – both the famous and the unknown, and the calibre of questions they ask. This time I’m not presenting, so I haven’t got to quiver and quake in the authors’ yurt in anticipation of a barrage aimed directly at me, but I’ve just had the pleasure of helping to host the Society of Authors in Scotland party in the Party Pavilion Tent. What a venue! At the very core of this major festival of words; a celebration within a celebration. A fantastic chance to meet so many interesting people – authors, publishers, agents, festival directors – over wine and dips.

I’m awash with news, wine, business cards, advice, goodies from sponsors, enthusiasm. And even renewed resolve to tackle the bits of publishing I’m allergic to. (I’ve just spent an hour doing exactly that before sneaking back into my comfort zone with this blog.) Hearing from fellow-writers about mutual struggles is empowering as well as energising.

And what’s more, I’ve still got a fistful of tickets to take me through the snarled-up traffic, over the sodden grass, past the uniquely helpful EIBF staff (they must be hand-picked), and into all my chosen events over the next glorious fortnight. Can this be called ‘work’?

Though they don’t exactly languish in crumbling attics, certain famous writers alive today have been known to grumble that they only ever see other authors at memorial services. Writing just isn’t a convivial occupation.

However, it occurs to me that that very isolation can help to preserve something of the glamour with which we invest the big names. Attendance at book festivals demonstrates how much we like to actually see and hear the person behind the book, obtain a signature (yes, we were that close!). Competition for seats can be fierce. Tickets became available for the Edinburgh International Book Festival last week and by Day 2 lots of events were already sold out – four of them ones I’d hoped to attend.

Last year I was speaking at this same festival, which meant that I had open access to the hallowed turf of the authors’ yurt – breathing the same air as the great and the good, sharing the same couches, nibbling from the same tables. All sorts of well-kent faces came and went – most of them a lot less glamorous close-up in the flesh than I’d pictured, it must be said! – but I still sat in awe. A small child seeing giants.

And perhaps that explains why a schoolgirl was celebrating this week. She wrote to thank me for being interviewed for her school project. She’d chosen as her subject, ‘Books’, and thought she might have an edge if she contacted ‘a real live author’. (Basic credentials – living and breathing – so I’m not reading personal acclaim into any of this, I hasten to add.) For her there is something mysterious and compelling about the secret world of writing; something she clearly managed to convey, because her project won the prize! Well done, Esther!

But maybe something of the mystique would be lost if she saw the ordinariness of the study where I write. So … we’re about to have a second opening cut into the attic of our very old house – maybe I’ll put in a personal bid for the cobwebs and clutter after all. Much more romantic obituary material … ‘wrote most of her books squirreled away in a garret’ … don’t you think?

As if!

The letter was from Baroness Mary Warnock – probably the best-known moral philosopher in the country, for those of you who don’t instantly recognise the name. The Warnock Report? Ring any bells?

I’ve read lots of her writing; heard her speak. But I finally met her in person at the Edinburgh International Book Festival last year when we appeared together at an evening event about assisted dying. We’d both brought out books on the subject within weeks of each other (her’s: An Easeful Death; mine: Right to Die). She’s in her eighties now but a wonderfully switched-on lady who still sparks controversy in the press periodically (mary-warnock). Good for her. I don’t always agree with her but I hope my synapses are still crackling as merrily if I ever reach that age. Anyway, at her request, a few weeks ago I sent her a copy of my latest manuscript, Saving Sebastian (about a family seeking treatment to have a baby of the same tissue type as an older child with a fatal illness). ‘Sent her a copy’ – sounds casual, doesn’t it? In reality it was a heart-in-my-mouth sensation posting it. Because not only does this amazing woman have a planet-sized brain, but she has committees named after her – distinguished committees on related topics.

And this envelope held her response. Big breaths. Steady the racing heart.

The endorsement was very encouraging. Very kind. So, why do I mention this here? Because the letter itself was exceptional: hand-typed (complete with uncorrected errors – lots of). The crested envelope was hand-written. This famous and brilliant lady took the trouble not only to read the book within a fortnight of receiving it, but to personally and laboriously write a proper courteous letter to me about it – no dictation to a secretary, no hasty email. That kind of attitude towards ordinary people impresses me more than any prestigious awards – and she’s had her fair share of those.