I think we all have them. We’ve all experienced a terrible
year, where a life event can shake you to the core and leave you totally
disorientated. I was always worried about it happening. I never quite expected
the outcome when it did.
2014 began with such promise. I’d secured my first book deal
the year before. I was to be a published author. I spent most of the early
months, editing and fine tuning my new book. I felt so happy. So relieved.
Finally, things were going as I hoped they would. I would be an author,
everything would be good.
And then suddenly, tragically, in May the same year – my
father died.
There are no words to describe the feelings or the deep loss
that I immediately felt. This was the man that I announced all my news and gossip
to. This was a man I laughed and moaned with on a regular basis. This was a man
who understood me at times better than I understood myself. And now he was
gone, leaving my whole family bereft. And I was left with a great, gaping
wound, without a clue how it would ever heal.
The weeks that passed are lost to me now. I wrote a eulogy.
I sat listening to his music. I sank into a lonely and unforgiving place.
Staring at my computer, I’d look at words that I’d once written and they now
looked lost to me, foreign. I no longer wanted to write. I didn’t think I’d be
able to again.
Then one day I remember being curled on a chair, quite
childlike – watching my children play, finding some peace in their normal
behaviour. My mind began to wander and words began to form. I guess it was my
imagination kicking in again. It was like the slow glimmers of heat returning.
Thankfully we went on holiday a few months later, to a place
so remote and peaceful – I could finally find myself begin to unwind and relax.
Perhaps it helped that there were no memories there, that I could just focus on
the moment. I made myself no promises. I wasn’t expecting to be creative, I
still felt so raw inside – but somehow the words started to flow on my
notebook. Back home I began to type, fast and ruthless.
Book two began to swamp and surround me like a great, warm
security blanket. In my characters I could focus on other matters, on other
concerns. My brain was rested from my grief, albeit briefly. I played my Dad’s
classical music again – but this time it swept me up and comforted me. I wrote
Crush with a sense of relief and purpose. I wouldn’t stop writing. In fact I
couldn’t stop. This was natural and cathartic. It helped me to heal.
And thank goodness I didn’t stop – because it was the best
therapy I could’ve ever had. And as a result, my next book is extremely special
to me. I think it always will.
Meanwhile, my new tradition of writing to classical, restful
music continues – that way I feel a little bit of my Dad is with me, nodding his
approval and tapping along gently with the beat.
