I've just e mailed the first draft of my fourth book to my
agent. Friends and family greet the news with comments like: 'That
must feel so great! What are you doing to celebrate?
Absolutely nothing is the honest truth, because all I feel at
these moments is a rather odd sense of loss.
For several months now, these characters have been with me for
just about every waking moment. Their story has become another life
for me, that I've lived in parallel with my own and now that it's
told, I find them slipping away from me, getting fainter by the
day, already little more than ghosts.
I miss them. I've learned to love them these past few months:
Solvay, Mark and Dana (yes, she's back) and without their constant
company I find myself strangely bereft. I imagine I'll feel like
this when my son leaves home.
The truth is, writing a novel never feels like hard work for me.
It's the most enormous fun. The research and planning can be tough,
although I rather enjoy it, and the editing process can be (and
usually is) absolute torture, but the first draft is a pure joy.
This one especially so. I've loved writing this book. And now the
fun's over.
My sister and I are planning the official launch of Blood
Harvest, due out in just over two months. As the book is set in my
home county of Lancashire, and based on the real life story of when
my sister and her family built a big new house on the moors by an
old church, we've decided the launch will be in the north. This
does mean inviting people I haven't seen in twenty years. Scary
thought. If they look old, does that mean I do too? Are they going
to come armed with endless embarrassing stories? Will there be
photographs? Maybe it's not such a good idea. Too late to
back out, though, my sister's bought a new frock.