Fiction is easy. Relatively speaking, I mean. Over the most recent weeks, while Hope has been at reviewers, editors, etc, I’ve stepped aside from the next novel I was working on, to return to the (mainly) non-fiction book about my experiences of looking after my mum, as her dementia progressed.
I write prolifically and can usually complete the first draft of a novel within a couple of months (many, many, more drafts to follow of course) but this has taken two years to get to the stage where its even in first draft shape. And it’s difficult. Damned difficult. The historical and factual details come first, and these don’t cause me too much trouble usually (I actually love the research behind a book as much as the writing), but in this case, those details bring back memories and emotions that are challenging to face up to again. And for a book like this one, the facts are the least part of the experience. If the end result is to mean anything at all, I have to be able to talk about why details are important and what they felt like at the time. And that’s the hardest part. Fiction isn’t quite so raw, and doesn’t open you up quite so brazenly, but for me, this is something I think I have to write, to help me work through those thoughts and emotions. Hopefully, it will be of interest and help to anyone else going through a similar journey, or to help their friends understand a little of the complexity and difficulty of care, but we’ll have to wait and see. I’m hoping to bring this out in the summer but that depends how the writing goes, and with a project such as this, you can only really write and do justice to the subject matter when you’re in a clear headed and positive mood, which limits the amount of time I can work on it.
Bit of a ramble, this blogpost, but as people rarely read my non review blog posts, I guess that’s ok!
Stay safe,
Kit