Someone asked me recently if my own experiences filter into my books.
Well here is the bit I'm currently editing. I'll let you make your own decision.
I wake up in darkness. The bedside clock says 4am. It’s too early to get up and possibly too close to morning to be able to get easily back to sleep. I lie on my back and look at the ceiling.
It’s completely flat, unlike the ceiling of the bedroom I had before, which was actually a loft conversion. Our old house had five bedrooms, four on the first floor and mine in the loft.
Dad used to call it my Penthouse Suite. I loved that room. The bedroom I’d had before the loft was converted was nice enough, but nothing compared to the space and views over the neighborhood offered by the newest room at the top of the house.
The room had originally been intended as a study for Dad but it was far too big for that. Then it was suggested that it could be a family room, but the narrow staircase and the fact that it was two full flights of stairs from the kitchen, made that idea rather an impracticality. Besides, once I’d seen it, I’d set my heart on having it as a bedroom.
I miss the contours of that ceiling, the way the shadows would collect in some corners, changing the play of the sunlight through the windows, making the walls look lighter or darker in some places than others…
Shadow – the word brings with it a physical pain. Shadow is missing from my life now and always will be. I wish now that he’d had any other name than that – wish that he hadn’t had a name that will crop up in innocent conversations and inner ramblings and take me unawares all over again. Time and time again.
It’s the hurt that keeps on giving.
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