Like many readers, I was sad to hear of the death of the poet and novelist Helen Dunmore this summer. I was a huge fan, ever since in the very first book group I ever belonged to, I was introduced to her beautiful first novel Zennor in Darkness. Her descriptions, in particular, are utterly captivating - her ability to paint a picture so physical you can almost touch it quite remarkable.

Over the years I have read a number of her books, but not all of them. I dimly remember being mildly disappointed by one, a decade or so ago. (Almost certainly this was more about me than the quality of the novel. Sometimes a book disappoints at a particular moment for no reason other than it not being the right choice at the time.)  

But this summer I picked up the remarkable Counting the Stars which is all about the Roman poet Catullus. I happened upon it in a charity shop; and the sheer pleasure of reading it reminded me what I was missing by allowing her work to fall off my radar. I quickly followed it with Mourning Ruby and Exposure.

The last of the three was probably my favourite. Helen Dunmore wrote with such skill, such panache that her work leaves the reader breathless (and the author green with jealousy). At one level, her novels have a silky smooth surface, they are so readable. Yet it would be wrong to think that there is anything superficial going on. Scratch the surface and you find a tightly wrought plot, immaculate historical research, and complex characters who linger long after you've reached the end of the story.

RIP Helen Dunmore. You will be much missed by your legions of admirers.

Above all else, I read fiction. I’m always (unreasonably) surprised when people tell me they never pick up a novel. A colleague said as much only yesterday. (This may of course have been a polite excuse for not having read my novel, but I think he genuinely was telling me that his idea of a restful read is academic Theology. He takes hefty tomes on holiday. No accounting for taste…)

From time to time, though, I read memoirs, mainly because I am sent them to review or because I am writing a feature about someone with a story to tell. Two memoirs I’ve really enjoyed this summer are Blue by John Sutherland and Priestdaddy by Patricia Lockwood.

Blue is a beautiful book. It’s about many things, but first and foremost it’s about a senior policeman’s breakdown. John Sutherland was flying high in the Metropolitan Police when he suffered a dramatic collapse. He writes extremely movingly about his mental health – and includes the best description of depression I have ever encountered. But it’s also a love letter to the Police. It’s not just the job John happened to do, but his vocation.

He’s absolutely passionate about policing, while clear eyed and honest about its shortcomings. It’s too easy to make lazy assumptions, judgement even, about professions you know little about. This book offers a real insight. And John was utterly charming, too. Reflective, honest and self-deprecating. You can read the interview here.
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I read the book for its story – I had a commission, after all – but it stuck in my mind because it is so beautifully written, and profound. If you enjoyed Henry Marsh’s hugely popular book, Do No Harm, about being a neurosurgeon, you’ll enjoy Blue.

Priestdaddy is something else entirely. I’ve reviewed this for the Church Times but since my review hasn’t been published yet, I won’t say too much. For now, I’ll just say it’s a bit of a one-off. An American poet writes about her extraordinary upbringing. Her father is a Roman Catholic priest and a father of five. She writes with extraordinary beauty and brio. I thought it tailed off a bit towards the end, but it’s a roller-coaster read, which I thoroughly enjoyed and recommend.

A new day dawns... I have given up the day job. There are a number of reasons for this, the main one being that I think I've completed the job I went there to do. Time for someone new, with fresh ideas to come on board... and time for me to move to something new. 

When I told people I was leaving, their first question was nearly always, "Where are you going?" When I reply, "I'm not sure," the reaction varies from surprise to bewilderment, from discomfort to congratulations.

I suppose it is unusual, to leave a job without another to go to. (And no, I'm not retiring...). Trust me, I appreciate I'm very lucky indeed to be able to make this choice. I guess I've been planning for it for some time, and squirreling away some savings to allow me the cushion to do this.

I really don't know what comes next. But I'm starting with some time out - and one or two new adventures to test the waters. And I'm going to work hard on writing the next book, which is planned out but has a way to go yet. 

Occasionally, it's a bit daunting, not knowing where I'm going next. But mostly, I'm incredibly excited, and really looking forward to finding out what's round the corner...

One of things I've had to get used to is people's responses to my work. 

Don't get me wrong: I'm delighted anyone is reading my book, let alone sharing their comments and thoughts. I've had some lovely, encouraging emails and conversations and cards. Sometimes it's people you know, but  increasingly I'm hearing from complete strangers. Sometimes they are anonymous. Here's an example.  How can I not be encouraged?

But it's an odd feeling that 'my' book is out there, being read and assessed by other people. Obvious, you might think; why write a book if you don't want anyone to read it? And that's spot on, of course. I think what I hadn't quite appreciated, though, is how much readers bring of themselves to any work of fiction. Again, that's hardly a startling insight, but it's been brought home to me very clearly by the things people have said to me. 

Sometimes that's direct: "It reminded me of when..." More often, though, it's about the set of assumptions we all bring to our reading. "What's the message of your book?" asks someone. Hmm. I'm not sure; I didn't write it with a message in mind. I wrote it out of a compulsion to tell a particular story. Should I have done? Should all fiction have a deep moral purpose? The trouble is, I think that I might find that paralysing: the idea that as well as all the other things that you are trying to hold together when you are writing (characterisation, plot, pace, tension, dialogue...) you should be producing something with a message... Of course it would be wonderful to feel my work offered something of value or depth - but does it necessarily need to be improving?

Another surprise is how much people seem to assume a novel is autobiographical. Of course, of course you draw on your own experience. But it would be pretty dull, surely, if you just rehashed bits of your life? Well, I'm not sure my life has been that fascinating anyway, to anyone else but me. "If it hasn't happened to you, how do you know about x, then?" I was asked recently. I confess I was taken aback. The answer, I suppose, is research and a bit of imagination. Is it such a great secret that a writer of fiction makes stuff up? 

I don't say any of this in criticism of my readers, to whom I am enormously grateful. But I have found I have learned a lot about reading, and about the process of writing, through the discussions that I've had. I'm off to a friend's book group next week. They sound a diverse and interesting group of people, only one of whom I know. I'm nervous... what if they hated it? if they eat me alive? Fingers crossed...