Basket of Rain

My mother-in-law, Ma, used to call me her librarian because I used to arrive at her residential home with bundles of books which I bought at jumble sales and charity shops.  An ambition was born - that one day I would walk in and present her with a book by Moya Goatley.  My book had already been years in the writing, something I did at odd moments when I wasn't juggling the other elements of my life.  It filled my mind on every car, plane, train, boat trip I ever took, planning, working out dialogue - and yes, dreaming.

Ma grew older, more deaf, more feeble, less able to see, less able to concentrate.  "I'd better hurry" I thought "or I shall be too late".  I finished the book and realised that if my ambition was to be fulfilled I just couldn't leave it to chance.  Already I had done what I had set out to do.  I had finally written the most beautiful words in the english language THE END.  If somebody read it that would be a bonus.  If anybody read it it should be Ma.

I found an editor, self-published, chose a print size suitable for elderly eyesight, a bright dust-cover to cheer a book shelf and with mounting excitement presented Basket of Rain to Ma.

I was too late.  She had read her last book.  She looked at it, noted that Emily (her name) Publications had been chosen as the publisher's name, read the dedication, read the last page, commented on the print, admired the cover and placed it on her dressing table.

"I'll get down to that later" she said.  She never did but she loved it as an object, showing it proudly to her visitors. "My daughter-in-law wrote that" she'd say "It's very good".

It is doing quite well in libraries - this year I got a cheque from the Public Lending Right - and selling in a steady trickle.  The next time I'll try the established route but for now I'm happy that I gave myself the experience.

It also saves on embarrassment.  Never more do I have to face that awful question "Did you ever finish that book you were writing"?