TenthAnniversaryEdition
IntroductionfromtheAuthor
TENYEARS;OR,TIMECAPSULES,TAPESTRIESANDTHE
ARTOFLEARNINGTOLETGO
June2017markstenyearssincemyfirstbook,TheHouseatRiverton,was
published.I’dalreadyfinishedtwomanuscriptswhenIbeganwritingit,but
TheHouseatRivertonfeltdifferentfromthestart.I’dgivenuponpublication
bythenandwrotewithnoexpectations,ignoringquestionsofgenreand
markets.Ialsowrotewithasmallbaby–myfirst–onmyhip.Literally,at
times.Iwrotefortheloveofstory-tellingandwordplay,andthejoyof
escapingintomyownimaginaryworld.
I’velearnedoverthepastdecadethatnovelsaretimecapsulesoftheir
author’slife.Theycan’thelpbutbe,forwritingisoneofthewaysinwhich
anauthorprocessestheworld.Itusedtotroubleme,thisideathatabook
wouldbedifferentdependingontheyearinwhichitwaswritten.Booksare
suchsolid,certainthings,withfirmcoversandprintedtextandbold,clear
titles.Theycanbequotedfrom,theirpagesreferenced.Theyhaveauthority
andcertaintyandfixity.Butstoriesarenoneofthesethings.They’reliving
creatures,withorganic,shiftingforms.Theyshimmerinthelightandthen
disappearjustasquicklyintodarkness;theyevadecapturelikefishinadeep,
coolstream.
Thismutabilitydisturbedmeatfirst.Asareader,Iwasaccustomedto
devouringfinishednovels,andnow,findingmyselfintheMiddleofThings,
abletochoosewhathappenednextandtowhom,todecidehowaneventwas
described,orwhetherperhapsitwasbetterthatithappenedoffstage,was
liberating.Butitwasalsodisquieting.IfsomethingIsawwhileIwas
wanderingthroughthePaddingtonAntiquesCentrewithmymumtriggereda
thoughtthatgavemeanideaforsomethingmycharactermightsayinthe
sceneIwaswriting,Ifeltglad.ButIwasalsovaguelysuspicious.Itall
seemedsoarbitrary.HowcouldItrustthattheideaI’dhadthatdaywasthe
rightone?Whatifitwasn’t?WhatifI’dhavehadadifferent–better–idea
hadIspentthedayathomeinstead?WhatifIaccidentallyfollowedthe
wrongtangentandtookmystoryinadirectioncontrarytoTheOneitwas
meanttofollow?