Some of the stories were so hilarious and outrageous, I couldn’t include them in the book. The people I met were kind, down-to-earth, and quick to tell a joke. The hospices I met were full of light and laughter and life. Supposing I should see something I didn’t want to? (Dying.) Supposing I should make an idiot of myself and cry? Visits were arranged and yes, I will be frank with you, I felt nervous all over again. I couldn’t wait to get away.) So one of the first things I did was to write to hospices and people involved in working in them. (Yellow walls, yellow skin, yellow eyes, yellow toast. My only experience of them had been visiting my grandmother in a convalescent home when I was a teenager and my memory of it was entirely yellow. Even though my father died of a cancer very similar to Queenie’s, he had never been in a hospice. Part of writing for me is finding the link between what I know and what I don’t. I would even match Harold’s motley collection of followers with some for Queenie. When his was good, Queenie’s belief in him would feel equally sure. When Harold had a bad day, Queenie would have one too. Her journey – one of waiting – would mirror his, one of walking. How do you write a life-affirming book about a woman dying in a hospice? And how do you write dialogue when you’ve already made it clear she has no use of her voice? I decided to write the book as a direct parallel to Harold’s. Since I had not planned to write her story when I wrote Harold’s, I hadn’t made things easy for myself.
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