Today, I have the honour of speaking at a Race for Life event and, more importantly, taking part.

So I suppose it’s no surprise that I’m thinking about cancer – and the glorious absence of it from my slightly-the-worse-for-wear breasts – more than I would on your average Thursday.

The last almost-five years have shown me what a lot I’ve had to do in the world; what a lot would have gone unaccomplished if I hadn’t been treated when I was. And by that I don’t mean that the world should be grateful that I was here; I’m not talking about me blogging and talking and writing books and all that. (That has been important work for me, but it’s a workload shared by many who have danced with cancer, and if I hadn’t been here to do my bit, I know that someone else would have taken up the slack.)

The things that I’ve accomplished are more mundane and more meaningful. The daughtering, the mothering, the being half of a marriage, for starters. A lot has happened in our family these last few years, and I’m glad I’ve been here to be useful; and I’m glad too that cancer taught me how to ask for support, and be supported, when I’ve needed to be. As my children have grown up, they’ve challenged me to be a different sort of mother, and that learning has added such a lot to my life. Alan and I will celebrate ten years of marriage this year – and oh, how we’ll celebrate this blissful, strong centre of our worlds. I’ve loved godmothering, this half decade: I’ve loved growing the relationships that I hope will stand strong and helpful to my godchildren for a long time. I love being the other person who is unquestioningly there, at the moment for general hanging-out, colouring-in and doing-stuff, but I’m also aware that I’m laying the foundations for – well, for who knows what, and that’s the point. I feel as though my friendships are better and stronger. And, in the end, when I do go – whether carried off by cancer, or old age, or a freak accident (which is one of the many reasons to always be wearing good underwear) – it will be the relationships in my life that I’ll be most grateful for, and most glad of.

So this evening, as my beautiful daughter and I walk 5km round Northumberlandia, I’ll have a grateful and glad heart, because I’m here, because I’ve been able to have these years and more, because the prognosis for those of us dancing with cancer keeps on getting better and better. And I’ll also be holding in my heart those people who have lost, are losing, people that they love to this wretched disease.

I’ll post pictures of our Race for Life tomorrow. In the meantime, if you’d like to sponsor Joy and I, please click here.

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So anything broken, ruined or wrecked is a place rich with ideas.

Take this building, by the river near where my parents live. Whenever I walk past it I get to wondering: who was the last person who lived here? When did the first tile fall? What happened here, when this was a working building?

But I know I’ll never write a historical novel – I don’t have the kind of attention to detail required, which would mean that any historical effort by me would include terrible errors such as allowing serving girls to pick bluebells, when in fact the lower classes weren’t allowed to look at flowers until 1879, or having someone say ‘pumpkin’ when the letter ‘p’ wan’t invented until 1904. (Or something.)

So I think about other things when I walk past this place. Who uses it now? Who might sleep rough here, kiss here, argue here? What wildlife lives here, and who might study it? Who dreams of what the place could be? If someone bought it, what would they hope to restore in their own lives by restoring this building?

And sometimes I see what this place could be. A gallery, a home, a retreat. And that opens up another world of possible people, and situations, and broken things that need to be fixed.

Anyway. I digress. I was listening to ‘The Food Programme’, which I don’t usually, because I was nearly at a corner, and it’s a lot easier to stop at a corner than it is to stop mid-side. And I was really glad that I did, because the programme was a genuinely interesting and insightful exploration about the relationship between cancer, food, treatment and wellbeing. Please listen if you can. The ‘listen again’ link is here. I’m aware that BBC iPlayer doesn’t work abroad, but for those of you who live outside the UK, you can listen live to the repeat at 3.30 GMT today, live, via the BBC website here. There’s a very interesting oncologist statistic at the end.

Here I am with my handsome husband.

Here is my dress in all of its glory.

The best thing about wearing it was that I forgot I was wearing it at all. I’m sure I’m not the only woman who’s bought a dress for a person she isn’t; and so spends an evening being worn by a dress, looking uncomfortable and feeling squashed. But this jli Kurdi was right there with me, coming along for the ride, reconnecting with old friends, and being very proud of my lovely husband.

I think this may be the first of several jli Kurdi…..

So it was lovely to get a box from Germany through the post.

With six Actual Physical Books in it!

I danced. I fizzed. I squeaked. I called my agent and fizzed and squeaked at him.

Although I can’t read German, when I looked at the dedication, I had a tear in my eye.

‘For my grandmothers, Isabel and Ursula, who always knew I was a writer’.

I’m happy and proud. And I’ll take a look at this every time I feel adrift in this waiting time.

Meanwhile, if there are any German readers out there who would like a copy, please get in touch. I’d love to send one to you – the thrill of writing is to send words out into the world.

So, on the grounds that something is better than nothing, let me show you some photographs, chosen because I like them and they mean something, and, as my mother says, we’ll make that do.

This lady, who speaks no English, and I, who speaks no Kurdish, have a great affection for each other.

Mountains!

The place where I bought clove necklaces to hang in wardrobes and yarn stashes to keep the beasties away. The man was very smiley in real life. I think this is his camera face.

My beautiful, amazing friend Sazan standing next to the ACTUAL rope of dried *makes note to put in name of thing when she remembers* that now hangs in my kitchen, waiting for me to remember what it’s called so I can find recipes for it.

Dolma. Beautiful dolma. Made for me by the wife of one of the people I was working with, because (I’m sure) they all got absolutely fed up of me banging on about how much I love the stuff. It’s vegetables stuffed with rice and lamb, beautifully spiced, and cooked for a looooong time…… it’s amazing.

Me and a man. I have no idea who he is. I insisted that he have his photograph taken with me for two reasons. (1) So many strangers asked to have a photo with me – because I am so English-looking, and therefore considered lucky – that it seemed like the norm. (2) I was buying the scarf that I’m holding when the man, without a word of English or a hint of creepiness, insisted that I put my money away and paid for it for me. This, and the dolma, are typical of my experience of Kurdistan: a generous, kind-hearted, welcoming place.

Guess what? I’m going back….

And tonight, Alan and I will be at a black tie do in London and I will be giving my jli Kurdi its first airing. Pictures to follow….

My usual answer to WDYGYIF is something like, ‘well, I just see things, hear things, and sort of store them away and then use them as starting points’. I know this isn’t a very satisfactory answer. It’s a bit woolly, a bit meh, the sort of answer that the questioner could probably assume, which is not what you want when you have and Actual Writer in front of you.

So, I thought I’d give some specific examples. Here’s the first.

On my last trip to Kurdistan, there was a brand new towel waiting for me in the apartment I was staying in. I knew it was brand new, because it still had the label on it. Like many writers, I am a compulsive reader – I could probably recite the label of a bottle of Toilet Duck – so I took a look at the label before I put it in the bin.

And it didn’t go in the bin. It went into my jewellery box, and it came home with me, and now it’s sitting in the studio waiting for the next book. Because Karen Peacock is not, for me, the name of a rather loudly pink-and-flowery bath towel. Karen Peacock is the name of a classroom assistant, a hard-working, slightly-disappointed-by-life woman who hears a lot and says little and likes making greetings cards in her spare time. Karen Peacock is short and plump and almost pretty, although she doesn’t take a lot of care of her appearance, because no-one else in her world seems to see her. Karen Peacock wanted to be a teacher, but couldn’t find the money or the courage for university. Karen Peacock is really important, in the new novel.

And now, when you meet Karen Peacock – who may, by the time she’s ink-and-paper, have changed beyond all recognition from the description above – you’ll know where she began. On a towel on a bed in an apartment in Kurdistan. Which might make for the basis of another story, in itself.

Because I’ve been in the studio, with this.

And I’ve been doing my bit – going through the copy-editor’s notes, changes and suggestions, and agreeing with them (mostly), or adding to them, or deciding that things should stay as they are.

It’s interesting, and involving – not to say useful, as soon I’ll be going through ‘Breaking Bread’ again, with my editor’s suggestions to hand, and it’s useful to be reminded of all the things I always think I’ll remember but I don’t, and will come in handy for the BB work to come. (There’s a character who has separate trimmers for his nose and ear hair, for example, and I noted the colour preferences of someone else who’ll be reappearing in book 3.)

I’m really happy that, with this copy-edit, ‘Surrounded By Water’ has got better, again. And it’s very little to do with anything I have done. Apart from being prepared to accept that I don’t know how to spell A Levels, and understand that sometimes I haven’t got what was on my head onto the page clearly enough, and need a bit of help. I love that there are people in the world who have the attention to detail that I lack, to point out that you can’t go for a late afternoon drive in mid January in England and expect to enjoy the view, and that even the earliest of early roses won’t be out in April, and I’d do better with daffodils. These things really matter when you’re a reader: I am spectacularly annoyed when a character in a book I’m reading does something I know isn’t right, like icing a cake as soon as it comes out of the oven, or leaving a risotto to cook while s/he does something else.

I’m gratified that the copy-editor said how much she enjoyed the book: I checked with my agent, and they are absolutely not expected or obliged to say that sort of thing.

So. One more step along the world my first novel goes. I’m excited and glad and proud, all the more so because on the first of June – less than three weeks away – the German language edition will be published.* Yes, actual people will be reading my first novel. (And, oddly, I won’t be able to, as my German is useful for ordering beer, wine and sandwiches only.) I have butterflies at just the thought of it.

I haven’t forgotten about all the blog posts that I owe you, and all the things I want to tell you, and all the photographs I want to show you. But for now, I’m heading back down the garden to go through another twenty pages and still be unable to believe my luck: that my dream is coming true, right here, in this paper under my fingers and the words that are unwinding the story that I made, and my editor and copy-editor and all of the other people who have had a hand in this book made better.

See you soon!

*It’s only out in Germany first because the German language publisher bought it first.

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I may even persuade Alan to put a pink flower in his hat again, as he did in 2010 (I think it was 2010).

Well, entries for the Nortumberlandia Race For Life close TODAY, my friends, so follow the link in this article and come and join me, my lovely daughter, and Beloved Auntie Susan as we walk 5k around the lumps and bumps of Our Lady of The North.

And, if you can’t make it but would like to support us, please sponsor us here.