Joan Edwards

I’ve written a good deal over the years, on many subjects, but this blog post is beyond any doubt the saddest thing I’ve ever written, for my mother has died. She was 93 years old, and until the last stages had thoroughly enjoyed what she always recognised (and this awareness was a gift, one of the many examples of her wisdom) was a wonderful and very happy life. She was a teacher who believed that teachers should have a love of children, and a remarkable number of her pupils, some of whom are now long retired themselves, stayed in touch with her, a tribute to her kindness and friendliness. She delighted in people, and they delighted in her. My cousin described her recently as ‘invincible’, and I thought she was too, but in the end, nobody is invincible.

In the last real conversation we had before sickness took hold, at the end of November, she gleefully told me she was planning to re-read all my books, and had nearly reached the end of my first, All the Lonely People. This was absolutely typical, and I owe her more than I can ever describe. She was the person who first read to me, and was responsible for my love of stories. It was even her idea to introduce me to Agatha Christie. Of course, she was thrilled when I achieved my childhood dream of becoming a published writer – this prompted her to write a couple of very good short stories herself, but she never sought publication. Her love for me was absolute and unconditional, and I always wanted to be worthy of it.

The photos are the last I have of her – taken on Mother’s Day last year, when she was still quite well. I have a stock of pre-prepared blog posts to cover for unexpected emergencies, but I’m not tempted to post them in the present circumstances. So this blog will fall silent until next week-end.

I will start posting again then, because during the last disheartening months, the pleasurable experience of connecting with readers and fellow bloggers really has helped to keep me going at a time when for the first time in my life, I found it almost impossible to write fiction. Can I just say how much I appreciate the kindness that so many people, most of whom I’ve never met, have shown me via the blogosphere?

I have never wanted this blog to be about my personal life, and it isn’t going to change focus now, or become self-indulgent. Having explained why the blog will be quiet for a few days, I’m not intending to say much more about what has happened. This is a blog about crime writing and crime fiction, including but not limited to my own efforts. One of the things I like most about fiction, and writing, is the chance of escapism, and in the weeks ahead, a bit of escapism is what I seek.