One of the oddest aspects of being a writer is how fleeting my connection to my own work can be
One of the oddest aspects of being a writer is how fleeting my connection to my own work can be. Once a book is published, the intimate details I laboured over often fade from memory within months.
Readers ask me about characters or plot points, and I find myself at a loss. At the launch of Dancing for an Angel, a young boy asked me the main character’s mother’s name. I blanked. It wasn’t until minutes later that I remembered: Jacinta.
This phenomenon isn’t limited to minor details. If I were tasked with rewriting a lost manuscript, I doubt I could. Writing, for me, feels tied to the moment of creation. The ideas, the language, the mood—all are stamped with a time-sensitive creativity that cannot be resurrected.
And yet, this forgetfulness doesn’t diminish the joy of storytelling. In fact, it’s a reminder that writing is a dynamic, living process. What matters is the connection the story makes with readers, not my ability to recall every detail. The stories live on, even if my memory of them doesn’t.
