Like most of us, I’m guessing, my diary is pretty empty these days. Even counting the Zoom meetings, drinks and quizzes BUT… I’ve taken a huge leap of faith and got myself a new diary which begins at the end of June.

empty page
Who knows what will be happening then? And to cheer me up, I bypassed my normal black to go for a splash of colour because, let’s be honest, every little bit of excitement helps right now. I can’t be the only one.

orange diary

So here’s a little diary poem for you.

An empty day

It’s hard to remember the excitement
of having only those few free hours,
reading with only a neighbour’s cat
padding into the garden to break
my concentration, sleeping in the sun,
news headlines muted as a blackbird
sang somewhere at a safe distance –
not knowing then the fear of losing
myself somewhere in lockdown,
to think I once called that empty.

*Just one word rhymes with orange apparently. And that, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, is “sporange,” an uncommon botanical term for a part of a fern.


Thank you for so many kind comments after my post about spending time in hospital as a result of Covid-19. I’m so grateful that it proved useful to so many people, and as well as the things suggested in that last post, I hope this second  post answers some of the many questions I’ve had from people worried about being admitted themselves, or for their relatives. And that some of these links might help you – they seem quite trivial but sometimes the little things make all the difference because they are what we can actually control. And just as reassurance, I’m on the mend now. Here I am outside in my garden yesterday:



Yes, I could take my phone with me. I’m not sure if this is the rule for all hospitals now, but it was a definite comfort blanket because it was a way of keeping in touch with home as I obviously had no visitors. Luckily one of the paramedics who took me to hospital told me to take my charger, otherwise I wouldn’t have thought about it. Looking back, it feels almost funny that I took my phone charger but not my toothbrush or anything useful. However, the hospital provided me with a plastic toothbrush and sachets of toothpaste, shower gel and shampoo. I didn’t brush my hair for the whole time I was there but I don’t think anyone cared. I certainly didn’t.


I have had so many questions about breathing and I keep having to repeat that I’m not an expert – what’s true is that when you are in this situation, suddenly everything you take for granted somehow feels more difficult. Now I’m recovering I’m finding this youtube video by a Qigong teacher called Peter Deadman so helpful – I can’t remember who passed it on to me, but thank you.


There wasn’t much nature around in my hospital room funnily enough. But I started to hunger for it, so I listened to birdsong recordings and watched bird videos again and again. There are lots out there, but these two were ones I found and which really helped me.

  1. The different birdsongs from the British Library website here.
  2. And this one was just lovely and long so I didn’t have to keep pressing anything  – here 



Feeling grateful at this time felt so counter-intuitive but I know how important it can be from my work in writing and wellbeing. So when I was ready – and I did have to work through resistance! – I made gratitude lists in my head. Small things at first then bigger and bigger then in no order at all – the jug of water by my bed, the oxygen I was on, the nursing staff who were keeping me on track, the scientists who invented all the machines I was plugged into, the person who had thought of painting on of the walls bright green, having nurses and doctors from the Phillipines, Kerala, all over the world – even one from the same street as me… I can’t tell you how much it helped.



Another thing that kept me going was singing to myself. Now, I’m not a singer, perhaps this was an advantage of being in isolation, but I would recommend knowing the words to a song or hopefully two. You can even pick something a little more sophisticated than mine which ended up being Wind the Bobbin Up! This was partly because I’d received this beautiful video of my little grandson listening to his uncle Joe play it to him just before I went in. I sang it again and again, using all the gestures – even pointing to the window and the door, the ceiling and the floor. There was definitely something about the containment of getting to the end of a song, and also the rhythm that was so soothing. I’m not sure if I can listen to it again for a little while though.



And lastly, I’ve been interested in how my point about being careful about the messages you send has resonated with so many others who’ve similarly spent time in hospital. I want to make clear that I did love getting messages, I just didn’t have the energy to respond, or even actually read them especially if they were long. The ones I particularly loved were simple photographs of friends and family having a nice time – although many people said they were worried afterwards that might make me feel bad. But I wanted signs that life was going on out there. I wanted trees, funny dogs, babies, flowers, the sea and I particularly yearned for people smiling. All the things that weren’t really happening in my room at the time.


So, don’t be like Sarah – take your toothbrush and hairbrush as well as your charger. Breathe lots. Learn some songs. Listen to birds outside while you can as well as recordings. And don’t judge yourself. We’re all doing the best we can, and if you want to watch nearly all of Love is Blind, well, at least you know that you are not alone.

love is blind


But mostly, of course, I really hope that none of this is needed for you. As everybody keeps saying, stay at home and wash your hands. And know how lucky we all are that we have such wonderful doctors, nurses, nursing staff and support staff in the NHS ready to help us if the worst happens. As well as our delivery drivers, our supermarket staff, our pharmacists, our police, our warehouse workers, and all the other really important people who are keeping us going right now.







This isn’t a post I’d ever want to write, but it’s also a post I’m delighted to write. Because I’m now home from hospital after recovering from serious virus-related pneumonia. I’d been ill for a week beforehand so had – luckily – been in isolation, I’d felt I was recovering but then started coughing non-stop, became breathless and eventually dialled 111 who sent paramedics.

I’ve been trying to work out how I can usefully share this information with everyone – I certainly don’t need sympathy now. Yes, it was one of the most scariest, loneliest and grim experiences I’ve ever had, but I’m one of the lucky ones. SO LUCKY.

However, there are things I learnt which I can share – so please do feel free to ask any questions you may have. I know there’s a difference between reading cold information and talking to someone who has been through it so I’m happy to talk if I can, although it  does feels important to say that this virus affects people in completely different ways. There’s not one answer to anything, but I’ll be happy to share my personal experience if it might help you. So here’s some of the things I learnt or was told…

  1. When you’re coughing, sit up if you can. Yes, it’s exhausting, and I just wanted to lie down and wait until it’s over, but as soon as I was told by a clever nurse to sit up, I could feel it was the right thing to do. I’m sure there’s science here if anyone wants to share, but one thing was that it allows phlegm to form which is better for your lungs.
  2. Drink water, water, water. A raging thirst was one of my symptoms but it’s also essential to get better.
  3. Have Vitamin C, as much as you can healthily stuff down you. I’ve developed an obsession with oranges.
  4. Do as many breathing exercises as you can bear. I love my yoga so I thought I’d be fine here, but the breathing it seemed I needed to do was through the mouth (now counter-intuitive to me) and out through pursed lips. One of the things I learnt is that breathing is everything. Everything.

And if you have a friend or relative going through this, here’s what you can do.

  1. Be careful with the messages you send. I was getting many concerned messages from friends and relatives that I just didn’t have any energy to deal with.  The truth was that I was concentrating on my own journey, rather than wanting to reassure others, so I either ignored them – sorry! – or sent a quick xx. The irony is that I loved reading most of them, often again and again, but I couldn’t manage answering SO be aware of this. Don’t overwhelm with your concerns, however well-meaning, but – if this is a close friend – do stay in touch. Just a picture of a tree, a dog or a sunset was magic, together with a quick line to say I was being thought of, no need to reply. One dear friend whatsapped at 3am to say she was awake and if I was, then she wanted me to know I wasn’t alone – that helped more than I can probably ever manage to tell her. MAKE IT CLEAR YOU DON’T EXPECT HEALTH UPDATES OR REPLIES, and if this isn’t a close friend or relative, then wait until they come out of hospital. Harsh of me, but I didn’t have the space to become part of someone else’s drama.
  2. Don’t expect them to bounce back. I’ve been home three days now and can only just manage walking up and down stairs without needing to rest. I might even think about reading a book soon – I certainly couldn’t have written this before. Recovery is a disappointingly long journey.
  3. Let them talk about what they’ve been through if they want. You’re all alone in the hospital room for what seems forever. Things go round and round in your mind, not all good. I’m very aware that there’s a temptation sometimes to want to draw a line under an experience like that, there are narratives we want to hear and those we don’t. I’m lucky. I have a partner and friends who have let me tell them exactly how scared I was, without wanting to immediately turn it into a ‘well, thank goodness you’re OK now’ story. Yes, I am OK, but all the dark stuff is somewhere inside now too.
  4. You don’t beat Corona. This isn’t a war story – you can’t be plucky and brave and fight it off. I might have thought this once, but I know now that I’ve lost my confidence in my own strength. I hope it comes back eventually, but the truth is that once the virus gets you – and it doesn’t seem to discriminate – then you just have to wait it out. Some people will have mild symptoms, others more ferocious. Never make someone feel as if they should have done more not to get it. BUT ALSO STAY HOME. This is serious.

AND LASTLY, oh God the NHS. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. Those nurses and nursing staff at Pembury Hospital were amazing. I could tell exactly how scared they were to come into my room – I was a danger to them after all – but they still did. Every time. With kindness and compassion and professionalism. I will never stop being grateful to them. When this is all over, let’s not forget who it is exactly that we can’t live without.


Well, what strange times we are in. And although I’m one for seeing the silver lining wherever I can, I’m struggling at the moment. Small kindnesses, for sure. I do like your hat…


So it’s good to see some of the creative responses that are happening. Kathy Fish and Nancy Stohlman, for example, are offering free creative writing prompts here, and writer Carolyn Jess-Cooke is planning an online literary festival via twitter.

My friend, Sally Beazley-Long and I have paired up to play a little game using her art history expertise and my literary passion. I’ve been giving her poems and stories to match with paintings, and vice versa. We thought it would just be fun, but the results have been wonderful. A whole new layer to both the painting and the poem. Here are some:

For Cindy Sherman’s Untitled Film Still…


I matched Dorothy Parker’s short story, A Telephone Call.

And for William Stafford’s A Ritual to Read to Each Other, Sally gave me Marc Chagall’s Le Champ de Mars, 1955…


We paired Ellen Bass’s Eating the Bones with Jan Steen’s The Fat Kitchen. OF COURSE WE DID!

Steen, Jan, 1625/1626-1679; The Fat Kitchen

There are more that we’ll share over the next few weeks, but it’s such a lovely way of looking a bit closer than we might otherwise at both the poems and stories AND the paintings.

These are seeds that can only grow. And tomorrow I’m going to be planting real seeds out in the garden. Even in the rain, actually especially if it rains!




Bloody poets, sometimes they say exactly the things you need to hear. Take this line from Rumi – “If you are irritated by every rub, how will you be polished?”

Life’s a bit ‘exciting’ at the moment, with colds, infections, bad tempers … and that’s just me. Let’s not talk about A&E visits, house moves I can’t be there to help with, work weeks away and then there are the excitements ahead of being a granny etc etc etc. So when I woke up AGAIN feeling both busy and poorly, I was tempted to put off doing something poetic this morning, even if it was for the loveliest of things – the launch of  the Samsara Retreat and Yoga centre in Kent.


That’s when that Rumi quote above flew out of a book I’d picked up and hit me. But not only was there the chance to be polished, there needed also to be time spent thinking what I want to do. So I took a cup of tea into a quiet spot and thought – what DID I want to do.


So I got into my car and drove to Samsara, and set up a poetry tree so people could enjoy the poems I’d already selected for them, even if I couldn’t stay. And on my way there, the sun started shining, I found lanes I hadn’t driven down before, saw lambs, and apple trees in blossom, and when I got to the beautiful beautiful retreat centre Lorraine and Dipu have created so generously, I felt so lucky to be even a small part involved.


Bloody poets. Bloody lessons. But look how gorgeous these poems look on the tree. New leaves, every one of them.

And yes, Rumi was one of them. And yes, this was the poem…

The Guest House
(Translated by Coleman Barks)

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.


It was a real privilege to be allowed to stand on that famed circle of red carpet last weekend as part of TedX Royal Tunbridge Wells. ‘One for the bucket list’, a friend commented and indeed it was. Friends who know me well will know that this was a BIG THING for me, getting up on a stage and talking (let alone to over 1,000 people). But if I did it, then so can you. So if you’re ever tempted to do something like this here are some of the things I learnt and that helped me prepare, and which might help you too …

1. Do have an idea that you really do want to share. I don’t think anyone should want just to do a public presentation, they should need to share something, and it can be anything – we heard about flesh eating parasites, the power of climbing trees, and the importance of bearing witness to grief. However each of the talks had a point to them, they weren’t just a meditation on a subject.  Thinking hard about the one thing I wanted people to do as a result of hearing me speak – to realise that the words we use everyday can have an impact – really helped me prepare. To be honest, my first draft was just a lecture about dictionaries.

2. Read a book. YAY! Who even needs an excuse?  The two how-to books I found particularly helpful were Viv Groskop’s book How to Own the Room and Caroline Goyder’s Gravitas. There’s also the ‘bible’ – Chris Anderson’s TED talks.

3. Do voice exercises as part of early preparation.  I’m used to reading my work on stage but even so, I always find that my breath goes higher and higher up my body when I get nervous so I end up squeaking even more than usual. What worked for me most was when my actor friend, Michael Shaeffer, suggested I concentrated on the consonants rather than the whole words. Amazingly something as simple as this helped stop my words running into each other AND made me feel more purposeful. It’s so strange how it works, almost as if Michael knows what he’s talking about. We also practiced reading in different accents, the more ridiculous the better. Laughing took away some (not all) of the panic because it felt playful, and this playfulness helped to give me back my voice.

4. Edit, edit, edit so your script is easy to understand. One of the useful points made in Gravitas is to make sure you know exactly how your points link to each other. I’m used to writing for the page so I found I twisted and turned all over the place in my first draft, coming back to certain points again, digressing into others. That’s OK on the page because people can refer back to the paragraph before, but not when it’s being spoken. And when I found myself freezing, it was always when there wasn’t that clear link between one point and the next. I also took away several of the million points I felt I absolutely had to make and guess what – I didn’t miss them.

5. Make the language fluid, and fluent. Reading it out aloud (not just in my head) was the best editor I could have had. I kept asking myself, could I make this easier for myself to read? And every time, I could. I wasn’t quite at ‘unaccustomed as I am to…’ levels but my early drafts did get perilously close to a sermon written by the most pompous vicar you’ve ever heard.

6. Use all the resources available. I was so lucky because the whole team behind Tedx RTW are AMAZING. Just knowing I could call on them was such a comfort, so if you’re doing a talk, then make the most of what the organisers of the event are offering. They are the professionals, they know exactly what they’re doing – and when to do it!


7. Respect your audience. Imagining the audience naked or on the loo doesn’t work for me BUT thinking that every seat was occupied by someone who wanted me to do well was a great help. I think there’s a temptation, especially when you’re nervous, to imagine you are about to enter a gladiator ring with the audience baying for blood (!) so instead I concentrated on how I might explain it to my mum instead, knowing she’d be interested and on my side but still needed to know what it was I was actually on about. She wouldn’t have let me get away with just mumbling, and  besides I wanted her to know what I was saying.

8. Rehearsals are for failing. During the proper technical rehearsals on Friday, I froze, couldn’t remember my words on my first attempt, and actually walked off stage during my second. Reassuringly we were all the same. However, on the actual day everyone was fluent and got through without stumbling – I’m sure there was some magic involved.

9. Practise, practise, practise. I’ve never learnt a script like this before, and for weeks I have been walking around mumbling to myself. I’ve woken up reciting it, recorded myself as I’ve run, performed it to friends via Skype. Only to find that half an hour before I went on stage I COULDN’T REMEMBER ONE WORD. Not one. I thought I might actually die. But muscle memory is a marvellous thing – as soon as I was on stage and I’d said my first sentence, the next came. And the next. I don’t know exactly how it works, but I do know it was as a result of all that mumbling. No amount of practising is ever too much.

10. Remember it’s you speaking, and that you’re enough. As I said, my first draft was a rather turgid lecture albeit filled with hundreds of ‘interesting’ facts other people had found out, and with very little of me in it. Thinking how I would say this to a friend I’d just met up with was helpful – did I really need to go through the whole history of every word ever spoken in order for her to believe me? So once I had my ‘bones’, I went back through and added as much of ‘me’ in it as I could, even if it meant giving up the ‘expert’ role. There is a terrific vulnerability in that. I went through hours of sweating over all that unhelpful ‘who am I to say this’ stuff that the inner critic loves so much. But, going back to point 1 here, ‘Do have an idea that you really do want to share’ made me see that just getting across why I loved and cared about words was enough.

And because of all this, to have people share their own words later made me cry because yes, let’s really make a better word for 2019 than last year’s toxic. We really do deserve better. And on that note, welcome to my TED talk…



“The entire project of making this book (oddly enough I find it difficult to refer to the making as writing, in this case) has been a process of finding out what I could say, how I could say it, how I felt about saying it.” Clare Best


How to write our own truth is a question most writers will ask themselves at some time or another. And, as a reader, I know there are certain books that hit me right between the eyes, and it’s always when the writer stands firm and doesn’t flinch from telling her or his side of the story, not out of revenge or spite but as a way of understanding it. But I do sometimes wonder what the cost is. So it was a real privilege to read Clare Best‘s upcoming memoir, The Missing List, about uncovering her own family’s dark secret, and also to have her on this blog to talk about the process. Another of my favourite writers, Catherine Smith, interviews Clare here, and has asked all the best questions about the process. I’m grateful to both.

Do feel free to ask any questions yourself, or to make comments, but most of all please read the book. It’s out from the Linen Press on 18th September but you can pre-order. It’s extraordinary – this is what Andrew O’Hagan says about it, ‘A tapestry of time – brightly coloured, beautifully orchestrated, emotionally pure‘, and you can read a fascinating description of how the cover was designed by Neil Gower in the Bookseller here.


But here’s the interview:

Catherine: Clare, I know that you worked on the text of The Missing List for many years… when did you first start writing, and was there a particular prompt/spur?

Clare: Actually I suppose my earliest attempts to write the material go back to when I was studying for my Masters at Sussex, in 2001-2002. Back then I wrote some poems around the edges of fragile memories of abuse, and then I wrote a novella which continued the story of Miles and Flora after the end of The Turn of the Screw. For years I was obsessed with Henry James’ story and Benjamin Britten’s opera based on it – the intricate patterning and symmetry Britten uses seemed to contain all the mystery and not-quite-knowingness that haunted me. Looking back, my fascination with The Turn of the Screw really marked the start of my thinking about how to write the material I needed to write, which was starting to push its way to the surface.

Then from 2003 onwards I began writing short patches of prose which later became central to the memoir. It was, at that stage, a halting and wretched process. I literally had no idea what I was doing. It was as though I was aware of a distant voice and yet I was straining to hear that voice, let alone the words. I pressed a listening device to the wall of my own un/consciousness. I suppose my interest in forensics and detection was manifesting!

  “I had to trust the creative process because it was all I could do.”

Catherine: It always seemed to me that, in the earlier stages, you didn’t agonise about ‘what sort of book’ the writing would become – what was imperative was ‘getting the words onto the page’. You were keen that the end result would be what it would be, but that the creative process – ‘just write’ – must be honoured and trusted. Could you say something about your approach, and how you were able to trust your instincts?

Clare: There was already enough agony in the writing itself, and in what seemed to be coming through, so that was probably partly why I didn’t agonise about what sort of thing it might end up becoming. The idea of a book, at that point, was as far away as the moon.

Yes, it did become more and more pressing to get the words onto the page, and once I’d started writing regularly it soon felt like an obligation, a duty – since I realised that the ‘voice’ inside me came from a child self. She grew quite insistent as time went on, and occasionally I almost had the feeling that she was doing the writing, if that doesn’t sound too spooky.

had to trust the creative process because it was all I could do. The patches I was writing were so disparate and bitty, I couldn’t make any sense of them – there was no narrative thread I could tug at, no sense of joined-up anything. So in some ways it was easier to give myself over to writing these fragments and try to have faith that I’d eventually see something – some picture or pattern – emerge from what I’d done.

It’s a helluva way to write, but you write what needs to be written, and you leave aside any thoughts of what the writing might eventually be. Then of course you have to do a lot of work later on, refashioning…


“I experimented with placing different themes and different kinds of writing next to one another to see how they touched or didn’t.”


Catherine: At what point did you decide on ‘structure’ (or perhaps ‘shape’) for the book?

Clare: Hmm, good question. The shape was more of an evolution than a decision.

I’m very interested in structures as scaffolds, particularly for material that is almost impossible to handle. I had thoughts about shape and structure from 2006 onwards – I cooked up some very complicated ideas, and at one stage I thought a quasi-musical structure might work. It was completely impossible, much too experimental, but just thinking about that helped me to realise that since by then I had about 40,000 words, I needed to begin to address how to arrange them.

In my file I had patches of writing which fell into threads or themes, and I thought about mosaic, collage, weaving, all those metaphors – and I tried to imagine them as ways of putting material together. I experimented with placing different themes and different kinds of writing next to one another to see how they touched or didn’t. I put pieces together, tore them apart. About six or eight times. Trial after trial of weaving reflections, flashbacks, descriptions of ciné films, my father’s account of his own life. Then I hit on the idea of also using extracts from the journal I kept during my father’s final year. Something clicked into place and I saw that the journal pieces could become a framework to hold the other writings. At about the same time, I wrote most of the pieces in the series ‘The World According to My Father’ and these introduced elements of humour scattered through the text, which were important as leaven.

There are a number of symmetrical details in the book, most of which you probably wouldn’t spot unless you read it several times, but putting them there kept me connected to that original idea of musical patterning, and they still satisfy me.

Last year at the Royal Academy there was a fabulous exhibition, Matisse in the Studio, and I was struck by a painting entitled ‘Gourds, Issy-les-Moulineaux’ (1915-16) about which the artist had written, ‘A composition of objects that do not touch – but nonetheless participate in the same intimacy’. That seemed to express, retrospectively, what I had experienced in my emotional life and also in the intricate work of piecing together the memoir.


“There has to be outrage and anger in the book, because these feelings have been part of my truth”


Catherine: Did you have a strong sense of what you didn’t want for this book? And if so, how did you stay true to that conviction?

Clare: I certainly didn’t (and don’t) want it ever to be thought of as ‘misery memoir’ and yet I didn’t want to fall into the trap of making it conform to a classic uber-positive redemptive arc. It was tricky to tread that path, and I’ve slightly cheated as the book almost has two endings, which I can justify. But that’s another story!

I don’t want the book just to tell my truth, I want it to tell the truth in a way that reaches beyond my story. I want to let the reader in as much as possible, so I hope I’ve not fallen prey to bitterness and other alienating emotions. There has to be outrage and anger in the book, because these feelings have been part of my truth – dealing with these emotions has been a balancing act too. Anger is vital, and particularly in the context of my material, but it gets a bad press.

When creating a book like this, I think it can only be good that the processing of emotions and the writing have taken so long. I’ve worked things through in ten years of therapy, and the writing has been filtered and distilled as well.

“Early on, when I was writing the first patches, I re-read Stephen King’s On Writing (a terrific book) and that sort of gave me permission to write my own ‘odd, herky-jerky’ story”


Catherine: Did you have any ‘seminal’ or ‘Aha!’ moments – epiphanies which allowed you to be bold – and if so, did any other writers/texts inspire/liberate you on your journey?

Clare: Lots of ‘Aha!’ moments – arriving either in the middle of a wakeful night or after a reasonable night’s sleep… I don’t know which is more productive for ‘Aha!’ moments. Sometimes the middle-of-the-night epiphanies don’t look so good in the morning, whereas the morning ones tend to have legs.

Early on, when I was writing the first patches, I re-read Stephen King’s On Writing (a terrific book) and that sort of gave me permission to write my own ‘odd, herky-jerky’ story, or parts of it, and not worry too much about the parts I couldn’t remember.

Over the years, I’ve read heaps (literally) of life writing, and two of the books that have been most inspiring for me are Susan Wicks’ Driving My Father and Jeanette Winterson’s Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? Both are admirable. The Winterson came out in 2011, and I read it in 2012 when I was finishing the fourth draft of my memoir. I felt reassured by Winterson’s combination of recollections and reflections, it made my work seem okay.

I find titles difficult, so one of the best ‘Aha!’ moments was finally settling on the title The Missing List (there were at least five working titles along the way…).


“But as writers we shouldn’t be shy of causing discomfort in others.”


Catherine: Writing any kind of autobiographical work can be ethically complex, because, as writers, we have to grant ourselves permission to, as Hemingway instructed, ‘Write hard and clear about what hurts.’ The book deals with very raw and difficult experiences; did your attitude towards ‘self-censure’ change throughout the writing of the text… or did you start with a particular, personal ‘mission statement’ and stick with it, however uncomfortable that became?

Clare: This is such an interesting area for me to think about. The entire project of making this book (oddly enough I find it difficult to refer to the making as writing, in this case) has been a process of finding out what I could say, how I could say it, how I felt about saying it. And because the book has been made over so many years, of course I’ve changed and grown with it.

I had at least two selves to consider from the start – the injured child self, the one I listened to when I started writing patches (and I’ve tried to be true to her always) and the person who grew from that self. The child and the adult would censure different things. I’ve often had to dialogue with my selves!

As the writer (at times more of an investigator or reporter), I’ve tried not to impose my interpretations onto the child self, which is partly why I adopted three different points of view in this book. The journal extracts and reflective sections are written in first person, as you’d expect. The descriptions of ciné-film footage are written in third person, which I hope conveys the distance that I felt watching the films and scanning them for clues to our family life. Then a few passages in the book are written in second person – these are the passages that come directly from very painful memories. I couldn’t write these in first person because the self to whom those things happened feels separate from the ‘I’ of the journals and reflective pieces. And I certainly couldn’t write these passages in third person – too voyeuristic and too detached. So I settled on second person, which is a fascinating pov – the ‘you’ is another aspect of ‘I’, and is also a remote ‘other’ which reflects how those memories feel. The ‘you’ can also appear to address the reader directly, of course, making those sections even more uncomfortable to read.

The tussles around self-censure went on until the end. The most difficult part of the book for me to include was the List of Charges Against My Father, in the Afterword. This was added quite late in the process, but oh dear the debates I had with myself about whether to include it or not, almost up to the moment of going to press, because I didn’t want to cause acute discomfort in the reader. But as writers we shouldn’t be shy of causing discomfort in others.


“The tussles around self-censure went on until the end.”



Catherine: You’re a scrupulous editor of your own work, and you seek advice from those you trust to understand your projects, whether poetry or prose. How many drafts were involved in producing this book? How different is the ‘finished’ book from the earliest draft?

Clare: There have been six or seven main drafts since the first whole one, which dates from 2010. Many sections of the book have persisted fairly unchanged from that draft, but I’ve added quite a lot of material over the years, and cut some, and I’ve done a lot of reordering, resplicing. I did an extensive rewrite in July 2015, holed up in a hotel in Eastbourne for several days. The changes since then have been, on the whole, more subtle. The Afterword is the most recent part, as you’d expect.

I’ve been so grateful to have the responses of those who’ve read sections or drafts along the way. In the acknowledgements at the back of the book, I’ve simply referred to ‘my writing family’ which is how I experience the writers and others I share work with, so I’d like to say thank you here to those whose support and feedback were central to the evolution of The Missing List: Alice Owens, Andie Lewenstein, Beth Miller, Bridget Sleddon, Catherine Smith, Celia Randell, Charlotte Gann, Christine Baker, Fay Young, Heather Holden-Brown, Helena Nelson, Janet Sutherland, Jess Moriarty, Juliette Mitchell, Kay Syrad, Liz Bahs, Monica Suswin, Niall Christie, Sarah Salway, Vanessa Gebbie. And then there were all the editors on both sides of the Atlantic who read the manuscript as submitted by my agent and who responded with helpful, supportive and appreciative comments even if they didn’t feel they could take on the book.

“..people tend to assume that the abuse itself is the main issue, whereas the greatest challenges flow from psychological and emotional damage that must be lived with, often forever after.”


Catherine: It’s been a long, sometimes painful and frustrating, but ultimately exhilarating gestation… and now your book is about to be born, to be held up to the light, and then go out and make its own way in the world – to be read, reviewed, discussed. With your blessing, what would you most like it to achieve?

Clare: I hope it helps to nurture understanding and compassion about the kind of enduring pain and life-changing fallout that result from sexual abuse experienced in childhood; people tend to assume that the abuse itself is the main issue, whereas the greatest challenges flow from psychological and emotional damage that must be lived with, often forever after.

I’d also like this book to help bust some myths and misconceptions about abusive individuals.

But perhaps my greatest hope is that The Missing List will continue to be an agent of connection, reconnection and healing for others, as it has been for me.


Thank you so much, Clare and Catherine!


The Missing List – a memoir by Clare Best is published by Linen Press (£9.99).

To order:

And to find out more about Catherine and Clare, do visit their websites:

Catherine Smith

Clare Best