A Letter from Debbie
I love to put my pets in my novels.
Charlie – Dylan’s brown-and-white mongrel – is a carbon copy of my current rescued dog, Molly Muddles. Anyone who follows me on social media will know that she was found at just three days old, sadly orphaned, on a Cretan beach. She eventually travelled over sixteen hundred miles to be with us in the UK.
Bess, Maggie’s rescue dog, is based upon my rescued German Shepherd, Tess – sadly long departed.
Just like Maggie, I was once terrified of the breed. Back then, I lived in a rough neighbourhood. My first husband felt that such a dog would be beneficial in keeping vandals away. After all, our home was in an area where, when you opened the curtains on a new day, you’d wonder if your car still had wheels, or if the garden fence had been stolen in the night.
Tess, like Bess, was a middle-aged dog that kept getting bypassed through no fault of her own. Her previous owner had been a single lady who’d unexpectedly died. When I met Tess, she was deeply depressed. She wasn’t interested in us. She wasn’t interested in anything.
We took her home. I can still remember how she climbed on to the car’s back seat, emanating gloom. I’d glanced nervously at her over my shoulder. Regarded the huge black-and-tan shape and thought, ‘Dear Lord. What have we done? This isn’t a dog. It’s a beast!’
She taught me to understand that looks are deceptive. Tess was a gentle soul but very protective. She’d fluff up like a porcupine if anyone came near me when out walking – which was what I wanted when strolling through wasteland where stolen cars were frequently dumped and torched. Part of our walk was directly under the M25 and somewhat lonely.
One day, Tess led me to a large cardboard box, by the flyover. She stopped, then looked at me as if to say, ‘Open it.’ So, I did. And discovered a black terrier puppy cowering within. I suspect he’d been flung off the bridge from a fast-moving vehicle. And yes, I took him home. Despite being a pup, he looked like an old man. So, I gave him an old man’s name – Wilbur. But that’s another story!
I’m a writer who only ever writes about what she knows. I never second guess. So, if you’ve read any of my previous novels, like Sophie’s Summer Kiss, then you will know that the location and setting is authentic. I don’t refer to guidebooks (as one crusty reviewer suggested!) or try and imagine the emotions of my characters. I know how my characters feel because I’ve felt those emotions too, experienced that bit of life, tasted that joy or disappointment or loss.
This novel came about because… well… I’ve had a lot of processing to do in the last twelve months.
I’m not someone who is prone to depression or gets in a rut and wallows. I’m usually the one who says, ‘Hey, stop playing victim and sort yourself out.’ But I’ve had to use those words on myself many times over in the last year or so. Why? Because like many people of my age, Maggie’s story is one of familiarity – that of supporting your adult children and your parents who are sadly now behaving like children themselves.
It is far, far harder dealing with the latter. Elderly parents, even with a ravaged mind, still consider themselves to be the head of the household. It is a tricky task negotiating a senior’s stubborn pride and inability to reason.
Many times, I’ve had people say, ‘But at least you still have your parents. One day you will look back on your mother screaming and shouting and say you’d give anything to have that day again.’ Well, I disagree.
What I would like is to have a day with my mother the way she used to be. A conversation the way she used to be. Take a trip somewhere the way she used to be. There is no magic taking my mum to a restaurant. She no longer recognises hunger nor appreciates delicious cooking smells. She is more likely to tell you that a beautifully presented dish looks disgusting. All you take away from such a situation is fulfilling a sense of duty – and gloomily so at that.
Maggie’s story is a work of fiction, but it was therapeutic to write. It has helped me process many emotions. I am grieving the loss of my parents. Despite them being here, they’re not here – if that makes sense. Their minds are wrecked by dementia.
It is a horrible, horrible, horrible condition. Let’s just say that if dementia had a physical shape, I would kick it, punch it, slap it, hit it, rant at it, and do my very best to squash it flat before stamping all over it.
Oooh, that sentence helped me release a bit of angst!
I had a lot of fun asking Facebook friends to help me name Maggie’s love interest. Special thanks to Claire M Robertson for coming up with Dylan,and Paul Harris who suggested Alexander. I put the two together and suddenly we had Mr Dylan Alexander!
Maggie in the Middle is my twentieth novel. It sees a return to the fictional village of Little Waterlow. This is a small Kent village not dissimilar to my own stomping ground.
I love to write books that provide escapism and make a reader occasionally giggle. You will also find drama – like family fallouts, illness, isolation – and sometimes that can be uncomfortable. I let my characters decide how a story is going to unfold, but its best to buckle up in case there are tense moments.
There are several people involved in getting a book “out there” and I want to thank them from the bottom of my heart.
First, the brilliant Rebecca Emin of Gingersnap Books. Rebecca knows exactly what to do with machine code and is a formatting genius.
Second, the fabulous Cathy Helms of Avalon Graphics for working her magic in transforming a rough sketch to a gorgeous book cover. Cathy always delivers exactly what I want and is a joy to work with.
Third, the amazing Rachel Gilbey of Rachel’s Random Resources, blog tour organiser extraordinaire. Immense gratitude also goes to each of the fantastic bloggers who took the time to read and review Maggie in the Middle.