Time

I have been thinking about time lately. In my first historical novel, the story spans a couple of months, with an epilogue a year after a pivotal event in the early chapters.

My second historical novel spans twenty-five years.

My first modern novel covers a time span of nine months.

The second modern novel picks up almost exactly two years later. And then the subsequent modern novels all cover a time span of a couple of months. The Christmas novellas are just that, and are confined to the Christmas season.

The historic novels are very specific to dates and years, the modern novels are deliberately vague in terms of time. I keep a timeline in my working papers and outlines for relativity. Everyone needs to stay the right age in relation to other characters. But I don't think anyone reading them could say this was 2012, for example. But there is no doubt they are pre-pandemic.

I have no idea how I am going to treat the pandemic when I reach that point in time in my books. I may give my characters another two year hiatus. Didn't we all effectively lose time during the pandemic?

Time is such a fluid concept. Some of the days since Cecil died seem to last forever. It has been two months since he died and it feels like forever and yesterday all at the same time. And the thirty-five years we had together disappeared in an instant.

I like to think that my books stop time for my readers. That they go into the world I have created, and the time in this world melts away. I know it is like that for me when I am writing my stories.

I have tried to be present in whatever moment I am in for most of my life, but that doesn't guarantee that those moments feel like they last longer. In fact, sometimes being fully present causes time to melt even faster.

Time - It is the stuff life is made of. And there is never enough time with the people you love. Never.