'The Year of Magical Thinking' by Joan Didion

I've wanted to read this book ever since it was published. It's about the writer's experience of her husband's death and the year that follows. Death is a fascinating subject. I think about it a lot and I don't believe that's at all maudlin. I was thrilled as a teenager to discover that Tess of the D'urbervilles wonders about her own death, just as I did - when, where, how? I'd never mentioned it to anyone else at that point.

Anyway, last week I discovered a copy of the book for sale on greenmetropolis.com, one of my favourite websites. It's not very long and I read it almost at one sitting.

I found the title misleading. The 'magical thinking' seems to be Didion's reluctance to get rid of her husband's possessions, in the subconscious belief that he'll be coming back and will need them. Reviews I have read say that her clear, unsentimental writing makes the subject even more heartbreaking, but that wasn't my experience at all. The only part of the book I found touching was her quotation of another woman's grief, a woman whose son was serving in Iraq and who opens her door to a uniformed serviceman. She knows immediately what has happened, 'But I thought that if, as long as I didn't let him in, he couldn't tell me. And then it - none of that would've happened. So he kept saying, "Ma'am, I need to come in." And I kept telling him, "I'm sorry, but you can't come in."'

Those words, the words of an 'ordinary' woman, not a writer, move me to tears. I find them far more moving than anything else in the book. I don't want to belittle Didion's suffering - when her husband dies, her only child is in intensive care and goes in and out of hospital throughout the year. What a horrible, horrible situation to be in and yet somehow I can't feel much sympathy for her predicament, especially as after pages of details on her daughter's condition and treatment, she simply disappears towards the end, suddenly materialising without explanation at a Christmas dinner. (She actually died too, some time later, an awful second blow).

There may not be much of the magical in this book, but there are certainly plenty of facts, quotes and extracts from medical records and journals. A more appropriate title might be 'The Year of Medical Thinking'.

A bed and a toothbrush - what's all that about?

My readers have been asking about the title of this blog and since I am loath to let either of them down, I shall explain:

All the clever names I came up with were already taken and eventually I realised I'd have to think of something more specific to me. That started me thinking what people have said about my writing and about me - the good things, anyway. As I've already explained, I dismissed 'One of the nosiest people I know' and then one day I remembered something A said a while back.

I am a committed minimalist. One of my favourite activities is clearing out, recycling, putting together a bag for the charity shop, giving stuff away etc. Creating clear space where stuff once was is one of the best feelings ever. A is not quite as keen on this as me. I think sometimes it makes him nervous. Although I do try to keep my enthusiasm confined to my own belongings and my own space, there are times when I just can't help asking questions like 'When did you last wear that T-shirt?' or 'Do you really still need those books?'

It was on one of these occasions that he remarked 'If you carry on like this, in a few years all you'll have left will be a bed and a toothbrush.' And of course I laughed at such a ridiculous idea, although I find it a compelling mixture of the chilling and the appealing.

Phrases I hate

I've already mentioned that I care about words and how they're used, which after all is only to be expected in a writer. Occasionally I hear a phrase that makes me cringe; in fact, lately I've been hearing one far too often - 'going forward'. People say it in all kinds of contexts and it's always entirely superfluous. It seems to be the latest meaningless twaddle that's used by people who subconsciously feel they have nothing useful to say and try to fluff up their speech with something they hope will add weight.

Oh, and since we're on the subject and I'm building up nicely to a rant, what about 'fell pregnant'? To me that suggests an element of genteel surprise - 'Whoops! Oh dear, I wonder how that could possibly have happened?' Beats me.

Yes, I know, there are far worse things to worry about, but it's good to have a moan sometimes.