I seem to be writing about death quite a bit but these deaths needn’t always be considered literally. A reader from the ‘West London Men’s Book Group’ I visited (thank you for a great evening, guys – tasty curry and insightful bookish chat – lovely!) gave a psychoanalytic interpretation of Alarm Girl which I liked very much. He said that in order for Indy to reach sexual maturity, her mother has to die.
Death in art can be considered on a metaphorical level – we are all being born/re-born and we are all dying – in ways apart from the obvious journey of decay. Relationships change and/or come to an end, and so we ‘die’ for some and others ‘die’ for us.
This is where my writing about death comes from, I think.
When I write about endings of this kind I am also partly rehearsing for the inevitable real-life endings that will occur. Writing takes me beyond what is (mercifully) my experiential limit so far. Perhaps this public rehearsing of emotion makes me something of a drama queen but hey, I write drama so that’s appropriate, no?
I have written elsewhere about the importance of books that make us cry –