Digging Deep

I’ve started reading Bog Child by Siobhan Dowd, an Edgar nominee in the YA category this year. More on the book once I finish it, hopefully next week.

But this book made me think about something. As always when starting a new read, I first flip to the back of the book, to find out something about the author. I’m a writer myself, so I’m nosy that way. Bog Child is Siobhan Dowd’s third novel, the bio with nice picture said. Her first novel won several awards (I believe in England or Ireland), and she lived in Oxford with her husband Geoff.

Lived.

Siobhan Dowd died in 2007, at the age of 47. Bog Child was one of two unpublished novels she left upon her death. Needless to say, this made pause a while. It reminded me that people die (never a nice thing to think about), even writers, and of cancer (the big C and I have a history, so this pisses me off), and too young. And sometimes, they leave books behind for us to enjoy, thankfully, as did this author.

So as I pondered all this, I thought of my own writing. What if I kicked the old bucket tomorrow? What stories will I leave behind?

And what story will I regret not having written?

These are big questions, I know. Most of us don’t want to think about our mortality—there’s good TV on for one, better books waiting to be read, and Twitter that needs updating. But Ms. Dowd’s bio has been bugging me enough for the past few days that I thought of the story I haven’t written. Da Story. The one I need to tell. I’ve been putting it off, because it’ll require me to dig deep, but no more chickening out. Time to step up to the plate. And bring it.

So how about you? What’s your story?

Think about it. Twitter will wait.