Every writer writes, in the first instance, for themselves.  We write what we want to write.  What we MUST write.  Because the voices in our head won’t leave us alone.  So, we begin to write.  Sometimes the words pour out.  Sometimes the writer has to hammer out the prose word by painful word.  But it is happening.  We are writing.  We are writers.

The luckiest and most persistent eventually get to a point where we are happy(ish) with what we’ve written.  It is finished.  Done.  Out of our heads and onto the page.  And this point marks a watershed in the writer’s life.  For now the text we have produced exists in its own right.  We have written.  What next?

Next we want to show our work to someone.  It is no longer an idea, trapped in our heads, vague, inchoate... It is there, fully formed, and on the page.  An entity into which we have poured everything we can to bring it to life.  Now we seek recognition for that stupendous act of creation.  We want the child of our imagination to be acknowledged.  Loved.

We want our first readers to like our creation.  We want readers to be kind.  We hand over our manuscript with trepidation, with fear in case they don’t like it.  At heart, we want our readers to say how wonderful the story is, how brilliant we were to have written it.  We seek praise.

Which presents us with our dilemma.  For praise is of no use to us, as writers.  Praise, at first delightful, soon sours because praise is easy to give and means nothing without insight.  Praise is like poisoned ice cream, delicious but deadly to our development as writers.  What we really need is feedback.

Feedback hurts.  Oh, yes, positive feedback is a wonderful thing but the feedback we need most is the negative stuff.  We need to know what didn’t work for the reader.  Where they lost the plot (quite literally) and got confused.  Or bored.  We have got too close to our literary baby, in the long months of its gestation, to see it clearly. We need help.

Maybe there is too much repetition.  Or not enough clarification.  The carefully developed plot which we are so thrilled with may have the pace of an arthritic tortoise.  The characters are as wooden as Pinocchio before that wish upon a star. And we CAN’T TELL!

A reader who can give us this necessary feedback is worth his or her weight in diamonds.  They must steer a difficult course.  We need an honest analysis of our work and honesty can be hard to hear.  But self-delusion is not the writer’s friend.  We are overly biased to think our work is good simply because we know how many hours of solid work, sweat and agony, went into its creation.  Now, though, we need perspective.

We need to hear which parts are good, what worked.  But also, we need to know where we failed.  Where the story lagged.  Because then we have the information we need to start to fix it.  No work of creation is born painlessly.  And, however much a writer may hate to hear criticism of their work, only by opening up to that process and seeking honest opinions can we hope to grow and develop in our writing craft.

The white heat of creation is an essential part of our writer’s process but so, too, is the detachment necessary to see our work through the eyes of others.  For, it is that step which moves us on from merely writing to becoming an author.  So be brave and ask your beta readers what they DON'T like about your book!

I’ve always liked country funerals.  There’s something so comforting about the old lichened headstones with their weathered inscriptions, blurred by time.  The sense of continuity in a country churchyard is a real comfort to the bereaved.  Time and again I’ve seen it, that sense of peace and acceptance with what must be…
 
Of course, it’s always easier when the deceased is old and has had a good life.  It must be dreadful to bury a child.  That’s not the natural order of things; the young shouldn’t die before the old.  I don’t think that’s right, at all.  But when the person is old and has suffered, well, I think it’s a blessing really, when they go.  I don’t think anybody would argue with that; no one with an ounce of humanity in their veins, at any rate.  I always tell the family it’s a blessed release.  I think it gives them comfort and helps them to cope.
 
This vicar’s got a lovely voice, very mellow and reassuring.  I wonder what an Irish priest is doing in this corner of Sussex?  It’s funny how people travel about nowadays.  It’s not like it was when I was younger.  People stayed put then.  Of course, I’ve moved around a lot, myself, but that’s understandable.  I have to go where my job takes me.  I suppose I’ve made it my life, my job.  I didn’t really choose to but that’s the way it’s turned out.  And you have to do what is necessary, make the sacrifices that others, maybe, wouldn’t make.  I think it’s turned out for the best.
 
That dratted magpie startled me.  It flew right over my head with that funny chuntering cry they make.  I don’t like them.  Stealing other birds’ eggs and such.  Nasty things.  And it’s unlucky to see only one.  What is that rhyme I learned when I was a girl?  “One for sorrow, two for joy” or something like that.  There’s only one here but I suppose that’s appropriate for a funeral.  One for sorrow.  Yes, I think it must be meant, somehow.  I believe everything is as it is meant to be.  Even magpies.
 
It’s a good job it’s such a nice Spring day.  The sun helps lift everyone’s spirits and those primroses look a picture over on the bank.  I do like that pale yellow.  I think I might use that when I redecorate my lounge.  It would look really fresh and pretty.  I suppose I’ll have to wait for a bit, until probate’s sorted out.  A funny word that – probate.  I wonder what it means?  One of those legal terms that everyone uses but no-one really understands.  I wouldn’t have liked to go in for the law. It’s too dry.  I like the human contact in my job though I suppose a solicitor has quite a few clients.  It’s not the same though.  People don’t rely on a solicitor the way my patients rely on me.  They know I won’t let them down.
 
Another magpie.  That’s “Two for joy” after all.  They do look handsome in their black and white coats, very glossy and sleek.  But I don’t like them – nasty, smug creatures.  They always look so sure of themselves, so complacent.  They are smart, I’ll grant you that, but they should all be exterminated, like vermin.  That’s all they are.  Vermin.
 
Still, it’s what I call a proper funeral.  A lovely setting, this.  And people have made an effort and dressed up a bit, in black and dark grey.  I don’t like this modern trend for coming in your normal, everyday clothes.  I think it lacks respect.  People ought to make more effort.  Of course, I usually wear my nurse’s uniform with a nice black coat over it.  I think that strikes a nice balance, shows I’m here in a kind of official capacity as well as just a mourner.  It’s important to keep that distinction, I think.  And I’m pleased with the coat.  It’s very good quality wool and it was really quite a bargain.  I like to get value for money and, after all, I’ll get some wear out of it.
 
Another magpie.  That’s three.  I’ve read somewhere they’re considered unlucky.  Three, that’s for a girl, isn’t it?  I wonder if it means Megan?  She looks very pale, almost stern, somehow.  I haven’t seen her cry once since the death.  That doesn’t seem right to me, I have to admit.  You should cry when your mother dies, I think.  Well, that’s my opinion.  But she’s always seemed cold.  Not heartless but held-in somehow as though there’s a lot going on beneath the surface.  I hope I haven’t made a mistake about her.  People can be funny, sometimes.
 
It’s getting chilly, now.  Funny how all the warmth goes out of the day when the sun goes in.  I shall be glad to have a cup of tea when this is over and get a bit of warmth back into my bones.  I hope Megan’s organised a proper funeral tea.  Sometimes people skimp on that, which is a real shame.  I always think it’s the best part of a funeral, the tea.  It gives people a chance to talk and that helps the family.  Someone usually thanks me, as well.  I know I am only doing my job but still, it’s nice to be appreciated.  And it can be hard, watching someone die, especially when you’ve got to know them so well.  The families don’t always appreciate that.  They just think of their own grief but it’s hard for me, too.  I'm the one who's been there, every step of that final struggle.
 
It seems a long service today.  It’s not really kind to keep everybody standing out here for so long.  One or two of them look pretty frail anyway.  It won’t do them any good if they get cold.  I shouldn’t be surprised if somebody picks up a chill and then there will be another funeral before you know it.  I’ve seen that happen before.  Sometimes there can be a run of two or three funerals in a row.  Of course, people don’t think when they organise these things.  An indoor service at the crematorium might have been better, though I suppose the deceased wanted to be buried.  Some people do, I know.  Funny that.  I don’t know why people bother about what’s going to happen once they’re dead.  I mean, once you’re dead that’s it.  You’re not going to care what happens to you.  I suppose people are just very sentimental about it.  They don’t see things clearly.  Well, there’s one thing I know: there’s no room for sentimentality in nursing.
 
Oh, finally, it looks as if things are drawing to a close.   That’s good, I’m parched.  I really fancy a nice cuppa.  I just better go over to Megan and express my sympathy.  I think that would be the best thing.  It shows I really cared for her mother; that she wasn’t just a nameless patient to me.  It’s all part of it, isn’t it?  Things have to be done properly.  I thought I might be in one of the funeral cars but I had to make my own way here.  Most families have included me in but I don’t think Megan has ever really taken to me.  Well, if she had spent the time with her mother that I did in those last few weeks, maybe she’d have some room to talk.  But I won’t say anything.  Just my usual sympathy speech.  There’s no point in making things difficult.  I know what to say to the bereaved.  I think I can bring her some comfort.

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Well!  I must say, I didn’t expect that.  She was really quite unpleasant.  Almost ignored what I said and such a look in her eyes.  As if she resented my being here.  I suppose she knows about the will and it’s upset her.  Maybe she’s one of the grasping, greedy kind who can’t bear any of the money being willed away from them.  But, after all, it’s only fair.  If her mother wanted to thank me for what I did for her then she had a perfect right to do so.  It's all legal and everything.  There’s nothing Megan can do.
 
Look at that!  Another magpie.  On my car, as well.  Shoo!  I hope it’s not made a mess or scratched the paint.  “Four for a boy.”  Well, there’s no rhyme or reason to that.  It’s just a silly superstition.  I don’t know why I’m even thinking about it.  It’s not like me to be fanciful.  I wonder who Megan’s talking to, over there?  He doesn’t look like family, somehow.  At least, I didn’t see him at the graveside.  I suppose he’s one of the undertaker’s men.  Now, that’s not a job I would like, having to be pretend you care about people’s grief.  I mean, you can’t build up a relationship with a corpse.  I've always enjoyed the time I spend with my patients, even if they are fighting a losing battle with their illnesses.  We’ve all got to die of something and I like to think I can make things a little bit easier for them.  We have some good laughs and I know they’re grateful to me.
 
No-one has told me where the funeral tea is.  I suppose I’ll just have to follow everyone else.  It’s left a bit of a nasty taste, to tell you the truth.  I’m not used to being shut out like this.  Most families recognise my contribution and even if they don’t like it, there’s no point in being unpleasant.  The patient has a perfect right to leave a bequest to their nurse, especially one who is so supportive and who makes their last days more bearable.
 
Bless me!  Those magpies are like a plague.  There must be a flock of five or six there. Flying so low, as well.  I suppose they’re nesting somewhere in the church grounds. “Five for silver, six for gold.”  It’s funny how that rhyme comes back after all these years.  I must have learnt it when I was a little girl, more years ago than I care to remember.  But it’s very apt:  “six for gold.”   Because this latest bequest will really set me up.  Who knows, I may even retire.  It’s about time I had some fun in my life, bought nice things and got what was due to me.  I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for other people for so long.  Now, it’s my turn to live and order people about and get what I want.  After all, my National Health pension isn’t going to provide me with many luxuries.  Private nursing pays better and is much easier on the back and feet than a hospital job but it’s still work.  And I reckon I’ve done enough, really.  It’s time to put my feet up and enjoy what’s left of my life.
 
They’re taking their time.  It’s not very well organised if you ask me, everybody milling around and not knowing what to do; someone needs to sort them out.  I suppose not everyone has had as much experience as I have with funerals.  But, if you go in for geriatric nursing, there’s going to be quite a few deaths along the way.  It’s a fact of life, really.  Of course, you can’t afford to get too close to them; that’s where the professionalism comes in.  You have to make them feel special, as though you really care about their every ache and pain, but you keep a detachment.  A kind of professional reserve.  Most good doctors have it.  Well, they need to, really, because otherwise they couldn’t function.  I mean, you can’t take everybody’s cares onto your shoulders, can you?  It wouldn’t be reasonable.
 
Come on!  I can’t see what the hold-up is.  If the funeral cortege would just pull off we could all follow and get some tea.  You would think a family with all that money would know how to do things properly.  I hope Megan’s not going to be difficult.  I suppose it is rather a lot of money.  No-one’s ever left me that much before but I don’t see why it should cause any problems.  After all, she was rolling in it and this will set me up nicely.  And I earned it.  They’ve got to admit I did.  I did everything for that woman and that’s no joke when you’re talking about total bedcare for someone who can’t even get to the bathroom.  It’s not pleasant and a lot of people wouldn’t want to do what I’ve had to do.
 
More magpies.  That must be seven by now.  “Seven for a secret, never to be told”.  Well, that’s appropriate.  I know a lot of secrets.  I suppose any nurse does.  When you’re constantly with someone who is old and ill and vulnerable, well, you’re bound to get to know things.  And I’ve always been a sympathetic ear.  It’s a skill, really, and one that I’m proud of.    Patients tell me things that they wouldn’t, maybe, tell their families.  It creates a bond.  And it’s a relief for them, getting rid of some of the things they’ve been bottling up over the years.  I must admit, it helps me to help them if I know what it is that’s bothering them.
 
Of course, people are afraid.  Well, it’s only natural.  I sometimes think it’s not the dying that bothers people but the waiting to die.  That’s the hard part.  So really I’m doing them a favour.  I think most people, at the bottom of their hearts, they want to be helped over those last few days.  I mean, why just go on suffering unnecessarily.  You know how it’s going to end.  I know.  I’ve seen enough patients to recognise when the end is near.  It’s really a kindness to help them through it.  Speed things up, like.
 
You have to be careful, though.  Doctors can be very touchy about patients dying “too soon”.  As if they know better than the nurse.  They don’t sit with the patient, hour in, hour out, watching them take every breath.  Don’t tell me about doctors.  It’s easy for them.  They get good pay for what they do, but what about me?  I’ve had to make provision for my old age.  And what real harm does it do?  She had so much money and it wasn’t  going to do her any good.  I just needed to play my cards right and get her to sign the, what do you call it?  The codicil.  That’s it.  It had to be all legal and above board before I let her go.  I had to make sure of that.  But now it’s properly signed and witnessed and all, I don’t see what Megan or anyone can do about it.
 
Ninety thousand pounds.  It will be a nice little nest egg for me and give me a chance to enjoy myself, before it’s too late.  I’ve always been the one looking after others; time to look after myself, for a change.  Is that Megan walking towards me?  Why isn’t she in the funeral car?  What’s going on?  And that man I saw earlier.  He’s looking at me as if…  But they can’t know.  They can’t.  How could they?  He’s bending to speak to me.  Should I get out or just sit here?  I could wind the window down.
 
“Miss Johnstone?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Inspector Pike.  Would you please get out of the vehicle.”
 
He can’t really be going to arrest me.  Surely this is all a mistake.  They can’t know.  I was careful, really careful.  She didn’t even die when I was there.  There’s no way they can pin anything on me.  Those bloody magpies screeching.  They sound as though they’re laughing.  Horrible, cackling laughter.  This can’t be happening.  I’ve always got away with it before.  Always.  Old people die.  There’s no way they can know what I did.  No way.  And it was a kindness anyway.  She was suffering and I helped her find peace.

​I can see police cars, behind the church, black and white like the magpies. But they can’t prove anything, surely they can’t.  I was careful.  I always am.  I can hear those magpies cackling, such a horrible noise.  Pecking at the freshly turned earth.  They don't even respect death.  I knew they were bad luck.