A couple of days ago, I finished writing the journal (or the part of it)* I kept throughout Lizzie’s brush with cancer… from summer 2021 to summer 2022.
I’m incredibly excited to have finished it! After all, what started off as a distraction to help me keep my sanity, in dark times, has now turned into something the length of a full-blown book! It’s 60,000 words long! (Way shorter than Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, my daughter Annie informs me, sniffily).
As soon as I’ve finished tidying up the manuscript, I run up to Lizzie, excitedly.
‘The journal’s done!’ I whoop. ‘You need to read it! I’m not going to do anything with it, unless you’ve read it and given me the thumbs up.’
Lizzie looks uncharacteristically excited about it all. Maybe she’s thinking about the fiscal reward the journal might bring us, if it ever gets published in book form and becomes an international bestseller.
‘Absolutely, I’ve been wanting to read it for ages!’ she smiles. ‘Email it to me.’
And so I do.
Within a couple of hours, Lizzie’s lying on our bed reading the journal with an intense expression. Sometimes a frown drifts across her face, like a scudding black cloud. Other times, a smile breaks through her solemn visage like sunshine.
She actually looks like she’s enjoying it!
Within a couple of hours, she’s halfway through the manuscript. This is a small miracle in itself. In the (nearly) two decades we’ve been a couple, I’ve only known Lizzie to read one book from cover to cover (excluding audio books). Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. For some reason, that novel’s exploration of mental illness really piqued Lizzie’s interest. Maybe it made her think of me.
Soon, she’s two thirds of the way through the journal. I can’t believe it. I have to remind myself that the manuscript’s largely about Lizzie, so perhaps that’s why she’s finding it unusually interesting.
After three hours of reading non-stop, Lizzie shuts her laptop with a snap to have a break.
‘Piers!’ she smiles. ‘It’s GREAT! You must get it out there… and get it published… as soon as possible!’
‘That’s brilliant!’ I reply, delighted and relieved.
‘It reminds me of Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine,’ says Lizzie, thoughtfully. ‘I mean, the subject matter.’
She gets off the bed, jauntily, and heads towards the bathroom. ‘I’m going to finish it later. I’m looking forward to it!’
‘Awesome!’ I grin back.
The day (a Sunday) drifts on… and Lizzie and I get bogged down in the usual quagmire of domestic chores. At weekends, it often feels like Lizzie and I are the hardworking proprietors of a B & B in which the world’s two most ungrateful guests are staying… in short, our kids. This weekend is no exception.
Finally, we get through the day and it’s evening time. Lizzie reclaims her space on our bed… opens her laptop and… proceeds to watch Ozark on Netflix.
Is she going to carry on reading my journal? I ask myself. I want to ask Lizzie this too… but I don’t want to pressure her.
The evening presses on and Lizzie remains enthralled by Ozark.
‘Sounds violent,’ I say. ‘What’s going on?’
‘A man’s just had his eyeballs gouged out!’ replies Lizzie, her own eyes glued to the screen.
‘Lovely!’ I say, whilst making a mental note never to watch Ozark.
There’s no indication Lizzie’s going to return to my journal, this evening.
Just give her time, I tell myself. It’s probably a lot for her to absorb.
The next day passes. And the day after that… and after that… and eventually weeks pass… and Lizzie still doesn’t look at my journal again.
I tell myself not to take it personally. She just doesn’t read books! I say in my head. She’s not interested! It’s a miracle she read two thirds of this one! Even though it’s actually about her…
Anyway… I need to move on and just leave it at that.
I guess Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine will retain the honour of being the only book Lizzie has read from cover to cover.
It occurs to me that if I do ever get a publishing deal for Stop Telling Me I’m Brave… and it’s a best-seller and we make stacks of cash out of it… maybe, just maybe, Lizzie will finally read it then.
Or… maybe not.
* I’m referring here to my original journal which is featured in this blog as posts 1-75.
P. D. Clifton 
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