I used to grieve as old titles gradually vanished and went out of print. They represented years in my life; blood sweat and tears; me, me, me, embedded in them with all my aspirations. And times were changing. I knew I had to change too. But did I? Writing is so personal. In the end, I realised with relief, I could only be me, and write in my own way. If there are still publishers out there willing to publish me, then I’m all for responding and trying to write my best, and books must have their own life span as do we all.
Perhaps it’s having grandchildren now which has really rekindled my energies and interests. I’m writing for them what passionately interested me when I was a child: The Arabian Nights, the brothers Grimm, Hans Andersen; stories which were wonderful and horrific in turn. I’m now writing my own, wondering if they can or should still fall under the category “fairy tales.” Probably not. Still pondering what I can call them without being misleading. Meanwhile, 2011 saw the publication of Tales from India, and School for Princes: Stories from the Panchatantra, and last year saw the publication of Alexander the Great: Man, Myth or Monster. This year is full of projects to finish, and more to start. It’s exciting.
