What Does It Feel Like?

by Sophie Kinsella

My advice is to write the book you would like to read yourself. Visualize going into a bookshop and finding the perfect book. The book you would buy immediately. What does it look like? What’s it about? What genre is it? Then write that book. And above all, write the truth. Write what you know and do it convincingly. I don’t mean write nonfiction,” she clarifies. “I mean write the truth about life, whatever genre you’re in.”

She’s supposed to be writing and instead she’s halfway into a dress she doesn’t need.

Write the book you would like to read yourself. Write the truth about life, whatever genre you’re in. Write what you know and do it convincingly.

Debt was just part of the circle of life, like art or tai chi, and must be accepted as such.

“What does it feel like to have five children?” people ask, and all she can say is, “The same as having one child, times five.” The work is multiplied, the worry is multiplied, the joy is multiplied, the love is multiplied.

You have incurable cancer, my beautiful Eve. But you keep forgetting and I have to keep reminding you and these are the hardest moments of my life.

Five children. Five bundles of love. And five bundles of grief.

I may never see you grow up, my beautiful girl, and I can’t bear it.

I am greedy for sleep, I want only sleep. I seek unconsciousness like a crack addict seeking a hit.

My body weighs a ton and every thought is exhausting.

Manifest it to be true. Will it to be true. Make it be true.

The way to get through scanxiety: Is there a way? Please let me know what it is.

Is she ready for death? Should she be? Or is contemplating death the same as giving up hope?

“Maybe I don’t want a bucket list at all. I think what I want is just to live like we do anyway—you know, do our work and go for walks and watch Come Dine with Me—but have a slightly nicer version of it. Normal but better. Call it ‘Normal plus.’ ”

“OK, here’s the thing,” says Eve honestly. “I’ve done a lot of exciting, bucket-listy stuff in my life. I’ve done glamorous travel and I’ve walked the red carpet and I’ve swum with dolphins. I don’t need to do any more of that stuff. I just need to be around. Have fun with the children. Have fun with you. See friends. Small pleasures.”

She knows this cancer is not her fault—it’s just bad luck. But what she has learned is that you can feel guilty for having had bad luck.

I love happy endings myself. So I’ve invented lots of them. But now here’s the irony: I can’t invent a real-life happy ending for myself.”

“Here’s another irony for you,” she says. “My brain was the secret of my success when I was writing books. But now my brain’s the very thing causing all the problems.”

“Your brain has no sense of moderation,” agrees Nick. “It’s either doing brilliant things or bloody stupid things.”

And right at that moment, this is her only aim in life, the only happy ending she wants. Just to keep going.