Writing is a solitary activity, involving long periods alone and periods of distraction even when you’re not alone. Thurber’s wife used to say to him ‘Dammit, you’re writing!’ when he sat abstracted at the dinner table.
Other writers understand this. When it was one of his days for working at home, Peter and I would retreat to our own separate studies in the morning and later come out to have lunch together. Though even then he would catch me staring into space, not having heard a word he said, as I contemplated ways of murdering people.
In the early days we were both academics, but as time went on and I began to write fiction, we became very different kinds of writers. We didn’t always read what the other had written. It didn’t matter. Sometimes I would talk to him when I got stuck and couldn’t work out what should happen next. He would tell me about an interesting piece of research he was doing: for his latest book, Architecture and Ritual, I was fascinated by his work on Chinese magistrates.
Architecture and Ritual: How Buildings Shape Society was published a few days after Peter’s death, but he saw a copy before we knew how ill he was. I am grateful that he was able to enjoy that. It is the culmination of a lifetime’s work and thought and he was so pleased that Bloomsbury took it on. It’s a worthy end to a distinguished career, though I am sorry too that he didn’t live to write the book on Lethaby that he had begun researching. He would have been the perfect person for that.
We enjoyed each other successes and spurred each other on. I don’t think I could have become a novelist and short story writer if I hadn’t been married to Peter and had his support, especially at the beginning. I will miss him in so many ways, and this not the least.