Dear Reader,
As I write to you, I am only a couple of days away from becoming a mother.
And, when I can ignore the sharp kicks my little son is deftly delivering to my right rib cage, it seems eerily prescient to reflect on how the first novel I have written –a project I nurtured throughout my early thirties—centres around motherhood too.
Anna Finbow, a beloved TV and homewares personality, faces a situation that still gives me goosebumps: her adult daughter Mary has begun therapy with an unqualified practitioner, Jean, and decided she no longer can maintain a relationship with her, cutting ties with her friendship circle too.
This is a real-world problem. Under current UK law, the term “therapist” is not legally protected. This means literally anyone can set up a practice and gain intimate access to individuals at some of the most vulnerable moments in their lives. Countless individuals are exploited, falling victim to predatory relationships, losing money, friends, and their identity. While in the US there are more legal guardrails, it hasn’t stopped countless phoney therapy groups proliferating and causing huge harm. Meeting a so-called life coach once at a party, I was almost recruited too, but I’ll save that story for another time…
There’s no doubt that talking therapies have huge advantages for those who seek it out from qualified professionals, but as I buried myself in the troubling world of unlicensed therapists, I knew it was rich ground for fiction. I couldn’t shake the haunting perspective of a mother, Anna Finbow, who had lost access to her daughter; the utter powerlessness she might feel and her sense of vengeance towards the woman she believed had poisoned her mind and stolen her only child away.
But as I started to sketch this out, crafting a public libel trial between Anna and Jean, narrated by Gus, supposedly an innocent bystander, a lingering thought remained: shouldn’t it be ambiguous? What if Jean’s victims were actually better off without their families?
Authors are driven by unreconcilable questions. In the mad-dog feat of endurance that is novel writing, it’s the not knowing that keeps us going: How would it feel to hear your adult daughter testify against you in court? What circumstances would drive you to sever yourself entirely from those you love? And just how precarious is the line between healing and harm?
Even after years of writing, these unsettling questions don’t seem easy to answer. I can’t wait to hear your discussion and reactions to them. You are all my midwives, and I am keeping my fingers crossed for a smooth delivery.
Philippa xx
