On the Sunday between Christmas and New Year, my Uncle Mark died.

It wasn’t unexpected. He was in his seventies and had been unwell for several years, but it was still a shock to lose him.

I visited him in September, and as his home in California was a ten-hour plane ride away, I knew I was unlikely to see him again. But I remember thinking how much more there was to talk about, how many more tales and recollections I wanted to hear him tell.

They’re lost now: his memories, his version of events, his own particular view of the world. I’m sad that I didn’t have a chance to learn more from Mark, but I know I should be glad for what I did learn.

If it wasn’t for my visits with Mark, I wouldn’t know about the time my grandmother saved his life from a German bomber during a walk home from school. I might never have discovered that one of my ancestors was advisor to Lawrence of Arabia, another to a king of Egypt.

I would never have heard about colonial life in Bombay in the 1960s, just as, if it wasn’t for my grandmother I would never have learnt about life in Cairo in the 1920s.

So much is lost when a person dies, and it made me realise how much I want to set down and save. In a way, it rather inspired, and this year I plan to be prolific; to write more, pitch more and submit more than ever before.

I’m doing okay so far, having finished the text for a picture book (about a rat), a short story (about a hare) and mid-way through the revision of a novel (about an elective mute). I think this is the continuation of a beautiful friendship between me and my laptop.