The agony of reading Hilary Mantel

It is dispiriting being an also-ran. Setting yourself up as a writer takes hubris. It is a wild and outrageous claim that you have something to say, in a voice worth being amplified. Then along comes Hilary Mantel, and you realise with deadening clarity — you have little to say, badly.

Earlier this month, The Mirror and the Light, the concluding part of Mantel’s Tudor trilogy, was published. You might have noticed? It is a titan. A book adored by critics which will be bought by actual readers. It sends ripples through social media. Have you read it yet? Have you got it? Have you seen the size of it? My writer friends, most of whom write historical fiction, are in a froth.

There is a particular kind of anguish when the book, which is the size of a small car, is finally in my hands. As a reader, I’m transported. It’s beautiful. The title page is lush. I linger on the dedication. I allow myself a small daydream where the dedication is to Antonia Senior, friend, confidante, fellow enthusiast. I read the first line. Please don’t let it be a disappointment: ‘Once the Queen’s head is severed, he walks away.’

It is perfect, and I am relieved. I don’t want this book to be a letdown. Perhaps I’m carried away, but historical fiction has been the reading soundtrack to my life. We love the books best which we loved as teenagers. My adolescence was shaped by the greats of historical fiction: Mary Renault, Jean Plaidy, C.S. Forester, Marguerite Yourcenar, Robert Graves, Patrick O’Brian.

When I started writing fiction there was no question what I would write: historical. I have published two books set during the English civil wars, and one set in 12th–century Scotland.