Writing London Calling

London Calling

A behind-the-scenes look at writing through grief.

How I wrote a story about two characters experiencing the grief of losing a parent when the sting of losing mine is still fresh.

With great difficulty. Often through tears. But…always with care.

Grief is strange. It doesn’t move in a straight line—it lingers in the corners of your mind, waiting for a scent, a song, or a quiet moment to pull you right back. When I write, I can’t help but bring pieces of myself into the story, and this time, it was the ache of missing someone I love beyond words.

In London Calling, those pieces found their way into Aaron and Jasmine’s journey. I poured my own raw edges into the spaces between their words, the silences in their conversations, and the moments they choose love in spite of the loss. It’s a story about family, love, and self-discovery—but it’s also my way of holding my grief in my hands and turning it into something beautiful.

I hope I did it justice.

LONDON CALLING
Here’s an excerpt:

And there it is…the condolence.

They come often and unexpectedly when you lose a parent as a child. People ask about your mom, and they don’t expect the answer you give. She died when I was five.

Then comes the pause. The widening of eyes. The quick intake of breath, as if they can inhale the shock away. And always, the soft, automatic response—Oh, I'm sorry.

I nod. I say thank you. I reassure them, as if it’s my job to make them feel better about my loss. And then, just like that, I move on. But the moment lingers, the reminders settling into my bones. She's gone. She’s been gone. And somehow, it’s still a surprise to people. Amara has many more years of experiences like this to come.

When you’re young, condolences follow you like a shadow. People whisper about how sad it is, how hard it must have been. Teachers, parents of friends, even strangers—always an expression of sympathy, an acknowledgment of absence, a reminder that my life isn’t quite normal.

But then you grow up, and something shifts. People stop offering condolences when they learn you’ve lost a parent. Maybe they assume time has softened the edges of grief, that by now, it’s simply a fact of life. But losing a mother at five isn’t the same as losing her at fifty. There’s no lifetime of memories, no decades of love to hold onto. Just fragments. A laugh I think I remember. A scent that fades a little more every year. A voice I can no longer quite hear in my head.

When you lose someone young, you spend the rest of your life knowing they should have been here for every milestone. Every birthday. Every achievement. Every quiet, ordinary day.

So yes, I know she’s gone. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known how to speak. But every unexpected condolence is a reminder that she shouldn't be.

“London Calling” is a standalone, marriage-of-convenience, contemporary romance.