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How often do you re-read your published books?

There was a wonderful admission from PD James that when she was going to the US to talk to various groups of students who were studying her books, and since it was a long time since they had been published and they would have read them meticulously quite recently, she thought she ought to renew her own acquaintance with them on the flight across. History doesn't relate which book it was, but when she reached the denouement she found that she had misled herself so completely that she got the murderer wrong.

I have to say I have more than once been put on the spot by a reader who has asked a question about a particular character ( not one of the principals) in a book I have written some time before and I have to ask for a resume before I can hope to answer it since it's obviously much fresher in their mind than it is in mine.

To be honest, I can't remember when was the last time I re-read one of my books. I'm not quite sure why: part of it, perhaps, is that having read it at least 193 times before it went to my editor, and at least twice before the hardback publication and again before it went into  paperback, I don't feel it holds any surprises. But the other part, I think, is that once I have started on a new book I just don't want to.

In the first place, when you're writing a series the characters develop, shaped by their experiences. Marjory Fleming in Cold in the Earth is not the same woman as she is in The Third Sin, years later, so it is confusing.

And then there is writer's insecurity. A book that has been published successfully, with readers who love it and a publisher who wants the next book, a book that is on the shelves in bookshops just like a proper book,it looks very different from the book that is still on the computer, the book that still needs to be finished and edited – a flimsy sort of thing.

On the odd occasion when I have re-read one of my books, I've quite often found myself thinking, 'Good gracious, where did that come from?' And then, as I work to pull all the bits of the new one together, it starts me thinking, 'And what if it doesn't come from there again?'

So my books sit there on the shelf, and I like to look at them. But I don't often read them.

Phyllis Dorothy James – In Memoriam

The crime-writing community was plunged into sadness this week, along with her millions of readers across the world, when PD James passed away 'quietly'. How like her that was!

I first met her through her books which were to my mind everything a crime novel should be: elegantly written, cleverly plotted, with always a sub-text of convincing psychological and social comment. She was my literary idol and – unlike most idols who are in general subject to feet-of-clay syndrome – she was, when I was privileged to get to know her, every bit as clever and charming and interesting as I could have hoped she would be. And unlike many much less successful writers, she never trailed the clouds of glory to make you conscious of her worldwide fame.

She was also very funny, with a good line in terrific jokes, and she loved to laugh. I treasure the memory of a conversation when we were recalling to each other the Peter Cook and Dudley Moore sketch, 'One-legged Tarzan', with us both saying in chorus, 'I have nothing against your right leg. The trouble is – neither have you,' and Phyllis laughing till the tears ran down her cheeks.

She was the sort of person who spread happiness but there was a steely side to her too. When at the age of  89 she was guest editor on the BBC Today radio programme and was given the chance to interview Mark Thompson, the then Director General of the BBC, she had him wriggling like a worm on a hook. Their encounter was a joy: the  answer that began, 'Well, I mean, it - it- I - I've' was fairly typical of his responses to her merciless questions about over-staffing, ridiculous salaries and unworthy programmes – she highlighted 'Britain's Most Embarrassing Pets.' You could almost heard the applause from listeners up and down the country.

The joy in writing was something that never left her. When I last saw her a few months ago she was definitely frailer, finding it more difficult to get about, but her enthusiasm was undimmed. She was, she told me, starting a new book and she was excited about it. I did ask her how she'd felt about the television production of her previous book, Death at Pemberley, and she replied, with characteristic restraint, 'Well, darling,' my agent just said to me, ‘When it's sold, it's sold.’

There have been pages of obituaries and affectionate tributes to her in every newspaper, outpourings of reminiscences in the media. She was greatly loved;  a shining light, as more than one person has said. I will miss her very much, but I still can't believe how lucky I was to have known her as a friend.