It was in 1991 that he began to die..........the only occasion for admiring letters -- was a book about him.

It was in 1991 that he began to die. He led an active, sometimes hyperactive life as a General Practitioner and there were no signs, other than tiredness, of failing health. But in October he made an appointment at the hospital. In November, an inoperable cancer was found. And by mid-December he was dead. He was seventy-five, an unsurprising age for a man of his generation to die. But nothing had prepared me. To lose a parent had been my biggest childhood dread, and though forty years old, with a wife, a job and children of my own, in terms of emotional maturity I was still a child.

From time to time (particularly times of upset) I've kept a diary and in the three weeks between diagnosis and death -- as I shuttled by train between London and Yorkshire, or lay unsleeping in the spare bedroom of my parents' home -- keeping a diary kept me going. But after the funeral, and the cold hearth of Christmas, I sank into depression. The only solace came from memories of childhood featuring my father in good health. I began typing them into my computer.

I didn't tell anyone what I was up to. It was done blind, from a black hole without an eye for publication. But at some point I must have let on to Bill Buford, then editor of Granta, who read and printed the extract in his magazine and offered to publish it.

Around the time of publication, terrible things happened to my mother, my sister Gill and Auntie Beaty, my father's close friend. My sister's eyesight, already poor, suffered a deterioration. Then, Beaty's infant grandson was found to have cancer and seemed likely o die. And one night, my mother fell asleep in front of the television, stood up too quickly and fell, breaking her arm. She had to be pinned in several places and left her in a lot pain.

I felt guilty. I had written a book about my father and now those closest to him were falling apart. I found myself feeling paranoid. The book was praised for its honesty. By the time of the paperback, the sense of crisis had passed. Beaty's grandson was cured. Gill's eyesight stabilized. And the pins were removed from my mother's arm. So, it wasn't the book that had done the damage. As she saw it, the book might have saved her as she insisted that she should have been reading my book rather than watching television. I reproached myself for superstition and paranoia. But I never quite got over the guilt.

What did my mother really think of the book ? My mother, always a chameleon, felt ambivalent. She told some people one thing and other people another, felt one thing one day, something else the next. She would probably have preferred the book not exist; in allowing it, she may well have been indulging her only son. But she was pleased when friends told her they liked it. Once the book was published, letters began to arrive. There were letters from family and from writers I knew, but above all, there were letters from strangers. Most were people who had lost someone close to them. They read my story of bereavement and wanted to reciprocate with theirs. and I realized how many of my father's idiosyncrasies -- jumping queues and tinkering with cars -- were not idiosyncrasies at all. One reader even sent me flowers. Some even told me in their letters that the thoughts written in my books "were my thoughts, from the darkest corners of my life."

Friendships resumed as well. People who had never invited me to their parties invited me to their parties. I had taken up writing to escape my father's influence. But the only half decent thing I had written -- the only occasion for admiring letters -- was a book about him.

Summary: The narrator's dad died of cancer plunging him into depression. Unprepared he began keeping a diary and remembering memories of childhood. He type them into a computer secretly as a manuscript. This helped him to deal with the pain of death as he was still emotionally immature. Though not intended for publication, the editor of Granta persuaded him to agree for publication. But he became paranoid and guilty when bad things began to happen to his mother, sister and a friend's grandson. However, when the book was published everything turned alright. The book received raving reviews for its honesty. His mother was happy though ambivalent about the book. He received letters from family, writers and strangers who shared his loss. He also re-established old friendships and made many new friends.