How can you know if you’ve got what it takes?

On the way up or down?

Not many writers have the career highlights to which Jack Heath can lay claim. Notably, how many of us have submitted a manuscript, our first, and had it picked up by a traditional publisher? Quite a few, you might suggest. Yes, yes. But how many of those lucky ones had their first manuscript picked up by a traditional publisher at the age of seventeen? I wouldn’t have a clue. But, of those who had their first submission selected for publication at the tender age of 17, how many have had that same book go on to become an international bestseller AND be named Young Australian of the Year for good measure a few years after that?

Hmmm. I would guess not many. Certainly not me on any of the counts.

 

I listened to Jack speak from the middle of the jam-packed dining room at the Carrington hotel in the Blue Mountains a few weekends ago. Microphone in hand, I was doing my best to blend in, fade, and jump outstretched legs to avoid undue intimacy, whilst attempting to reach those in the crowd who wished to ask a question of the esteemed speaker.

 

Audience member: Excuse-me, you’re blocking my view. (that was to me, not Jack)

 

Me: Oh sorry.

 

Audience member no. 2: I can’t see now. (that, too, was to me)

 

Me: Ah. Got it.

 

“Your turn now” (again, me, whispering as I placed the microphone in a different audience member no. 3’s hands and stood back to block the view of yet another)

 

Audience member no. 3: Jack, can you tell us how you navigated that period of not knowing whether you could do it? It is easy for you now that you have ‘made it’ as an author, but back then, can you tell us how you felt and what you did specifically to help with that feeling?

 

Jack: (laughing gently) I’m not sure that you ever feel that you have ‘made it.’ Today, this very second could be the zenith of my career. But, let me tell you that after the success of book one, books two, three, four, five, six and seven* were all flops.

 

Deep in contemplation of that number of failed manuscripts, I must have missed the next bit where presumably he spoke of his emotions and then said what I have heard over and again from writers about writing being his life, his incapacity to not write, or the urgent need to write …or maybe not.

 

I re-connected when I heard the word lunchbox (food tends to get my attention) and lost focus again for a few seconds. It was mid-morning after all.

 

Jack: I realised that I needed to be honest about my journey for those who are trying to get somewhere (I heard him say after having metaphorically consumed a pickle-and-mortadella sandwich of my husband’s school days).

 

Kind. That is so very reassuring. Now, all the budding writers in the audience (most I’d say) can feel confident that if their treasured words are not cutting the mustard with the industry gatekeeper publishers right now (or on their next six or seven attempts), when they get to their 40^th, 50^th or 69^th published book, like Jack, they can look back on his encouragement to just keep going and nod sagely.

 

Oh, I forgot to say that Jack’s first crime thriller was voted one of the 100 best books of all time … twice. 

 

*I might have lost count here

No, I am not up to number 69, but my 5 books (including Books 1-3 in my 'French at Heart' series celebrating my French-Australian life) are linked below.

The links should take you to where you need to go, wherever you are in the world, to make a purchase.

• But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps
• Weaving a French Life: An Australian story
• Love, fear and a return to France: A family memoir
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s
• Talk and Play with your Child in French

How difficult is it to do nothing?

The bright orange flickers behind the solid oven door in the kitchen looked to be up to the task. The thermometer, unmoved at 13.9 degrees Celsius, stated otherwise.

We had had notification of this power outage three times previously with three subsequent reprieves. So, I was mildly optimistic that life on this cold winter’s day in the mountains would again be uninterrupted.

Nonetheless, cautious, and not at all interested in testing my spartan capabilities in freezing water, I showered early, ran the dishwasher, and set the washing machine to finish before 8 am--the scheduled electricity cut-off time--then boiled the kettle and filled a thermos ready for an instant morning coffee (not my first preference but ‘faute de grives on mange des merles.’)

 

This time, however, the notice was spot-on. I hot spotted my phone to my computer and started work as normal. Bzzzz, the battery exhausted-blackness stopped me mid-sentence, a couple of hours later. My phone, already on low power mode, was threatening to following suit. I’m a problem-solver, I thought. I’ve got this. There must be a solution.

 

Perhaps I could sit in the car with the engine running as it re-charges my phone? Ugh. Out of cars this week. To the angst of its owner--me--one of our cars had happily taken up residence at the mechanics four weeks ago and seemed to be happily living out of home with no thought of resuming co-habitation with its parents. Wait, was I still talking moving vehicles here? Its sister (of the mechanical kind) had left home at 5 am on its way to work this morning.

 

Neighbours? Nuh-uh. They’re in the same powerless boat.

 

Hmm. Can’t work, can’t study Italian online, can’t type up a quick blog entry … what to do?

 

Soothing rom-com or documentary set in Italy on Netflix? Whoops. Please forget that I even mentioned that energy reliant device.

 

Walk the dog? Walk to a café? That would be a most satisfactory option if my back hadn’t sent me into spasms yesterday. Hopefully, that inconvenience will disappear less stealthily than it arrived.

 

Food? I knew there was an answer. Standing with the fridge door ajar, I peered for a long minute (old habits die hard) into the semi-darkness. “Yay,” I cried out. “I spy some, hmm, cold soup.” Not a wonderful winter warmer. But Catherine, I reasoned, calling on my latent warrior inclinations, there is more than one way to plumer un dindon, d’éplucher l’abricot, de plumer un canard … (After all, I’d rather not fouetter un chat.) I have an old-fashioned, wood-burning stove at my service.

 

What now, I wondered after I had taken a flight of fancy to our proposed Italian future courtesy of my chunky bean and orechiette soup. Ah yes. I am midway through a beautiful story. I can read. And hanging tightly onto the banister, I hauled myself step by step to my bedside table, grabbed my tome and gingerly redescended, accepting the illusory invitation proffered by the cloudless blue winter’s sky to settle on the deck outside.

But, concentrating so hard on concentrating, concentration evaded me and instead of forcing the delectation of exquisite prose, I plucked my bookmark from pages already consumed ready to tuck it back in place.

 

For my mum because I love her.

 

That--the single line on an old florist’s card serving as my marque-page--did it. I was officially distracted. But motivated too. I re-positioned myself at my desk, and searching unsuccessfully for digital confirmation of the number of hours I had left to endure before technological re-connection, threw a look over my shoulder at the microwave. Shrugging instead, I opened a notebook, picked up a pen, and started scribbling.

 

PS Stoking the fire assiduously, I have managed to get the room temperature up to 15.4 degrees Celsius.

 

Note to self: Should write freehand more often as my scrawls are becoming increasingly hard to decipher.

Catherine's books for purchase:

• But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps
• Weaving a French Life: An Australian story
• Love, fear and a return to France: A family memoir
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s

No thank you for the music

Finding the blue sky on a brisk winter's day. Holyrood Palace

Spotify CEO Daniel Ek’s comment that the “cost of creating ‘content’ is close to zero” was recently passed under my nose. On the nose, I’d suggest is more accurate. For whom exactly is the cost close to zero? Could it be that Monsieur Ek is suggesting that every minute, hour, week -nay year- that I spend as a creative, producing content, is worth nothing?

 

Today, in local news items in Australia, yet another article on the increased salaries of company directors and CEOs was waved in my direction. This, as families struggle to make ends meet, forego purchasing necessary medication, cancel their children’s dance classes and skip meals to meet their elevated mortgage commitments.

 

Is this a rant? I guess so. But hear me out.

 

I ran into a neighbour yesterday and he asked how my writing was going. He is always interested, always impressed with what I do. I told him that I am about to start work on recording my second, third and fourth books for the audio book market. Excitedly, he pointed out that he knew a fellow down the road who had a studio – a proper recording studio – that I might be able to use.

 

“That’s a lovely suggestion but, financial constraints dictate that my ‘studio’ will continue to comprise a wall of foam blocks around my desk, a blanket under my computer, curtains drawn and another blanket over my head.”

 

I didn’t go on to tell him that I had received my audio book sales report that afternoon that showed that when listeners decide to play the system, listen to a full book, return it, and get credit for it, I lose money on the transaction. I don’t just give back what I would have earned, I actually pay for their sneakiness. Neither did I tell him that it hurts when some readers baulk at the cost of a book at $3.99 but will pay $4.50 for a cup of coffee. I also really wanted to tell him what my full year’s income as a writer is, but pride stopped me.

 

I love my neighbour’s enthusiasm for what I do. I thank him for his interest as I thank and appreciate every one of my readers. Is it possible that overpaid CEOs of the world might one day value me, my output, and my time in the same way? The sad truth is that they probably won’t.

 

I guess I’ll have to continue working a second job in order to justify the hours that I spend writing and marketing my ‘no-cost’ content.

With thanks for your ongoing support, here are my books (including Books 1-3 in the 'French at Heart' series)

The links should take you to where you need to go, wherever you are in the world, to make a purchase. 

• But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps
• Weaving a French Life: An Australian story
• Love, fear and a return to France: A family memoir
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s

Bright, beautiful moment on a windy day in Edinburgh

 

 

Never give up

The last few weeks haven’t been easy, and a few nights ago I was super keen for an early night and a comforting distraction. Whilst I am reading an excellent book that would have taken me someplace else, I did what I often do and picked up my phone to scroll my Instagram feed.

“Hai le fette di salame sugli occhi.” – (You have slices of salami on your eyes) 

 

Well, OK, Instagram square. Nice of you to be so direct. Bags, under my eyes? Maybe. But salami? Isn’t that taking things a bit too far? 

 

I see (Catherine nods wisely to her empty bedroom, squinting from under her processed meat), I should have clicked on the ‘10 useful sentences in Italian’ post instead.

 

“Sonno d’accordo con te.” (I agree with you)

 

Ooh, universe, are you listening to me?

 

“Sto scherando.” (I’m joking)

 

Well, why didn’t you say so when you hurled perfectly good aperitivo fare at my face?

 

“Non ne ho idea.” (I have no idea)

 

Ouch. Sono senza parole. (I have no words)

 

That’s not true. I do have words. Lots of them today. Motivational ones. So, please do read on …

 

But what was that first Italian sentence all about? Not salami, I was pretty sure. I checked and this is what I was told.

 

“You don’t see the reality.” “Hai le fette di salame sugli occhi.” I see (I think) the connection.

 

Hang on a minute, though. Yes I do. Life is reality at the moment. I’m stressed, cold and tired and you are toying with me. I’m leaving your perfectly curated ‘learn Italian’ space. I’m away to find something more relaxing, less personal.

As luck would have it, my eyes were drawn to a picture of home, my French home, and I snuggled deeper under my quilt, clicking on the post and subsequent podcast as I did so. Minutes later, I was drifting, carried on the melodic tones of an all-too-familiar Haute-Savoyard accent as Jean Sulpice, Talloire’s very own 2-star Michelin chef, talked. I closed my eyes. 

 

As much as the listening was comfortable, I was surprised by the story. Apparently Monsieur Sulpice, who now runs the kitchen and hotel owned by previous generations of the Bise family in the most beautiful of lakeside locations, did not always have it easy. In fact, in his early days of trying to bring gastronomy to the ski resort of Val Thorens, it was not uncommon for him to have an empty restaurant and be grateful for just one customer in an evening allowing him to fire up his stoves. If not a steady stream of diners, what he did have was a dream, big portions of self-belief and an unwaveringly supportive partner. And, not crumbling, abandoning, or looking for an easier career led Monsieur Sulpice to his first Michelin star.

 

Suddenly, whereas previously he had been met with an all-too-familiar French shrug and a half-hearted but definite, “Non, ce n’est pas possible, Monsieur,” suppliers could be bothered driving up a snowy mountain to deliver produce. Suddenly, instead of battling to recruit staff, he was receiving CVs and able to make choices about who he wanted in his team, and suddenly, he was receiving letters of congratulations from the greats, the hatted and feted French chefs whom he had admired from afar.

 

I could relate. The stars I aim for are not the same and I’ll never be featured in a Michelin guide, but how often in my early authoring days did I bend over backwards to meet, greet and persuade, grateful for every titbit of encouragement and support from my readers? Daily.

 

I drifted to sleep pondering my packaged and tasty take-away. It was clear, logical and simple. 

 

Never give up.

 

I hadn’t. I don’t intend to. I am too curious for that.

Plus, with supporters who give love like this, why would I?

And, once again, with thanks for your ongoing support, here are my books (including Books 1-3 in the 'French at Heart' series)

The links should take you to where you need to go, wherever you are in the world, to make a purchase. 

• But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps
• Weaving a French Life: An Australian story
• Love, fear and a return to France: A family memoir
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s

As a special request, if you are buying a print copy of Love, fear and a return to France, I would be so grateful if you could do so through my friend Kristi's page. Kristi has provided fun, family-centred posts of her life in France in her French Word-A-Day blog for many years now and relies on reader contributions to maintain her wonderful efforts. Should you use the link above on the left sidebar of her blog, Kristi will benefit and it will be at no extra cost to you.