I hope you never write another book

“Well, I hope you never write another book.”

“Thank you.”

 

Distancing myself momentarily from our conversation, I twisted, tweaked and reassessed the words, touched by his compassion. 

 

We had had no contact since our university days but, thanks to the vagaries of random social-media connections, we were talking again. And, how exciting it was to feel the power and anticipation of our as-yet-undiscovered futures.

 

Of course, we exchanged in the usual polite, but curious, way of adults. Where living? Married? Children? Work? Where are you on the life-satisfaction scale? 

 

Woah, how did we venture so quickly down that path? And, how to answer when, despite my cherished and gratifying choices, I’d rather be young and free?

 

Traveling, teaching, family, restlessness, adventure, writing … it all came out. 

 

“I have just published my third book.” It wasn’t bragging nor was it an attempt to impress. I was still in the emotional aftermath of putting my figurative pen down and in awe that my words had come for a third time. “Interestingly, all my books have come about because of sadness and struggle,” I continued. Woah, again. How had I not realised that before? 

 

I know that if our situations had been reversed, my reply would not have been so quick and probably not as thoughtful.

I don’t know whether I am an oddity in the author world, but I have not re-read or opened “With bare feet and sandy toes,” since I pressed ‘publish’ several months ago. It certainly has not resonated as widely with my readers. After all, it is not set in France. But, today, I noticed another review (below). Despite all the feedback that my books have generated, I am still bewildered that people, actual people, people who do not know me, are interested enough to pick up something that I have written and then take the time to share their thoughts afterwards. But I like it. 

I enjoyed this well-written, easy to read memoir, which is the author's third. I certainly want to check out her previous books.

Catherine tells us about her childhood, growing up in an Adelaide suburb in a strict yet eccentric family and attending a Catholic school. While it's not a particularly exceptional childhood, I liked the way that she wrote about it. The style is quite literary and thoughtful without being overly nostalgic. I'm not sure there was anything that significantly made it a 60s / 70s memoir, because she didn't have a television or know about pop music, due to an upbringing that was both conservative and not wealthy. If it had been set a decade or two earlier, I wouldn't be surprised. The same principle applies to the location, because although there are some elements which are uniquely Australian, the book doesn't dwell on Australia and so again, with a few tweaks to the text, it could be set in Britain or the US. This isn't a disadvantage and actually it helps to make the memoir more relatable. I wasn't so interested in the sports element of the book, but other readers might be.

I liked how the epilogue told us a little about her current life and the events which made her decide to write the memoir. The book overall is charming and heartfelt.

And now, for the sake of completeness, here is another recent review of my first memoir, “But you are in France, Madame.” I don’t mean to offend but, fuck, it made me laugh.

 

2.0 out of 5 stars nothing special no artwork or photos

Reviewed in the United States on February 8, 2023

Verified Purchase

I was disappointed in this book. the writing is mediocre; as if you are reading someone's journal entries. early in the book, the author relates a song, with a 4 letter [foul language] word in it, why is that even in the book?

Links below to my books. They 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
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s

Lucky is the wife whose husband is ...

Carcoar. En route to Adelaide. Note free town library

"I've finished a bit early. Are you free to pick me up?"

"Will come as soon as I can. Just helping to prepare my invoice. I didn't anticipate being here for two hours, but I got what I came for and a bit more," my husband replied.

"No rush. See you when you get here."

I tucked the phone in my handbag and, half closing my eyes, lifted my chin, filling my lungs with the salty air. Images of my last visit overlaid the blue and gold palette in front of me. There they were. My young children. Static and single-framed, like the press-out dolls of a longtime ago birthday present would have been if I had ever dared to destroy the perfection of the pages of two-dimensional paper models and their garments with tiny, hard-to-cut-out, square tabs, and hold them up to the horizon. 

It was one of those days when the insistent screech of the seagulls was unrelenting but not at all annoying, and, like my attempts to master the adjustable focus on my first real camera, the cries succeeded in blurring the past with the present. 

The footpath was bordered by a foot-high cement edge and, checking first that I was not readying myself for inclusion in a giant ant colony, I settled down to wait, my brown dress blending with the beige uniformity of the luxury apartment buildings across the road. 

Our conference chairs had been set to face the sand but between us and the rolling waves a thick blockout blind had been pulled down. Probably a good thing, I surmised, as I had lost the good student habit of sitting, listening and taking notes and was relieved when an early halt had been called to the hot afternoon session.

Photo taken at Victor Harbor. Not at site of conference.

"Do you know how many times a person looks at his or her phone each minute?" 

I smiled as, with my fingers brushing the top edge of the interior of my handbag,  I recalled my daughter's conversation starter over Christmas lunch. Plunging my hand deeper amongst the tangle of earphones, fold-up shopping bag, lip balm and dog-eared conference notes, I retrieved my phone and looked down at my latest message.

Lucky is the wife whose husband is in a bookstore 

With a slight furrowing of my brow, I glanced into the distance and back down again.

Sorry. Still haven't left as Penny, the bookstore owner, is insisting on individually wrapping each of my purchases at the same time as telling me what a lucky lady you are! Can't wait to bring you here.

D.A. Horn Antiquarian Books in Adelaide, Australia

Happy New Year. May your days be filled with the joys of an over-stacked bookstore treasure trove and the stimulating conversation of its 84-year-old owner whose answers to any question were not necessarily predicated on the essential or the related, but were eminently enjoyable (see below).

He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry,

   Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!"

To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!"

   But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!"

(from The Hunting of the Snark by Lewis Carroll)

Finally, a note for my Australian readers, I accepted an offer for a Kindle monthly deal from Amazon for But you are in France, Madame, which means that for the whole month of January, my first memoir is priced at only $1.49. I'm late, I'm late to this very important announcement, but there is still time. And, if you'd like to know the address of Penny's delightful Adelaide bookstore, let me know.

Links below to all my books. They 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
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s