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

In need

The aftermath of the flood

"You can take more if you'd like."

I lowered my gaze and continued to stuff my new-to-me purchase and packet of day-old rolls into the plastic supermarket shopping bag that I had just been given. 

My soulful tone was in tune with my sincerity.

"That is really kind of you, but I'm OK, thank you." 

Donald Bradman's birthplace

Ten minutes before, I had walked into the Red Cross Op Shop in Cootamundra and folded down my umbrella, which was acting more as a prop than anything vaguely useful, having cut short my six-kilometre walking tour of the town. It had never been anything more than an optimistic venture and I should have paid due respect to the solid black clouds that were readying to tip their warning buckets on me as I closed the front door of my camping cabin. Half-way around, I had not even stopped to go through Donald Bradman's birth house. No, 'Miss-just-do-the miles-me' had charged on, squinting through dark sunglasses at the directions on the paper brochure from the Tourist Office. Uh-huh, I see your quizzically contorted expression. Trust me, I couldn't wear my reading glasses without trip-trapping as I walked, so sunglasses it was to keep my hair from blowing in the wind and rendering me completely disoriented.

They, the sunglasses, however, were completely ineffective when it had come to re-routing the gale and keeping the rain⎯when it inevitably pelted down⎯from pressing my hair to my scalp, glueing my shirt collar to my neck and soaking silently through the unsealed seams of my boots. Did I look bedraggled? In need of care? Hungry? All of the previous? 

"Can I help you?" 

I was taken aback. Was it pity or suspicion that I detected in the voice of the lady behind the counter as I walked into the Red Cross store?

"Oh. Am I able to have a look around?" Perhaps, this was not a place for sales but a donations drop-off point.

"Yes."

I took that as a sign of warm welcome and headed deep into the store, spying a warm duffle coat from the eighties that had to be trendy again. 

"Am I able to pay with my credit card?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"Is there an ATM nearby?"

"Yes. At the IGA a couple of doors down."

Brandishing the one twenty dollar note that I had withdrawn, I re-positioned myself at the counter.

"How funny, each of my last few sales has been for fifteen dollars. I'm not sure that I can fit your jacket in a plastic bag, but would you like some bread?"

Mid shoving - yes, this jacket would fit - I worked my way slowly through the logic of her words and turned to survey the wrapped baguettes, packets of rolls and loaves of bread that were along the bench from me.

My hesitation lasted long enough to avoid the need to reply.

"It's free."

How could I say 'no'? I picked up the packet closest to me, pushing it in with my jacket and turned to go, refusing the offer of more.

Hours later, in an unfamiliar bed and through the haziness of my freshly found sleep, I detected movement and sound nearby.

The knock on our door came next.

"The river has burst its banks and the campground is flooding. You will need to evacuate." The voice was that of a local policeman.

"Now?" my husband enquired.

"Strongly recommended."

I jack-in-the-boxed up, pulled boots on over my sockless feet and threw as much as I could grab into the car with water lapping dangerously at its doors.

The sun taunted us the next morning as it revealed a damaged town in desperate need of every small financial contribution.  I'd happily wear second-hand every day as a choice, but I'm so glad that I put my discomfort aside and went deep into the Red Cross store.

Before the rain

Australian cricket captain walk

Map of NSW and Vic showing flooded areas in blue

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

Belonging

Our village of Talloires

The name of my blog, book and social media accounts might be misleading. After all, I am not always ... in France, Madame. But, now that I have become known as "But you are in France, Madame," I am loathe to part with this identity. I like it. And, figuratively, it is true. But, Catherine, you might remonstrate, it is a wordy title: one that is hard to remember correctly. Yes, you are right, but if people want to find me, they do.

So, where am I right now? Not France. I am an hour and a half outside Sydney. For those of you who have followed me since the beginning, you would know the twists and turns of our path since leaving France. Briefly ... Sydney, buying our beautiful French home in Talloires on the Annecy Lake, an unexpected and lengthy Covid lockdown in Sydney and our recent delayed move to the Blue Mountains.

New discoveries in the Blue Mountains

We still have our French home and we visit when we can, but our long-term future there is not as clear as when we left. Back then, we presumed that we would have a two-year hiatus in Australia before resuming our full-time French journey. It hasn't turned out like that and so we have sought interim adventures, challenges and destinations. 

Our French home

I have turned onto enough new paths to know to expect joy, reinvigoration, beauty and amazement each time ... loneliness, too, plus discomfort and weariness. That comes with navigating the unknown and the quest to belong.

In the months following our arrival in France, our first smile from the bar tender at Le Café de la Place in Menthon, an invitation to morning tea with the mayor's wife in Giez and bumping into someone who recognised us in Annecy were steps towards feeling like my husband and I were not just extras on the periphery of French life, being swept along in a fast-flowing current of change. Those interactions felt good and we deliberately sought out more. Sub-consciously, we knew that if we were feeling more confident about our new life in France, we were in a stronger position to help our children adapt and thrive.

Our first home in France - Giez

I am still looking for my signs here in the Blue Mountains. Our dinosaur shenanigans in the street brought one neighbour out for a friendly chat; we have been invited for afternoon tea and lunch; are refining where we can buy a good baguette, sit for a while over a coffee, pick up op-shop treasures, walk or ride, and collect firewood (with a permit) to avoid another astronomical heating bill. But, at the post office with my latest book packaged for a customer, I caught the eye of the girl behind the desk. There was a glimmer of recognition and a return smile. The hairdresser, too, today asked me when we were heading back to France. Very soon, I was able to tell her, happily - but my point is, she knew to ask. 

Small steps.

Thank you to all of you who have supported my latest writing project. A book with readers is like its author - much happier.

Here again are my three books. Clicking on 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
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s

And now ... first review for "With bare feet and sandy toes"

I have said on many previous occasions that connecting with people around the world has been the best part of my writing journey. Readers have (mostly!) been supportive, encouraging and generous. And, despite being competitors in one sense, authors that I have bumped into virtually or in person have been keen to share successes and eager to chat about improving our craft and untangling marketing strategies.

Reviews are critical to remaining positively visible in bookstores and on Amazon, but waiting for them to drop after a publication can be tense. Mardi understands this as an author. But, we have a lot more in common than writing and the rollercoaster emotional ride that it engenders, as she explains in her review of "With bare feet and sandy toes" (below). It can be found on her blog along with information about her books, details of her cooking classes, her newsletter etc.

If you have not yet come across Mardi on  Facebook, Twitter, Instagram may I recommend that you take a look at what she does. Right now, she is completing the final day of a six-year journey (not full-time) along the Camino de Santiago. Following her as she has walked has been a true joy, and prompted many a daydream. 

This is part of my Summer Reads series where I’ll be sharing book recommendations –  a series of “not just cookbooks”.

For Summer Reads this week, I’ve got another story that’s close to my heart!

Catherine Berry of But you are in France, Madame, and I have a lot in common. We’re both from Adelaide and both love  (and have lived in) France. A few years ago, I happened across Catherine over on Instagram (she’s also Our French Village House – another thing we have in common, rental properties in France that we operate from afar!) and downloaded her book, But you are in France, Madame and read it in one sitting. I loved that part of Catherine’s story (because I found out we had even more in common than just Adelaide and a love of France) – you can read my full review here) – and equally loved the follow-up story, Weaving a French Life: An Australian story which came out in 2020 (you can read my review here) where she describes the very delicate balance of loving two countries at the same time – something I know all too well about!

You can imagine my delight, then, when I discovered she had written a memoir all about growing up in Australia in the 1960s and 70s – what a PERFECT summer read and a trip down memory lane for me!

I read this book in one sitting thanks to jetlag, but also because it was so “more-ish” – each chapter had me nodding my head in recognition. Written to be read either as a stand-alone book to the first two or as a prelude, I’d say all the books make you want to read the others. This one completes the trilogy of Early Life – France – Australia (with her heart in France).

This book really transported me back to my childhood – the sights, sounds, and smells of growing up in Adelaide. I had to smile at SO many memories – from the warm milk “enjoyed” in the lunch “shed” at primary school, trips to the beach in summer, being subjected to confession at a Catholic school, and watching Test Cricket matches (sometimes over 5 days!) on the tv to the absolute wide-eyed wonder of a first trip to Europe as a teenager, there was SO much in here that I related to/ remembered.

Life really was simple when I was growing up in Australia and this is a very accurate depiction of that time. It’s a delightful breath of fresh air as Catherine remembers her hopes, dreams, and fears growing up in a more innocent time. For anyone who has happy memories of a simpler life as a child (wherever you grew up), who wants a book that will put a smile on your face or who wonders what life “down under” looked like 50 years ago, this is a PERFECT beach, couch, porch, backyard, plane or train read for the summer!

Thank you, Mardi and congratulations on your Camino journey. One day to go ...

Here again are my three books. Clicking on the links should take you to where you need to go wherever you are in the world to make a purchase.

Merci et bonne lecture

• 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