I Was Wrong

 

I don't want to read books written by a favorite author with some other writer. Sorta like having lunch with a best friend and have another person bust in and interrupt.

Thus, when I started Mad Honey by Jodi Picoult, whom I adore as a writer, I was a chapter into it before I saw that Jennifer Finney Boylan was also a writer. By then I was hooked.

The books I like best are those I live in. I've been a librarian at the American library in Paris in WWII. (I actually did a reading there, but right before Covid) I've eaten bread in Roman times, walked across the Pyrenees escaping the Nazis, lived in Palestine. In New Hampshire, I raised bees in Mad Honey.

Besides the story and as a writer, I was intrigued in how the two writers worked together. They told me in the notes. Try as I might I couldn't figure out who typed the original words, corrected typos, rearranged sentences, added a detail.

Several characters, flashbacks worked on two levels . . . for me as a reader while admiring them as writers, craftswomen.

I want to fly to New Hampshire some day when I can reenter the United States, and sit down with the characters. I want to ask Olivia, Jordan, Asher, Ava what has happened to them since the book ended.

It's 8:55. My husband is walking Sherlock the dog and buying fresh bread from the boulangerie. I'll shower, we'll have petite dejeuner before going to l'Hostalet for our morning tea and hot chocolate. We may see neighbors who will join us. This is not an interruption. 

My husband and I need to get back to our writing at some point. Olivia, Jordan, Asher, Ava are still with me, a reminder that I was ever so wrong about jointly written books.