#1 Why France? Why Now?

Dear A-lister,

There are, objectively, eleventy billion beautiful places to write.

Florence in spring. Sydney harbour. Hydra’s blue-white dazzle.

My own desk, with white bifold shutters overlooking a travertine terrace, clipped green hedges, blue, blue sky. Some washing.

All heaven.

So why France?

Shhhh my inner sparkle fairy has already packed. Saying no could cause a full diva meltdown.

But why now?

Because when I told her I must stay at home and keep grinding out book promo posts, she arched an eyebrow and said, really? You call that a plan? Death by marketing?

Both books can live without me—both still bobbing around now and then at #1 on Amazon—fifteen months since publication for Hydra in Winter and nearly four months for Son of Hydra. Thanks to you lot, sweet reviews keep rolling in and both are sporting a gleaming medal from the Global Book Awards. Word-of-mouthing is working like a a dream, and I’ve done so many victory laps the living-room rug has wheel tracks.

In other words, the full-on pom-pom-waving rah-rah machine has hijacked my entire existence and is running at peak obnoxious volume. Send help. Or champagne. Preferably both.

Truthfully, it all makes me a little weary.

Not of writing—never of writing. If no one else ever read another word I write, I’d still keep writing this stuff. Doing it makes my heart soar o’er the Elysian fields and foaming waves.

The endless hustle of selling books?

Not so much.

It’s the relentlessly enthusiastic (and never look desperate) posting, emails, Amazon ads, nudges, algorithms, me bursting onto your screens with a superimposed book cover with all the appeal of a lukewarm prawn cocktail left out in the sun. Honestly, my Eveready promo battery isn’t just low—it’s flashing the international symbol for toxic biohazard.

On top of that, a few weeks ago my laptop dramatically self-destructed mid-sentence. Mid-sentence! I couldn't even think without it, let alone write. For days, I cleared cupboards. Sorted drawers. Reunited plastic Décor containers with their forever lids. Washed John’s croquet hat. It was oddly peaceful.

But the fairy rolled her eyes and said, ‘Shell. Sweetheart. Put down the microfibre cloth. Stop folding tea towels. Go stare at some French walls.’

It was the word French that got me. Hence France. In April.

I come bearing written permission—for myself, on exquisite deckle-edged paper with a little gold foil sticker—to go to France and do gloriously little. And definitely no book promotion.

A soft refresh. Ohhhhh. Bliss.

I’ve tasered my brain to try to stop it from concocting one of my ADD spreadsheet itineraries. Hasn’t worked but I’m fighting it.

Our sole agenda (yours and mine) will be baguettes, beauté, and breathing.

First stop: see the gorgeous tiny tower behind La Maison Rose in Montmartre? Shivering with Virginia creeper? Drop-dead chic appartement. For us.

We’ll breakfast overlooking the Montmartre vineyard to the smell of freshly baked croissants exploding in a million buttery flakes all over my cashmere jumper—pronounced, in my best husky Greta Garbo voice: gashmeer pullovairrrr—with coffee strong enough to wake a corpse, and, if the gods are kind, an accordion wheezing ‘Je ne regrette riens’ in the street below.

We’ll pretend we’re not already regretting the second pain au chocolat.

Late afternoon will see condensation sliding down our cold verre de champagne, pâté de canard will be slathered on crisp toast, and everything else dipped in that soft velvet light peculiar to Paris.

Paris. A whole week with our I’ve-got-to-make-every-second-count button sticky-taped over.

When we are properly francophillically catatonic, you and I will be whooshed away by TGV to a 15th-century manoir in the Pays de la Loire with writing retreat legends Lisa Howe and Scott Stavrou of WriteAway Europe. Stone walls thick enough to muffle the groans of my non-existent writer’s block but let’s not be a smarty pants. A chef who speaks fluent hollandaise. Morning authorly chats en groupe overlooking the garden. Afternoons of heroic writing, heroic napping, or meandering through meadows. Dinners that deserve sonnets. Laughter. Wine.

The heated indoor pool I will regard from a safe, dry, dignified distance.

photo credit: Jardin Design

And finally, after the Pays de la Loire, the posh town of Chantilly—a gentle decompression chamber before the long flight home. With those absurdly perfect gardens that make Versailles look like a council park.

Throw in the trip highlight—a Chantilly cream-whipping class. Ladies and gentlemen, choose your whisk. Then I'll rush back to the computer to betray every sacred proportion of cream:sugar:vanilla so we can all go down in a glorious, artery-clogging blaze of glory together.

John is staying put in Oz, happily orbiting his own galaxy. We’re not joined at the hip. Only the spine. He said, ‘Yes, go,‘ before I’d finished my sentence. Legend.

When I’m away, he’s always available to chat on the phone without regard for the hour of day or night. But Installing WhatsApp on his phone will cause a mutual meltdown. Him holding it behind his back yelling don’t clog my phone with that s..t and me yelling it won’t hurt I promise.

Now for writing news, because you’re still here reading, and I love you for it.

Daughter of Cork—Mary’s story, Ghikas’ wife—is galloping along, and she’s fierce and funny and dictating faster than I can type. I’m having the best time—it’s like sitting down with someone who knows the ending before you do. I keep snort-laughing at her lines.

And I’m writing another memoir at the same time—with the working title After the Sensible Years. You heard it first here. It’s a bit about my life and a bit about what do you do when the world hands you the beige cardigan of old age and says, here, darling, settle down, your adventure is over.

The answer is, obviously, lunge at life like Colin’s dog Jack when he spots a bush turkey. Or inhale an alarming number of éclairs. Or bash your head against a wall—preferably French—and repeat over and over that sensible is absolument passé.

The book is whispering to me to live it as I write it.

So, let’s go!

I'm drop-kicking the hamster marketing wheel into next year and putting my brain into neutral. Despite my natural tendency to belt around a city like a caffeinated tourist bus, this time I intend to stay mostly on the quiet side of the butte. Except for… No. You’ll have to wait. You know I make plans so I have something to break. Expect letters that start, ‘I was supposed to—, but—.‘

Flexibility is my only firm commitment. And even that is negotiable.

I’ll send despatches/letters/emails like the old days. When the mood or sufficient wine overtakes me. I’ll almost certainly get lost, mangle my French vocab, and buy a few shopping bags of chouquettes.

Now excuse me while I go and powerwalk up a few hills—from what I remember, Montmartre is mostly vertical inclinations. And cobbles. But you don't have to worry your pretty little head about that. I'll do the climbing for you. Or stay at home and eat foie gras.

In the meantime, I'm sending you industrial quantities of joie de vivre, a soupçon of terror, and my eternal thanks for sticking around. And remember what Ernest Hemingway said. There are only two places on earth we can live happily. At home and in Paris. If he didn't say it, he should have.

I'll send another letter with more details before I leave on 11th April.

As always, I wait you. Toujours je t’attends. This time, in France.