The reading went well, despite the fact that I was missing page 3. Just before I left home, I told my son Ian that he would have a bit part — a memory about reading ‘Charlotte’s Web’ to him. ‘You didn’t read that to me!’ he said. ‘I read that myself.’ Anxious for truth in memoir we agreed that I did read Roald Dahl’s ‘Danny: Champion of the World’ to him. Ian’s 14-year-old face softened at the memory. It was the first time for both of us and we loved Danny. I rushed to my computer, made the change and somehow failed to return page three to my pile. I managed to ad lib and pick up the story line fairly seamlessly, but I hope I’ll never make that mistake again!
My husband Tim doesn’t read my work. We both agreed that it would inhibit me. He’d start injecting his own version of our life in Australia and my story might become muddled. However, he does help me retrieve memories that have become cloudy over time and he is a huge support. He came along to the reading and said it felt funny hearing a story about our family out there, in public. It must have. I’ve been breathing this stuff, so I’m used to sharing. He did have one problem. I said his train ride from Connecticut to New York took 40 minutes. It took 57.
