The current edition of Publishing News contains a full-page interview with me that describes the book as an unflinching, beautifully written memoir of a childhood lost to illness.
It goes on to say that in person Lavender… talks about trauma after trauma in a disconcertingly cheerful way, often punctuating her sentences with a trilling, girlish laughter. Indeed, it is hard to reconcile the happy, healthy person in front of you with the life she describes in her book.
Fair enough.
This morning James was sorting through his archives and found a photograph he took when we lived in a narrow rickety yellow house on the edge of a forest.
My misplaced husband sent money, James cooked the meals, Byron gave me rides to the hospital. We three adults living in the house took turns watching my small daughter. I was recovering from the last miserable round of radioactive isotopes, and I was so sad.
Though I never mentioned it to anyone. Why would that be interesting?
