I have recently become the author of three award-winning books which were originally inspired by my love affair with France and French culture. In part, I attribute my present literary accomplishments to the experiences I’ve been privileged to have over my long and eventful life.

Fifty years ago, I was a pampered Northwestern University coed sailing to Paris on the ocean liner France to spend my junior year abroad to earn a certificat du premier degré at the Sorbonne. Next, I was a happily married wife and mother in suburban New Jersey, raising my family, tutoring French and exhibiting my paintings in local art shows.

Then, I became a small group tour operator, escorting trips to France and India, around the time of my divorce which took place in Florida where I had moved with my soon-to-be-ex-husband.

While working, I had a torrid affair with the handsome French tour bus driver under the noses of the clients. (I wish, but my heroine, my alter-ego, Barbara, does.)

Tour over, divorce finalized, I became the proud owner of an 18th century farmhouse (‘needs work’) in a teeny French hamlet. I pursued other romantic adventures in Paris and the provinces, searching for a fun, ‘Monsieur Right’, and looking to redefine myself in the process.

Back in Florida for the winter, I opened a little art gallery to display my abstract and less abstract paintings, many of them inspired by the French countryside. I met an American man who checked all the boxes, NOT the much anticipated Frenchman. I had an epiphany. This new guy was rough at the edges but his inner qualities made me happy. His edges were rough in all the right places.

The edgy man and I gave up the fixer-upper farmhouse and bought a different house in France together. This time, a medieval townhouse in a nearby Michelin-starred village and we had more adventures in house renovation. Becoming very well-integrated into our friendly and adorable village, at least as summer people, our idyllic transatlantic life was cut short after ten years by my partner’s illness and death.

I moved from Florida back to New York to be nearer to my grown sons and eventually met a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker with whom I rekindled my romantic life. He and I took up summers at the French townhouse again. He was affectionately dubbed ‘numéro deux’ by my French neighbors since he bore a passing resemblance to my partner who died. Life rolled happily and inexorably along.

Cut to the present moment when I am writing this biography lying on my sofa in my Queens, New York, living room overlooking the Manhattan skyline or in Montpezat de Quercy, France, overlooking the Pyrenees, take your pick. From the vantage point of my present 70 years of age and experience, I have come to at least two realizations (many more, but I’ll keep it brief):

1. My life has been rather interesting. Many people haven’t had my foreign adventures. These exploits, although they seem just yesterday to me, now took place in another time warp. This adds an anthropological aspect to my love story. It is nostalgic, not only to me, but to everyone. It’s a romance and everyone loves a happy ending.

2. Painting is physical work. I am (slightly) less peppy. Writing involves less jumping around than applying paint to the canvas. Both pursuits can involve wanting to tear your hair out and getting up late at night in the grip of a ‘great’ idea, but there are no brushes to wash when you are typing.

The aforementioned being acknowledged, I decided to unleash my creative juices on the computer keyboard instead of the stretched canvas. Hence, French Lessons. I had so much fun and felt so full of ideas writing the first book, that I created a series of mystery/thrillers in order to continue writing. These books are the cozy mysteries, Missing and Vanished. Lost will be published in 2025.