Arts & Literature
![Jacqueline Winspear - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001JP8DJK.jpg)
This Time Next Year We'll Be Laughing
A 2021 Edgar Award Nominee for Best Critical/Biographical
"Jacqueline Winspear has created a memoir of her English childhood that is every bit as engaging as her Maisie Dobbs novels, just as rich in character and detail, history and humanity. Her writing is lovely, elegant and welcoming."-Anne Lamott
The New York Times bestselling author of the Maisie Dobbs series offers a deeply personal memoir of her family's resilience in the face of war and privation.
After sixteen novels, Jacqueline Winspear has taken the bold step of turning to memoir, revealing the hardships and joys of her family history. Both shockingly frank and deftly restrained, her story tackles the difficult, poignant, and fascinating family accounts of her paternal grandfather's shellshock; her mother's evacuation from London during the Blitz; her soft-spoken animal-loving father's torturous assignment to an explosives team during WWII; her parents' years living with Romany Gypsies; and Winspear's own childhood picking hops and fruit on farms in rural Kent, capturing her ties to the land and her dream of being a writer at its very inception.
An eye-opening and heartfelt portrayal of a post-War England we rarely see, This Time Next Year We'll Be Laughing chronicles a childhood in the English countryside, of working class indomitability and family secrets, of artistic inspiration and the price of memory.
"Jacqueline Winspear has created a memoir of her English childhood that is every bit as engaging as her Maisie Dobbs novels, just as rich in character and detail, history and humanity. Her writing is lovely, elegant and welcoming."-Anne Lamott
The New York Times bestselling author of the Maisie Dobbs series offers a deeply personal memoir of her family's resilience in the face of war and privation.
After sixteen novels, Jacqueline Winspear has taken the bold step of turning to memoir, revealing the hardships and joys of her family history. Both shockingly frank and deftly restrained, her story tackles the difficult, poignant, and fascinating family accounts of her paternal grandfather's shellshock; her mother's evacuation from London during the Blitz; her soft-spoken animal-loving father's torturous assignment to an explosives team during WWII; her parents' years living with Romany Gypsies; and Winspear's own childhood picking hops and fruit on farms in rural Kent, capturing her ties to the land and her dream of being a writer at its very inception.
An eye-opening and heartfelt portrayal of a post-War England we rarely see, This Time Next Year We'll Be Laughing chronicles a childhood in the English countryside, of working class indomitability and family secrets, of artistic inspiration and the price of memory.
Editorial Reviews
A 2021 Edgar Award Nominee for Best Critical/Biographical
Fall 2021 ABA Indie Next Reading Group Selection
An IndieNext Selection for November 2020
A LibraryReads Selection for November 2020
Praise for This Time Next Year We'll Be Laughing
"The author of the Maisie Dobbs series of cozy British mysteries picked hops as a young girl to help support her family, which struggled to subsist in the hardscrabble landscape of rural Kent. This childhood memoir, though frank in its details of postwar privation, is at heart a love story-her parents' love for each other, and hers for them and the meaningful life they gave her."
-The Wall Street Journal
"The best-selling author of the Maisie Dobbs mystery series pulls back the curtain on her hardscrabble postwar childhood in rural Kent, England, in which bitter poverty was offset by good cheer and family love."
-The New York Times
"I fell in love with Jackie Winspear almost at once, right there on Page 24 of her engaging, amusing and moving memoir of growing up in the post-World War II English countryside . . . You don't have to be a boomer or have had a mirror experience to get pulled into the world Winspear re-creates. It's a world both nostalgic and soberly realistic, full of crystalline descriptions of the Kentish countryside and the now long-gone hop gardens that once flourished there."
-The Washington Post
"The book is heartfelt and humorous, poignant and frank, and - as with the Maisie Dobbs books - beautifully written."
-Buzzfeed
"A lovely memoir whether you are a fan of Winspear's Maisie Dobbs mysteries or not. This is her personal account of her English childhood, including the harrowing stories and trauma of the second world war on her grandparents and parents, and her young life living on farms around Kent."
-Book Riot
"Evocative . . . Walking with her through this complex thicket of rumination and reminiscence offers readers a chance to understand more about the writing process, while revealing details of a family heritage well worth recording."
-Bookreporter.com
"As we have seen in her Maisie Dobbs series, Winspear's talent as a writer shines in her attention to detail and expert depictions of the emotional impact of war."
-AudioFile Magazine
"Has there been another title this fitting to the moment released this year? I doubt it . . . An extraordinary story of a childhood that spanned huge changes in society and a family grappling with the world lurching ahead. It was the perfect read for this year."
-The Secret Library Podcast
"Jacqueline Winspear has created a memoir of her English...
Fall 2021 ABA Indie Next Reading Group Selection
An IndieNext Selection for November 2020
A LibraryReads Selection for November 2020
Praise for This Time Next Year We'll Be Laughing
"The author of the Maisie Dobbs series of cozy British mysteries picked hops as a young girl to help support her family, which struggled to subsist in the hardscrabble landscape of rural Kent. This childhood memoir, though frank in its details of postwar privation, is at heart a love story-her parents' love for each other, and hers for them and the meaningful life they gave her."
-The Wall Street Journal
"The best-selling author of the Maisie Dobbs mystery series pulls back the curtain on her hardscrabble postwar childhood in rural Kent, England, in which bitter poverty was offset by good cheer and family love."
-The New York Times
"I fell in love with Jackie Winspear almost at once, right there on Page 24 of her engaging, amusing and moving memoir of growing up in the post-World War II English countryside . . . You don't have to be a boomer or have had a mirror experience to get pulled into the world Winspear re-creates. It's a world both nostalgic and soberly realistic, full of crystalline descriptions of the Kentish countryside and the now long-gone hop gardens that once flourished there."
-The Washington Post
"The book is heartfelt and humorous, poignant and frank, and - as with the Maisie Dobbs books - beautifully written."
-Buzzfeed
"A lovely memoir whether you are a fan of Winspear's Maisie Dobbs mysteries or not. This is her personal account of her English childhood, including the harrowing stories and trauma of the second world war on her grandparents and parents, and her young life living on farms around Kent."
-Book Riot
"Evocative . . . Walking with her through this complex thicket of rumination and reminiscence offers readers a chance to understand more about the writing process, while revealing details of a family heritage well worth recording."
-Bookreporter.com
"As we have seen in her Maisie Dobbs series, Winspear's talent as a writer shines in her attention to detail and expert depictions of the emotional impact of war."
-AudioFile Magazine
"Has there been another title this fitting to the moment released this year? I doubt it . . . An extraordinary story of a childhood that spanned huge changes in society and a family grappling with the world lurching ahead. It was the perfect read for this year."
-The Secret Library Podcast
"Jacqueline Winspear has created a memoir of her English...
Readers Top Reviews
Kindle G B Nickerso
One of those authors who never lets you down. Thought she might this time, but she didn't. Thank you, again.
Eclectic, old reader
A very enjoyable, old-fashioned read. I’ve read all of her books, so it was interesting to see where her background was and where some of her ideas came from. I highly recommend it.
Dvitz
Jacqueline Winspear is a lyrical writer, one of my favorites. This memoir of her growing up in Postwar England is a wonderful read. Her early life is almost like a novel itself: Poverty, Gypsies: and Stories of the Blitz. I highly recommend it.
Mary
The memoir was excellently written -- the details and descriptions and privations of her childhood years were exceptional -- I felt like I was there. It was obvious some of her childhood has made it into some of her books - especially the hops picking. I remember in one of the Maisie Dobbs' books that Eddie and his family picked hops. Ms. Winspear is a captivating writer. I'm so glad that a friend of mine recommended the Maisie Dobbs' books to me several years ago. I have read all and am hoping there will be another soon. I enjoyed this book very much and highly recommend it as well as all of her books.
sunrise6
I reluctantly finished this memoir today, and I say reluctantly, because this should not be rushed through, but savored, like a good meal. I became acquainted with Jacqueline Winspear after reading about her Maisie Dobbs series on a British book page on Facebook. I fell in love with Maisie and the methodical, calculated way that she solves mysteries, even the most complex cases. When I learned that a memoir by this author was coming out in November, I had to learn more about Maisie’s creator and voice. Let me say, after reading, I will read everything Jacqueline Winspear has written, she is so likable, intelligent and writes from her heart. It is a nostalgic memoir, the best kind, in my opinion. Honest but real like life. I love this title and hope I can adopt as encouraging mantra for my own family to get through this pandemic. If you chose to read this memoir, you will be uplifted.
Short Excerpt Teaser
CHAPTER 1
About Me and Memories
Memories appear in flashes of light, in short scenes, in reflections that can make us laugh or bring us to tears. They might come in on a sneaker wave of grief, or be buoyed up from our past by a certain fragrance in the air, or a sound from afar. The essence of memoir, I suppose, is that it could better be described as "re-memory." We don't just look back at an event in our past; we are remembering the memory of what happened. It's a bit like putting the laundry through two wash cycles.
The whine of a chain saw in the distance brings back autumn days working on a farm close to our home in England's Weald of Kent. Mist hangs across the land like a silk scarf-not quite touching the earth, but not rising high enough to join a cloud. Sunshine filters through, grainy, as the shades of gold change with the waning day. And there it is, the whine of that chain saw. I remember, once, walking with my father across the fields close to their new home. Dad hadn't quite settled-it would take him a long time to feel anything akin to the love he had for that old house at the end of a Victorian terrace where he and my mother had lived for over twenty-four years and raised two kids. As we walked that day we found a hop bine growing through the hedge, a leftover from the days when the field had been a hop garden. (The hop vine is always called a "bine" in Kent and Sussex, and hops are grown in a "garden" not a field.) My father pulled a couple of hops from the bine and crushed them between his hands, then brought his nose to his palms, his eyes closed. "My whole childhood is rushing before me," he said. Some thirty years
later I watched as my brother threaded dried hops through the one hundred red roses atop my father's coffin. Our memories of childhood, too, were woven with the spicy fragrance of the hop gardens of Kent.
But the story really begins many years before, in London. And
not the posh part.
We are, all of us, products of our family mythology. Stories are not only passed down, but nestled in every cell. When I thought about writing a memoir, I knew I had to write my parents' story-because I am of them. Everything that happened in my childhood-every household decision, every peal of laughter and every sharp word snapped across the table-was underpinned by my parents' attitudes to the world around them. Those attitudes were forged not only in their youthful experience of wartime London, but by a few postwar years, the years when they were uprooted from family and became-in the parlance of their
time-gypsies.
But before I press the play button on that story, here's something about me and memories-my first memory is of something that happened when I was six months old, or thereabouts. I distinctly remember the scene, though it lasted perhaps only a couple of minutes. No one told me about it because no one else was there, so this was not a matter of absorbing other people's memories. The bird was there and I now believe he was a sparrow. It's a fair bet-there are a lot of sparrows about. My memory is of being in my pram. At the outer periphery of my vision I can see the edge of the hood to the left, right and above. In front of me is the handle-way out in front of me. The covers must have been close to my chin, because at the lower edge of my vision there is a white blurring, as if a blanket had been pulled up against whatever the weather was doing. Weather is always doing something in England, and in the mid-1950s, whatever it was doing did not deter mothers from putting their babies outside, even as far away as the bottom of the garden. It was deemed good for us. It was probably also very good for mothers who needed a bit of peace and quiet.
My attention had been drawn to a bird as it landed on the handle. I know I focused on it before I reached out to try to touch the bird. I remember feeling frustration because I could not control the hand, so the fingers kept going in and out of focus as I opened and closed them trying to reach the sparrow. I failed, because my hand came down and hit me on the forehead-my babyish lack of motor control. I had no words to think, nothing intellectual to trouble my new brain-but I remember the physicality of frustration at not being able to reach that bird. Then the sides of the hood seemed to close in and the outside world was pushed back.
After I wrote that paragraph, I went through some old photographs until I found one of me at that age, snuggled up in my pram, and there it is, that big fluffy white blanket tucked almost to my chin.
I have a long mem...
About Me and Memories
Memories appear in flashes of light, in short scenes, in reflections that can make us laugh or bring us to tears. They might come in on a sneaker wave of grief, or be buoyed up from our past by a certain fragrance in the air, or a sound from afar. The essence of memoir, I suppose, is that it could better be described as "re-memory." We don't just look back at an event in our past; we are remembering the memory of what happened. It's a bit like putting the laundry through two wash cycles.
The whine of a chain saw in the distance brings back autumn days working on a farm close to our home in England's Weald of Kent. Mist hangs across the land like a silk scarf-not quite touching the earth, but not rising high enough to join a cloud. Sunshine filters through, grainy, as the shades of gold change with the waning day. And there it is, the whine of that chain saw. I remember, once, walking with my father across the fields close to their new home. Dad hadn't quite settled-it would take him a long time to feel anything akin to the love he had for that old house at the end of a Victorian terrace where he and my mother had lived for over twenty-four years and raised two kids. As we walked that day we found a hop bine growing through the hedge, a leftover from the days when the field had been a hop garden. (The hop vine is always called a "bine" in Kent and Sussex, and hops are grown in a "garden" not a field.) My father pulled a couple of hops from the bine and crushed them between his hands, then brought his nose to his palms, his eyes closed. "My whole childhood is rushing before me," he said. Some thirty years
later I watched as my brother threaded dried hops through the one hundred red roses atop my father's coffin. Our memories of childhood, too, were woven with the spicy fragrance of the hop gardens of Kent.
But the story really begins many years before, in London. And
not the posh part.
We are, all of us, products of our family mythology. Stories are not only passed down, but nestled in every cell. When I thought about writing a memoir, I knew I had to write my parents' story-because I am of them. Everything that happened in my childhood-every household decision, every peal of laughter and every sharp word snapped across the table-was underpinned by my parents' attitudes to the world around them. Those attitudes were forged not only in their youthful experience of wartime London, but by a few postwar years, the years when they were uprooted from family and became-in the parlance of their
time-gypsies.
But before I press the play button on that story, here's something about me and memories-my first memory is of something that happened when I was six months old, or thereabouts. I distinctly remember the scene, though it lasted perhaps only a couple of minutes. No one told me about it because no one else was there, so this was not a matter of absorbing other people's memories. The bird was there and I now believe he was a sparrow. It's a fair bet-there are a lot of sparrows about. My memory is of being in my pram. At the outer periphery of my vision I can see the edge of the hood to the left, right and above. In front of me is the handle-way out in front of me. The covers must have been close to my chin, because at the lower edge of my vision there is a white blurring, as if a blanket had been pulled up against whatever the weather was doing. Weather is always doing something in England, and in the mid-1950s, whatever it was doing did not deter mothers from putting their babies outside, even as far away as the bottom of the garden. It was deemed good for us. It was probably also very good for mothers who needed a bit of peace and quiet.
My attention had been drawn to a bird as it landed on the handle. I know I focused on it before I reached out to try to touch the bird. I remember feeling frustration because I could not control the hand, so the fingers kept going in and out of focus as I opened and closed them trying to reach the sparrow. I failed, because my hand came down and hit me on the forehead-my babyish lack of motor control. I had no words to think, nothing intellectual to trouble my new brain-but I remember the physicality of frustration at not being able to reach that bird. Then the sides of the hood seemed to close in and the outside world was pushed back.
After I wrote that paragraph, I went through some old photographs until I found one of me at that age, snuggled up in my pram, and there it is, that big fluffy white blanket tucked almost to my chin.
I have a long mem...
