Making It Up As I Go Along: A Novel

Making It Up As I Go Along: A Novel

When California-born war correspondent Saffron Roch discovers that she’s pregnant (read: knocked-up, newly jobless, and single at thirty-eight), she decides to leave Sierra Leone and surgeon Oscar DeVries, the baby’s cheating father who, despite his huge ego and surprisingly small member, had captured her heart. So Saffron turns in her backstage pass to the violent dissolution of third-world countries and returns home to Los Angeles, where she is about to inherit a beach property worth a fortune. There she throws herself into motherhood, joining a politically correct breast-feeding support group at the Pump Station. In full-blown culture shock, missing Africa, Saffron comes face to face with a group of unlikely women friends and a roomful of Scud nipples that, on looks alone, could bring any rogue nation to its knees. Making It Up As I Go Along is a dazzling debut novel that questions the very meaning of motherhood, home, and family, while offering an unforgettable look at the camaraderie of women who, across borders and generations, teach Saffron a thing or two about what matters most in life. Saffron Roch, a California native, was living her dream as a war correspondent for the Times (of London). Sierra Leone was her home, the place where she fell in love with Oscar, a surgeon working for Doctors Without Borders. But when Saffron finds out that she is pregnant, Oscar is cheating on her, and her adoptive mother just left her a $10 million inheritance, she picks up her life and moves back to L.A. But her mind is always on Sierra Leone, Oscar's infidelity, and her unexplainable attraction for another man. She faces the decision to stay and live a life of safety or risk everything and return to Africa. This novel feels like two stories in one--a sassy, satirical, and funny story of life in California, and the serious, brooding, and dire story of life in Sierra Leone. Both are interesting and engaging on their own, but together they feel too disjointed to be complete. Carolyn Kubisz Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved “In Making It Up As I Go Along a savvy war correspondent faces the ultimate challenge of single motherhood and, fortunately for her readers, brings us along for the ride. And what a ride it is, from the first hilarious account of breast-feeding with her newfound women pals until the heartwarming ending. Don’t miss this one!” —Cassandra King, author of The Same Sweet Girls and The Sunday Wife “Maria Lennon creates, with pitch-perfect details and an incredibly vivid voice, a real modern-day character who’s smart and gutsy and fallible. This is a must-read for anyone who has ever had to make a tough choice about family, career, or love. You’ll find yourself cheering for Saffron on every page!” —Lisa Tucker, author of The Song Reader and Shout Down the Moon “New mothers will surely identify with Saffron Roch’s struggle between her love affair with her new baby and her identity loss at leaving behind a worldly career. This is a compulsively readable novel with lots of laugh-out-loud insights into life.” —Paulina Porizkova, former model, current mother, and novelist An honor graduate of the London School of Economics, Maria T. Lennon now finds herself living under a heap of Disney paraphernalia in a slightly disheveled tree house in Laurel Canyon, Los Angeles, with her husband, three children, a dog, three cats, and a caterpillar named Harry. Chapter One “one, two, three—latch.” I glanced around the room, quickly taking in the semicircle of five somewhat traumatized-looking women sitting cross-legged on a carpet that smelled of breast milk and lavender. Had their babies latched? It was hard to tell without raising questions as to my prenatal sexuality. If I even mentioned the word “partner” or even worse “no partner” (as was my case), my days at the Pump Station, the holy Mecca for the politically correct, socially conscious, newly nursing moms, would be over. I looked down at Halla. She was fast asleep, curled under my heavy breast as though still in my womb, totally unaware that she was supposed to be performing on cue. There was nothing in my thirty-eight years that had prepared me for the beauty of a sleeping child in the arms of its mother. It was the face of joy and peace, as though the baby was wrapped in a shroud of faith and its soul was dancing with the angels. Unfortunately for the church, it was the kind of faith that could not be taught, bought, or guilted into. “Okay, Saffron—did I get your name right?” The teacher, an ex–Leche League representative who probably pumped milk for her teenagers’ lunch boxes, cocked her head to the side as she peered at my sleeping child. “You need to wake her up.” Both hands on ample hips. “Now.” “But look at her.” I glanced at Halla, a name that a tribeswoman from northeast Sierra Leone had given her when she came up to me, patted my cramping belly, and announced that I was not sick with too much African