Now it’s 2017, and James re-emerges as Jimmy, a pension-less, homeless war veteran in Montreal, who has those 11 days back. He never got over being recalled to the army early, even though by the time he made landfall in North America, he’d made a meteoric rise to Major General. But that same year, the British switched to the Gregorian calendar, and eliminated eleven days in September, corresponding to Wolfe’s getaway along the banks of the Seine. In September of 1752, James Wolfe was a young British soldier already exhausted by battles against the Jacobite Rebellion and in the War of the Austrian Succession. He was granted a leave to Paris where he planned to fill his days with dance, poetry and music. Lost in September, Kathleen Winter’s second novel, mines this same disorientation, and invites readers to the party, plunging them quickly into a rewarding uncertainty: where’s the boundary between fact and fantasy, past and present, trauma and normalcy? Sure, the body makes a sandwich or runs an errand, but the imagination’s lost in that other place, the one on the screen or page. Jarred back into their non-writing lives by something banal or urgent - a hungry child, a phone call, a kettle boiling dry - they function with their heads in a bell jar. There’s a feeling writers get after being immersed in their work for several hours. A Review of Kathleen Winter's Lost in September

Lost in september by kathleen winter