Not A Memoir by Penelope Jayne but rather:

Nine lives. Nine seasons of reinvention. One invitation to begin again.

She grew up in a school of seven.

Seven children, one classroom, and a wild imagination that nobody knew what to do with. She kept lizards and snakes, talked to animals, and dreamed in colour while everyone around her spoke in practicalities.

They said creativity was impossible.

She didn't hear them.

She became a single mother.

Four nights a week she studied while her child slept. She was exhausted, determined, and absolutely certain that giving up was not an option.

She graduated with a Master's degree and a Dean's Honour Award.

Then a man in the industry looked her in the eye and said — women belong in front of the camera, not behind it.

She picked up the camera anyway.

She photographed Van Halen.

Stage pass in hand, she stepped onto the stage at the Sydney Entertainment Centre in front of 20,000 screaming fans. The adrenalin was electric. The music was deafening.

She forgot about the time limit.

In front of every single one of those 20,000 people, two burly security guards grabbed her by both arms and walked her off the stage.

Someone in the crowd recognised her.

Way to go Penelope.

The manager threatened to destroy her film. She begged. He took pity.

The photos were published. The magazine was delighted.

And somewhere in that crowd was a man who would one day hear that story on their first date — and ring his best friend that night to say I've found the woman I'm going to marry.

She stepped off a bus in China.

She was among the first Australians ever invited into the Hipong region. What nobody told her was that 15 coachloads of Chinese photojournalists would be waiting — cameras pointed directly at her.

100,000 locals lined the streets.

Drums. Dancers. Bodyguards everywhere.

She was the first blonde, blue-eyed woman many of them had ever seen.

She did what any self-respecting photographer would do.

She started shooting.

An 82 year old man took her arm.

At Tai O in Hong Kong, a Tanka man — weathered, wise, and completely certain — reached out and took her arm. Without a word he walked her through an entire community of homes built on stilts above the river.

Some doors you don't knock on.

Some people simply open them for you.

She won a trip to Mayfair.

Fine dining in London. Dignitaries at the table. More cutlery than either of them had ever seen in one place.

Her husband Sean stared at the table setting, completely bewildered about where to begin.

She knew exactly which fork to use first.

Thank goodness for finishing school.

She was told it was impossible.

Too young. Too old. Too female. Too creative. Too much. Not enough.

She heard it so many times it almost became background noise.

Almost.

Because here is what nine lives taught her:

Reinvention is not a sign that you have failed. It is a sign that you are growing.

Creativity has no expiry date. Experience is not a liability. And it is never — not ever — too late to begin again.

This book is for you.

If you have ever stood at a crossroads wondering whether to take the next step.

If someone has told you that you are too young, too old, not enough.

If you have a dream sitting quietly in the corner of your life waiting to be noticed.

Nine Lives of an Artist was written for exactly that moment.

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