Spotlight & Giveaway: How to Be Remembered by Michael Thompson

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Michael Thompson to HJ!

Hi Michael and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, How to Be Remembered!

 
Thanks for having me! This is going to be fun.
 

Please summarize the book for the readers here:

This is the story of Tommy Llewellyn. On the same day every year, everybody who knows him forgets who he is – there’s no evidence that he ever existed in their lives, and he has to start again. It’s a fate he’s resigned to… until, of course, Tommy falls in love. Now he’s determined to find a way around this curse, to have a relationship, to have a job, to have a family, and – maybe – to be remembered.
 

Please share your favorite line(s) or quote from this book:

Whatever the reason, Tommy Llewellyn was completely, irrevocably, eternally in love with Carey Price. Five weeks later she would forget him, as would everybody else, but he would go on loving her. Life had plenty of cruelty in store for Tommy. But surely nothing could be crueler than that.

I love this line because it perfectly sets up Tommy’s predicament. He’s in love with someone who will forget him. Now he needs to find a way to be remembered.

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

• How To Be Remembered has already been optioned for film!
• The inspiration came from social media, and the way our digital footprint lasts forever. Plenty of people would like to be forgotten – but what if somebody just wanted to be remembered?
• It’s been compared to The Midnight Library and The Rosie Project. In fact, Graeme Simsion (author of The Rosie Project) described it as ‘original, engrossing and sweet’.
• I live in Sydney, Australia, and wrote this book while in lockdown – my first attempt at a novel after a 15 year career as a journalist.

What first attracts your Hero to the Heroine and vice versa?

Tommy is first drawn to Carey when he’s 14 and she’s 17 – and he’s attracted to her for two simple reasons: because she’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, and because she’s just nice. A kind, sweet, decent girl, who’s at the lowest point of her life. Tommy falls for her, and saves her, but because of the curse he’s living with, she forgets him (as does everybody else). But Tommy doesn’t forget Carey, and as an adult, dreams of finding her once more. And if he can, he has to find a way to make her fall in love with him all over again.

Did any scene have you blushing, crying or laughing while writing it? And Why?

Probably some of the most emotional scenes are at the beginning of the book, when Tommy is just a baby. His parents put him to bed on the night before his first birthday. They wake to find a baby in their apartment, with no idea that this little boy is actually their much-loved son. In fact, they have no recollection of ever having a child. The scenes that follow, where they insist to the police that they don’t have a baby, and little Tommy is taken off to a foster home, are pretty heartbreaking:

Inside, Tommy slept. In fact, he slept through much of his first birthday. He dreamed of his mum and his dad, who weren’t dreaming of him. And when he woke, he cried out for them. But they didn’t come.
Don’t worry though… Tommy enters the care of Miss Michelle, the kindest, most generous woman in the world, so there’s still love and hope for him.

Readers should read this book….

If they enjoyed The Midnight Library or The Rosie Project. They should read it if they like rooting for the underdog, and if they like a good love story with a thought-provoking twist.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have in the works?

I’m editing another novel! Similar genre: speculative fiction, asking a ‘what if’ question and exploring it through love, relationships and the extraordinary impact on everyday life.
 

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: A print copy of How to Be Remembered by Michael Thompson

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the Rafflecopter form and Post a comment to this Q: How would you like to be remembered?

 
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Excerpt from How to Be Remembered:

1
Leo Palmer had a party trick, although even he knew it wasn’t much of a showstopper. He could calculate on any given day exactly how long it would take the 457 bus to get from the city center to his stop at Ingleby—adjusting for traffic, weather, and an array of other complications. He could do it for other routes too, but that was barely of interest to him, let alone other people.
He’d demonstrated it once at his office Christmas party. He figured a bunch of accountants would appreciate something like that. His colleagues had been unenthusiastic, but that was a fairly natural state for accountants. Leo didn’t mind. It was the numbers that he found fascinating. The people were a distant second.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There were two people he cared about more than a balance sheet and more than the timetable of the 457. His wife and his young son sat at the top of this particular ledger, and as long as Leo Palmer had any say in it, that’s where they’d stay.
All of this was somewhat standard fare, to be honest. An accountant with a fondness for numbers was pretty normal; so too a family man who loved his wife and son. In fact, Leo’s life was actually quite ordinary—which is, really, the point: Leo and Elise Palmer were average. They didn’t do anything to be singled out for what was to come. They just were.
Of course, like any normal couple, they had their disagreements. They had one on the very day they signed the lease for their one-­bedroom flat: ground floor, weathered bricks, and a cracked concrete path with dandelions that came up to their knees.
“Jesus Christ, you’re a cheapskate, Leo,” Elise had exclaimed as she gazed at their new home. She was only half joking, and her husband rolled his eyes.
“You knew that when you married me,” he retorted, tugging at one of the weeds with both hands. At last it came free, and he threw it to the side with a satisfied grin. “It’s not forever. Just stick with The Plan, and we’ll be fine.”
“The Plan,” Elise repeated, and smiled despite herself. The Plan (it was always rendered with capital letters in Elise’s mind, such was its importance to Leo) had been debated at length. Stage one of The Plan was five years in Ingleby, two promotions for Leo, three pay rises, and then they’d move on. Stage two was somewhere else entirely: a backyard, two bathrooms, two cars in the garage, three bedrooms, and a couple of kids to fill them.
The baby boy who arrived just over a year into their lease had never heard of The Plan, and had no regard for the fact that he’d disrupted stage one. But—­and this was the biggest surprise of all to Elise, even greater than the pregnancy itself—­Leonard Palmer welcomed the alteration. It turns out that some people are just born to be dads, and Leo was one of those. He gladly revised The Plan to include a round-­cheeked, fair-­haired boy in that one-­bedroom flat in Ingleby. He also slashed two years off stage one—­determined that the cot would soon move out of the living room, and the occupant would have his own bedroom. And the backyard, and all those other things that came with being a normal family. Because that’s what they were: normal.
***
Elise knocked loudly on her neighbor’s door—­louder than would have been considered polite, but Mrs. Morrison was north of seventy and could barely hear her own TV. Elise could hear it, though, every night. She didn’t mind; it reminded her of her grandma.
The door opened a crack, and a watery gray eye framed by wrinkles peered through the gap.
“Hi, Mrs. Morrison,” Elise said cheerily, and the door opened the rest of the way.
“I’m sorry, love,” Mrs. Morrison replied. “I didn’t know it was you. Come in.” She bolted the door behind them and shifted her gaze down to the boy nestled comfortably on Elise’s hip.
“And you, you precious thing. You’re getting so big!”
Elise grimaced. The dull ache in her lower back was proof of that.
Mrs. Morrison noticed. “Put him down, love. Still not walking?”
Elise lowered her son to the clean linoleum floor. “Not yet. Soon, I hope. He’ll be the last in his playgroup to do it.”
The old woman bent over in front of the little boy, and held out her hand like she was sprinkling invisible birdseed, trying to coax him to her. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t move. If he hadn’t got up on those stubby legs for his mummy and daddy, he was hardly going to do it for the lady next door.
Mrs. Morrison straightened, shaking her head. “Give him time. My Mark didn’t walk ’til he was two. He’s not even one yet, is he?”
“Nearly! It’s tomorrow,” Elise said. “That’s why I’m here. If you’re not busy, would you like to come over for cake in the afternoon? Maybe around three? Only if you’re free, of course.”
Mrs. Morrison smiled. She loved having a family next door, especially one that made an effort to include her. Until they moved in, she’d felt like the last of her kind—­a stubborn reminder of the way things used to be. The smile faded as she remembered her own son. Mark had been a sweet boy too, and a lovely man, and it wasn’t his fault how things ended up. It was those friends. And this neighborhood. Now, every time there was a knock on the door she was sure it was the police, delivering more bad news.
“You’re still locking your doors at night, love?” she asked.
“Of course, Mrs. Morrison.”
“I wish you could’ve seen it forty years ago,” the old lady murmured, almost apologetically, and Elise needed no further explanation. Her neighbor had said this every time they’d spoken, and she knew what came next. She needed to change the subject before those faded gray eyes started to tear up.
“So three o’clock tomorrow. It’ll just be you and the three of us. Leo’s even calling in sick to work.” This was a big deal and certainly wasn’t in the original version of The Plan.
Mrs. Morrison came back to the present. “The cake,” she said. “Is your oven still on the fritz? You can use mine if you want.”
“It’s alright, I’ve already made it,” Elise told her. “It’s just the thermostat that’s busted. The edges are a bit burned, but there’ll be plenty of icing. He won’t notice.”
The boy at her feet was playing with a doorstop as though it were a rocket ship. Elise scooped him up and he waved a fat little hand at the kindly lady next door. Mrs. Morrison waved back as they left, heart swelling with the pride of an adopted grandmother. She looked around the room, wondering what she could wrap up and give him for his birthday.
She needn’t have bothered; Mrs. Morrison wouldn’t be attending any afternoon tea. Nor would Leo or Elise Palmer, for that matter. Not that any of them knew it.

***
It was long after dark when Leo’s return from work was announced by a key sliding into one lock, then another. He tiptoed inside and danced silently over the toys strewn in the entrance. He was sure kicking one—­even the barest nudge with his toe—­would mean waking the boy asleep in his cot against the living room wall. Leo looked in at his son, thumb tucked firmly in his mouth, a slight rise and fall of his chest as he dreamed. The metal bars of his cot gleamed dully in the light from the bedroom door beyond.
Elise lay on her side of the small double bed, propped up on pillows with a book in front of her. Of course she was reading; there was a mound of books on her bedside table.
“Sorry I’m late,” Leo whispered. “Big day. Think I can feel a cold coming on. Don’t reckon I’ll make it in to work tomorrow.” He winked, and his wife smiled. “I’ll be back in a sec,” he said. “Just want to check out the cake.”
He tiptoed to the fridge. A beer bottle rattled as he pulled the door open, and he held his breath.
No noise came from the cot. A minor miracle.
Leo admired Elise’s handiwork. Two plain butter cakes had been transformed into an impressive reproduction of Thomas the Tank Engine, the birthday boy’s favorite TV show. The blue frosting looked thick and deliciously sweet, although Leo suspected it might be masking some burned edges beneath. He grinned. It’d be the thermostat’s fault. It always was.
Next to a small vase on the living room table he spied the present he’d picked out. It had been carefully wrapped by Elise and now sat ready to be torn open by an excited child. He looked down into the cot, gazing fondly at his son’s sandy-­colored hair and soft, smooth skin.
“Night, buddy. See you when you’re a one-­year-­old,” he whispered, so quietly he could barely hear it himself.
Then he crept back into the bedroom and Elise switched out the light.

***
“Leo!”
He stirred.
Elise elbowed him in the chest. “Leo!” she hissed again.
“Mmm?” he mumbled sleepily.
“Wake up! There’s someone out there!” Her voice cracked with panic.
Leo’s eyes flicked open instantly and he felt a rush of adrenaline. He listened, barely moving, for whatever had distressed his wife so much.
There.
A small sound, almost like a snuffle.
Then silence.
Again, a noise. Rustling this time.
It was in their living room.
Leo had known this might happen since the day they’d moved in; an intruder wasn’t part of The Plan but had always been a footnote, the implied risk of paying a pittance in rent. He’d sometimes wondered if he’d choose fight or flight, or even option three: cower.
But it wasn’t a conscious choice at all. Without thought Leo sprang from his bed and stood at the doorway to the living room, listening hard.
He took a deep breath, reached around the corner for the light switch, and flicked it. Harsh yellow light flooded into the bedroom as he charged through the doorway, and then he stopped suddenly, blinking.
Silence.
“Leo?” Elise called shakily. “Are they still there?” Her heart was hammering so loudly she was sure Leo (and whoever was in the living room) would hear it.
Then, at last, her husband responded. His voice was strained. Confused, even.
“Come out here. Quick.”
***
A lone police car arrived just eight minutes later, its lights strobing as the driver parked without haste or care at the front of the rundown block. Constable James Elliott had only been two streets over, but was more than happy to let them think he’d rushed here. Good for the image, he thought, looking up at the low-­rise building.
He laughed humorlessly as he realized he’d been here before. Only once, though, about ten years ago, on his third day into what he was sure was going to be a stellar career of medals and honors and promotions (he’d been wrong, so far). His supervising officer had parked in pretty much the same spot, and sat in the car watching the young probationary constable shuffle nervously to the door of one of the ground-­floor flats. Blooding the new recruit with his first death knock. Elliott grimaced, remembering the old lady’s eyes filling with tears as he told her that her son had died in his sleep in a house nearby. He didn’t tell her he’d choked on his own vomit, or that Elliott thought forty-­four was too old to still be sharing a place with three other deadbeats.
He wondered for a moment if the old duck was still alive, and a moment later had his answer. Mrs. Morrison’s door opened a few inches as he walked up the cracked, weedy path. She’d seen the flashing lights while making her way slowly to the toilet. (It was nearly two o’clock after all, and Mrs. Morrison had long ago surrendered any ambition of holding on all night.)
“What do you want?” she called defiantly through the gap, almost daring the officer to bring her bad news.
“Well, there you go,” Constable Elliott muttered. “It’s her.”
“Did you call about the kid?” he asked her, voice echoing in the still night.
She looked at him blankly.
“Was there a kid here?” he asked.
The same confused stare.
“Go back inside,” he ordered.
Mrs. Morrison did as she was told. She really needed the loo.
“Good start. Door number one, a geriatric,” Elliott said to himself and checked his notepad. He knocked on the door next to Mrs. Morrison’s, still shaking his head.
It was opened by a tall man with thick fair hair, who introduced himself as Leonard Palmer.
“You’re the guy who called about a missing kid?” the constable asked.
“Well, yeah,” Leo replied. “In a way.”
“What’s that mean?” Elliott snapped, his patience already gone. Ten seconds, he thought. Might be a new record.
“We haven’t lost a kid,” Leo said slowly. “We’ve…well, we’ve kind of found one.”

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

“Original, engrossing, sweet.” — Graeme Simsion, NYT bestselling author of The Rosie Project
“Wears its heart proudly.” — The Guardian
“Sure to be a new favorite for readers who enjoyed V. E. Schwab’s The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue. . .a stunning tale” (Booklist, STARRED review) that follows a man who can never be remembered and his journey to become unforgettable…
On an ordinary night in an ordinary year, Tommy Llewellyn’s doting parents wake in a home without toys and diapers, without photos of their baby scattered about, and without any idea that the small child asleep in his crib is theirs.
That’s because Tommy is a boy destined to never be remembered.
On the same day every year, everyone around him forgets he exists, and he grows up enduring his own universal Reset. That is until something extraordinary happens: Tommy Llewellyn falls in love.
Determined to finally carve out a life for himself and land the girl of his dreams, Tommy sets out on a mission to finally trick the Reset and be remembered. But legacies aren’t so easily won, and Tommy must figure out what’s more important—the things we leave behind or the people we bring along with us.
With the speculative edge of How to Stop Time, the unending charm of Maria Semple, and the heart of your favorite book club read, How to Be Remembered is a life-affirming novel about discovering how to leave your mark on the places and people you love most.
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Meet the Author:

Michael Thompson is an Australian journalist, producer and media executive. He was the Executive Producer of the nationally- broadcast Ray Hadley Morning Show, then the Head of Content for Macquarie Media, and has won numerous professional awards including a Kennedy Award for Journalism. He now owns a podcast production company, and is the co-host of one of the highest-ranked podcasts in Australia with around 500,000 downloads per month. He has extensive content marketing experience using social media, having previously built and maintained pages with 100,000+ followers. He lives in Sydney with his wife and two young children.
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