Katherine Alexandra Harvey’s debut novel Quiet Time tells the (non-linear) story of Grace, the wild middle child of artist parents who (mostly) neglect and (sometimes) coddle their children.

My parents bought our house when my mother was pregnant. She was beautiful in a way that caused men to fall in love at first sight. Suiters would write poems about her, moaning Jayde, Jayde, Jayde, swearing they would die if she didn’t return their affection. She was often silent, lost in a daydream, didn’t return their affections.

Grace meets Jack when she is seventeen at a party hosted by her mother “for one of her new, young friends.”

He was tall, just over six feet, with dark curls piled on top of his head. He had sharp, high cheekbones that protruded just below his eye sockets. His lips were uneven, the bottom much fuller than the top.

Soon enough, Grace is hanging out with Jack, ostensibly to buy the weed that he sells. Jack is a few years older and a painter; Grace wants to be a writer. Their dynamic is not so dissimilar from her parents and it doesn’t take too long before it’s equally as dysfunctional.

I think if I had read this novel in my twenties I would have enjoyed it a lot more. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, but I just found the characters frustrating. Well, to be honest, young and stupid. Even the supposed adults, like Grace’s parents, behave like kids. The elliptical nature of the narrative made it virtually impossible to really settle into Grace’s story, which is told in vignettes. Perhaps that’s the point. Being a young adult isn’t pretty, I know, but it was hard, as a person in my 60s to really relate to any of these characters or their decisions.