One Writer’s Story: an Indie’s Publishing Journey: Blog Books

By Kristy Tate

They say a writer is someone who writes. I started writing around age eight, as my early diaries will prove, but I didn’t begin blogging until much later, 2010 to be exact. What follows is a snapshot of my blog of the past five years.
This particular book is dedicated to the perpetual chasing of my authorship dream. I suppose for the reader and aspiring writer it would have been nice if I’d had lumped the posts into chapters of relevance, but since this is more a diary than a how-to book, I have left the posts in the order that I originally wrote them.
I don’t pretend to be an expert on anything. Nor do I claim to have had rousing success. Kipling told us that we should meet Triumph and Disaster and treat them just the same.
I agree.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristy Tate
• Release date: Feb 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386823827

Kristy Tate

Dr. Seuss was my first love. When my mom left me in the children’s section of the library I’d find Horton and the Cat. My mom hated the good doctor and refused to checkout his books. He was my secret, guilty pleasure. Eventually, I read about Narnia, Oz and Green Gables.When my mom grew too sick to visit the library, a friend brought her a stash of romances which she kept in a big box beside her bed. Weekly, this good friend replenished the box. My mom didn’t know I read her books; it was like the Seuss affair, only sexier. Reading became my escape from a horrific and scary situation. Immersed in a story, I didn’t have to think about the life and death drama taking place on the other side of my bedroom wall. Books were my hallucinogenic drug of choice. In college, I studied literature and fell in love with Elliot, Willa and too many others to mention. (This had no similarity to my dating life.)I’m no longer a child living with a grieving father and a dying mother, nor am I the co-ed in search of something or someone real, nonfictional. I’m an adult blessed with an abundance of love. I love my Heavenly Father and His son, my husband and family, my dog, my friends, my neighbors, my writing group, the birds outside my window.Because I’m a writer, I also love my characters. I adore their pluck, courage and mettle. I admire the way they face and overcome hardships. But, as in any romance, I sometimes I get angry with them and think that they are too stupid to live. At those times, I have to remind myself that they live only in my imagination, unless I share. Writing for me is all about sharing--giving back to the world that has so generously shared with me-- because I learned a long time ago that the world is full of life and death dramas. Sometimes we need a story to help us escape.And we need as much love as we can find. That’s why I write romance.I have won awards and contests, but since one disgruntled critic once told me, "If you're as good a writer as you think you are, you should show us, not tell us," I no longer trot out my winnings. In the world of storytelling, they don't really matter.

Book preview

There is an adage that goes something like this: a writer is someone who writes. I started writing around age eight, as my early diaries will prove, but I didn’t start writing a blog until much later, 2010 to be exact. What follows is a snapshot of my writing through the past five years. I would love to capture all the years before that, but I lack the patience to wade through my collection of diaries and journals, and I also suspect that no sane person would wish to read them.

I’m dissembling my blog and its posts into a few key areas of my life—family, health, writing. There may be more as time goes on—travel, money, retirement. Just like I couldn’t predict where my life would take me when I was eight years old, I can only imagine and dream of what my future holds. Since I plan to live longer than a century, I’m only smidgen past my halfway point.

This particular book is dedicated to my writing, and the perpetual chasing of my authorship dream. I suppose for the reader and aspiring writer, it would have been nice if I’d had lumped the posts into chapters of relevance, but since this is more a diary than a how-to book, I have left the posts in the order that I originally wrote them.

I don’t pretend to be an expert on anything. Nor do I pretend to have had rousing success. Kipling told us that we should meet Triumph and Disaster and treat them just the same. I agree. I’m not suggesting that anyone follow my career path. If you want to make money, sell real estate. If you love to tell stories, write books. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Writers Groups

I’m lucky for many reasons. One reason is I get to spend large junks of time doing what I love to do, and I have friends who love to do the same thing. I belong to two writing groups, one small—two gainfully employed writers and me—and one large group, the Orange County Fictionaires. In both groups, I’m on the bottom of the success totem pole, although, next year I’ll be the president of Fictionaires. You may be wondering why. It’s a fair question and I don’t know the answer, but here’s what happened.

Two Wednesdays ago, after a long tiring day and an afternoon spent with piano students who hadn’t practiced, I stood in my kitchen stirring chili, when my husband walked in. I’m thinking of not going to my writing group tonight, I told him.

Why?

There were ample reasons, lackluster piano students, chili to be eaten, TV to watch, but I said, It’s the time of year they choose next year’s officers and I’m afraid they’ll want to make me president.

Why would they?

I realized this was a very good question. After all, Jackie's published more than 80 novels, Neal has a movie deal and a gazillion awards, and last year I made $50 by placing second in a contest. Why would they want me to be president? And, furthermore, we had already decided on a president – Ben, this year’s vice-president and president-elect.

I ate some chili and went to my meeting, happy. I was happy until the break when Ben announced he is moving to Colorado. No president-elect. James, this year’s president, looked at me and said, There’s no one else. That is not true, I balked. But after a few minutes of arguing, I caved and agreed to be president of the Fictionaires.

Why don’t I want to be president of Fictionaires? Another fair question. It’s a great group. I’m in noble, talented company, and I’m honored to be among them. But, frankly, I’m tired of being at the bottom. I’m tired of the unflagging writing rejection. I’m tired of trying so hard and placing second. In fact, it’s reasonable to say that if I hadn’t been asked to be president of Fictionaires, I may have stopped going.

I wouldn’t have stopped writing since that began when I was eight. But there are times when I certainly want to stop trying so very hard.

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Monday, November 29, 2010

Orange County Fictionaires

Almost three years ago I joined two writers groups. I found both on the internet. The first group consisted of retired women, mostly my senior. We met in a lovely home in Newport Beach on the beach every Monday afternoon. The second group, the Orange County Fictionaires, met every other Wednesday evening in a room on the eighth floor of a hospital, and I had to audition and be voted in. So, I began in January of 2007 to attend both groups.

I’d been looking for a writing group for a long time. I’d taken a number of classes and workshops, but I was looking for more individualized attention. I was excited about giving and receiving feedback.

I went to one meeting in Newport and came home feeling, for a number of reasons, ambivalent.

For Fictionaires, I had to send in my material for an initial screening, and if approved, I would attend three meetings, participate in critiquing, and on the third meeting I would read aloud and be critiqued. I would then leave and be voted in or out. After my first meeting, I loved the Fictionaires. I found the members to be insightful, talented, and witty. I really wanted to join.

For the Newport group, I had to print out a copy of my work, but on the second week I had a printer problem and so I asked a woman, the hostess, if she’d mind printing out my work if I e-mailed it to her. She obliged, but somewhere in cyberspace, all my indentations and quotation marks were lost (through no fault of my own). She suggested that I didn’t belong in the group since I obviously didn’t know how to use my grammatical markers. I went to the meeting feeling annoyed with her and cyberspace. When I arrived, no one was there.

Now I was seriously miffed and offended. My temper sizzled for a day or two, but after some time, there came an overwhelming relief which puzzled me. I sent an e-mail thanking the Newport group and telling them that their time schedule didn't work with mine. A few days later, I found a message on my cell phone left on the day when I’d found no one at home in Newport informing me that our hostess had gone to the hospital in need of emergency medical care. I hadn’t been stood up as I had thought, but still the damage was done. I was glad, relieved, a little concerned, and more than a little confused by my mixed emotions. Remember, it would be at least a month before I would know if I’d be accepted into Fictionaires, and I still really wanted to belong to a critique group.

While running with my comedian son one morning, I related the incident to him and admitted I couldn’t understand my feelings. I really wanted a writer’s group, so why would I be relieved that one hadn’t worked out? I had learned from previous classes that just reading my work aloud helped tremendously and that I had something to learn from everyone. (I still believe that every single person has something valuable to teach.) Lawrence, who has to read his material before a committee each time he performs, told me that it was always stressful to share his work and if I didn’t value their opinions, why would I want to suffer the stress?

I felt somewhat better until my turn to read in Fictionaires arrived. It was a cold February night. I brought a large chocolate cake. I remember one woman told me, I’ll never tell anyone that they can’t write, and I wondered if she wanted to tell me that I couldn’t write. I read my work, and then the critique began. I felt like I’d been surrounded by a friendly group of terriers who had morphed into pit bulls. After a few minutes of their helpful and hurtful comments, I stopped taking notes. I left completely discouraged, but by the time I got home I had a telephone call welcoming me to the group.

And I have been going now for almost three years. They are still insightful, witty, and talented, and I’m grateful to be in their number.

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Friday, December 3, 2010

At Fictionaires

Last Wednesday night I read pages 10 through 20 of my novel at my writer’s group. Below is a smidgeon of the group’s response. (They actually said much more, but I have left it out for fear of being boring and maudlin. Please remember, even if it’s not reflected in this post, I have a tremendous amount of respect and regard for my fellow Fictionaires.)

Neal thought the fortuneteller was a stock character, which is a fair and true comment. I thought about changing her...still thinking.

Christine was confused by the dental office scene and she pointed out I’d used the word gnarled three times. (Actually, I’d used it 4 times. Good call, Christine.)

Michael thought that the crystal ball should shatter (I agreed.)

Terry didn’t like Emory being invisible. (I tried to clarify that Emory isn’t actually invisible, but rather good at lurking and skulking.) Later, he also commented that if he’d known my snack was so good he would have been kinder in hopes that he could have more. I told him I didn’t know he could be bought, and he assured me cookies were always a good source of payment. I find it noteworthy that (for Terry, at least) the quality and honesty of a critique can be influenced by the tastiness of my treats. Hmm.... In the future should I bring gourmet goodies for kindness or generic cookies for horrid honesty?

James didn’t know anything about being blond and smart so he wasn’t sure he’d be able to relate to Petra.

Jean thought that Robyn should say, I’ll go and wait with your sister. (Which I added. Thanks, Jean.)

Jean F. told me not to be discouraged as this was my first draft and it was sure to improve. It was actually my third draft, and I’d thought it polished. This was perhaps the most discouraging comment, although I’m sure it was said in love.

Aileen asked me what happened to my last novel. Sigh.

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Monday, December 6, 2010

Pillows

On Friday, I decided I hated my book. Totally unrealistic and pointless. Who time travels? No one. I don’t personally know anyone who’s ever time traveled even a few minutes, let alone four-hundred years. So, in an effort to make valuable use of my time, I decided to sew pillows. (My mother, a gifted seamstress, would have been so proud.)

I went to the fabric store, found fabric, cut fabric, paid for fabric, came home and put fabric on Nickie’s bed, pleased with how it coordinated with the walls, bedspread, and lampshades.

Nickie came home from school and discovered the fabric. What’s this?

Me: Isn’t it darling? I’m making pillows for your bed.

Nickie: No, thank you.

What?

I don’t want fancy pillows on my bed.

A pointless argument ensued and ended with, I’ll just put them on your bed after you leave for school. Followed by, I’ll just take them off and hide them.

All this finding, cutting, paying, and arguing has not been a valuable use of my time. My mother would not be proud. I decided I should stick with characters of my own imagination who would welcome fancy pillows with tears of gratitude.

(Anyone want some fabric?)

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Wednesday, December 15, 2010

THE EDIT

This story is based upon an experience I had after finishing my novel Hailey’s Comments. I’d made a goal to query fifty agents and after a few weeks, the rejection letters were flying in, each bringing a blow to my fragile ego. I couldn’t help but compare myself to my friends who own successful businesses, teach children, run preschools, and take in foster children- I write stories no one reads.

We were vacationing in the San Juan Islands with my husband’s family. I hadn’t written anything in weeks. When we visited Victoria, BC, I knew I had to see Craigdarroch Castle.

My novel, Hailey’s Comments, takes place on a fictional island in the Pacific Northwest. The Dunsmuir home is a stone Victorian mansion, complete with turret and a widow’s walk that overlooks the ocean. (MAJOR SPOILER ALERT) In my novel, the family matriarch, Helen, is murdered by her grandson, James Dunsmuir.

In Victoria, high on a hill, stands Craigdarroch Castle, but it’s not a castle with ramparts and moat. It’s a stone Victorian mansion complete with a turret and a widow’s walk overlooking the ocean. It looks exactly as I’d envisioned my fictional Dunsmuir home. I stood outside on the grounds marveling. When I went upstairs, I read the home was built by Robert Dunsmuir and, after his death, became the property of his widow, Joan. Joan and her son James, who shares my villain’s first and last name, had a stormy relationship and were estranged for many years. At that moment, my fiction collided with reality. A reality I had no idea even existed.

Until that day, I’d never visited Victoria, to my recollection I hadn’t any prior knowledge of the city’s prominent families or of Craigdarroch Castle. I’d never heard of the real Dunsmuir family. Somehow, I had written a book based on a real place that I didn’t know had existed. I had created a villain, who lived in that real place, and named him after the real life owner of that house on a hill. And, if all that wasn’t enough, he was estranged from his mother.

As I stood on the Castle’s widow’s walk and watched the ships moving along the water, I felt a hand resting on my shoulder, pressing me forward, urging me to continue to write my dreams.

My apologies to the Dunsmuir family, I'm sure in reality James was a perfectly lovely person and if he had reasons for being estranged from his mother, I'm absolutely sure it's not because he murdered his grandmother.

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Monday, January 3, 2011

Whatfor and Whatnot about my Novel

Three of my readers gave me whatfor and whatnot on my novel. I’ll introduce them and then share their comments.

Linda, my sister-in-law, has read almost everything I have written. We share a love of Mary Stewart, a British romance novelist who had her heyday in the sixties. Linda isn’t a writer, but she is a reader and she’s a lot of other things as well: a mother of nine, a nurse, a therapist, a return missionary (of two missions). I’m a big fan of Linda and am flattered that she reads (and supposedly enjoys) my work. Here’s a bit of what she said. Just read your novel and as usual I liked reading it. In fact, I read it in just a couple of evenings. I found that like a lot of your stories the beginning seems to be a little slow, hard to understand where everything and everyone is coming from but then the story begins to unfold and the excitement of reading it draws you in and the momentum is like a train that starts slow and gains speed, faster and faster until the end when it comes to a gradual slowing down and you've reached your destination.

Because of Linda’s comments, I reworked the first chapter and deleted the prologue. It really didn’t work, but because I liked it, I hated throwing it away. I solved that problem by tucking a portion of the really good part into the fire scene near the end.

Melanie is my writing partner. We meet on Monday afternoons and Melanie is an amazingly good sport about having her children twirl around us. We take turns reading 10 pages out loud and then opine (cool word, just had to use it). Melanie, besides being a gifted writer, is a former English teacher and English major. Melanie sprinkled comments and red marks all over my manuscript, but here’s what she said about the ending, the part causing me the most angst. I really did not think you were going to be able to pull off an ending that worked, but this totally did it. Very good! Melanie suggested more internal conflict when Petra (minor spoiler alert) returns home (come on, everyone saw that coming, right?) I agreed.

Melanie and Wendy, my niece, both had problems with the swimming scene. This is what Melanie said: Why wouldn't she have gotten dressed after getting out of the water? I'd been assuming that's what she did all along, and if she didn't, I want a good reason about why she didn't. The swimming scene is important. I had intended to spill Emory’s complete history at that point, and yet, when I reached it, I decided to hold back. There are at least two more Petra books in my head and I decided not to share all my secrets at once. But because I consider it a pivotal scene, I want it to be pitch perfect.

Wendy is an English major and avid reader. She’s also number nine in a family of ten children. The Strong (yes, that’s really their name) girls are a rare and magical mix of beauty and brains. Wendy caught all sorts of grammatical blunders. I hope to hire her to edit my next book. She caught the teaser at the end and told me it didn’t work. She’s right, darn her—it needs to be fixed. Unfortunately, by the time I reach the bitter end, the last thing I want to do is fiddle with the last sentence. I’ll have to take care of it when I’m not so jaded. Wendy sprinkled my manuscript with giggles and goosebumps. I looked for those two words; they were ego soothing after Melanie’s repeated word choice and awkward.

But a good critique isn’t about applause and back-slapping. It’s about whistleblowing on stupidity, ferreting out boring bits and character deviations. It’s about catching run-ons, spicing up talking head scenes, and killing redundancy.

Although, a little applause is nice, because, after all, I just finished writing an eighty thousand