books | Author Kristin Anderson

In November of 2022, I participated in one of the last NANOWRIMO writing competitions (if not the last), before the NANOWRIMO writing community closed its digital doors. What a loss! It was the first time I had ever hit the 50k word count in the competition, and I ordered the “winner” T-shirt as proof.

That was the same challenge that launched my rom-com Christmas novel. Fifty-thousand words is a significant chunk of a novel. So naturally, I thought that come December 2023, I’d have that novel all wrapped up in a sparkling red bow and announce the completion of my long-awaited third novel.

Wrong. That Christmas novel got parked in a high-ceilinged story station, next to four other manuscripts I had started and abandoned with these parting words: “I’ll come back for you! I Promise!”

The other manuscripts laughed aggressively as I said these words to the Christmas novel, and told Christmas I was lying, but the Christmas novel didn’t believe them. It looked up at me with a shiny expression, and said, “Don’t worry. You might think you’re abandoning me, but believe me, you’ll change!”

I want to write novels, I just have this tendency to put work and all other responsibilities before my own creativity. I know I’m not alone in this because there’s a whole industry built around this tendency; folks making a mint on workshops and books and courses and counseling—all focused on overcoming that human tendency to put one’s own happiness last.

Others have suggested that part of all the hemming and hawing and dodging and postponing is simply about fear—fear that no one really gives a damn if I finish another novel or not. And greater self-sabotage like, “Others are building a legacy helping the environment, funding schools in remote areas of the world, or setting up nonprofits, and all you’ve got are some romance stories to share?”

Ouch, right? But if I’m honest, I don’t think it’s fear or that mean voice in my head that belittles my work. I think it’s a problem of choice. I’m interested in so many different things! Prioritize, you say. But they’re all a priority! All important! And I don’t seem to accept that time is linear and that there are only so many hours in the day, and so many days in the year.

But the thing is, in 2025, something changed. I went to the story station and picked up my Christmas novel.

“I just knew you’d come back!” It enthused. “Remember how I told you, that you’d change? Well, you did!”

“We’ll see about that,” I cautioned. “Let’s start by hanging out this year and take it from there.”
And we did. By the end of the year, I had a completed first draft. I shared it with a fellow author for critique. I made changes.

In 2026, I enlisted a trusted circle of readers to read draft two, incorporated their feedback, and wrote another draft. I was busier than ever with my editing business, Kristin in Holland, but I gave my novel a place in the lineup. Busy people tend to be more efficient with their time—especially those with external deadlines. I simply added my book to the line up, and gave my novel the same respect I give to my clients. My Christmas novel had become an entity that I could no longer abandon.

And now, on the cusp of September 2026, my novel has a name: Yule Change: An Opposites-Attract Christmas Rom-Com with an Eco Twist.

Damn. Yule Change? Isn’t that what my novel was telling me all along? You’ll change? Sneaky how it ended up naming itself as an eternal reminder that it was right and I was wrong.

Yule change has a cover that’s currently being designed by Lina at Miblart, and it’s getting a proper layout by Hannah from Storyhouse Works. And it got a proper developmental edit in 2025 by Donna Ho of Thoughts & Plots, and it got a proper proofread by Julie Davey, editor from Lilied Sea Editing. So, you see? This novel was calling the shots all along!

And I can’t wait to share it with you. Stay tuned. Cover reveal is coming soon!

Have you ever had that experience where you’re walking through a field of lavender, your hands brushing the purple flower heads, the sun nearing the horizon as you think of a strikingly handsome man with eyes only for you? No? Me either. Yet we’ve all seen a dreamy version of this image on the covers of romance novels, mostly set in previous centuries when it was okay to traipse through someone’s flower field because it was owned by the duke who was trying to seduce you. Today, as I imagine myself meandering through a lavender field, I see a French farmer walking steadfastly toward me . . . with a shotgun. He’s no duke, and it seems he plans to give “trespassing-me” the same treatment as the bunny rabbits in his lettuce patch.

What does all of this have to do with my writing? Am I about to announce the pending release of a historical novel set in Provence with a sexy, weapon-bearing, French farmer? No. Sorry. This post is about another type of apology.

When bloggers I follow haven’t posted in a while, they start off with apologies like these:

“I’m sorry to leave you hanging.”

“So sorry for my absence . . .”

“I know it’s been a while, but here’s what I’ve been up to!”

Well, I’m not sure any of these statements can cover the three years, two months, and eleven days since my last post on my author blog, but let me tackle the apologies list anyway.

I’m sorry to leave you hanging. Though my ego would like to think otherwise, I doubt you’ve been waiting with bated breath for my next blog post or for the announcement of my next novel. And, as there are more blogs and novels in circulation today than ever before in human history, I couldn’t have left you hanging. You’re busy with other things!

So sorry for my absence. Yes, but only because I regret that I’ve disconnected with you as a follower of my work. For that I bid my excuses.

Here’s what I’ve been up to. This is where one should present an upbeat list of fabulous accomplishments accompanied by an energetic promise of great things to come. Yet let’s traipse a little longer through the lavender as a means of explaining what I’ve been up to.

In my situation, the French farmer has multiple roles:

The French farmer has no reason to enter the field.
If there are no rabbits playing in the lettuce patch, and no heroine walking through the field, then the farmer has no reason to enter said field. In other words, although I have started three different manuscripts in the last three years, not one is finished. The rabbits are still developing, and mama rabbit hasn’t let them out to nibble, lest they be blown to smithereens before they learn how to dodge a bullet; neither have the heroine and her potential lover quite figured out how their story concludes. So I can’t share them with you! Soonish. But not yet.
The French farmer is the critic, shooting into the field of my creativity.
In 2021, I took a year-long novel-writing course from Jericho Writer’s. It was excellent! I learned a ton of writing theories and techniques, received lots of critical feedback, and improved my prose; yet it was also devastating to my creative process because I learned so much about what I was doing wrong that I ended up aiming the shotgun at my own manuscripts. In addition, in 2024, I gained a certificate for a professional sequence in editing from UC Berkeley, further discovering all of the grammatical and stylistic mistakes that plagued my manuscripts. Ouch and oucher. (Yes, I know “oucher” isn’t a word, but that’s creativity for you; it plays by its own rules). Listen up, critical farmer! A bit of criticism is healthy. But there’s nothing sexy about shooting down my ideas before they’re fully formed. Change tactics or you’ll end up plotless and alone!
The French farmer wants to cancel me.
In my lifelong pursuit to be a considerate human being who is up with the times, I like to listen to those with views other than my own. I encountered a person who told me (paraphrasing here) that I have no right to write about any characters that are not me. Why? Because as a middle-aged, white woman, I am not in a position to tell the stories of anyone that is different from me: those stories are theirs alone to tell. If I am still fool enough to want capture the diversity of those around me within my novels, then I need sensitivity readers to ensure that I have properly represented those that are not me. Apparently, my life experience, my observations, and my friendships with those that aren’t me are all not enough.
My editing sequence also dove into the importance of bias-free language, though this was mainly attributed to non-fiction. Although I never considered myself to be biased in my writing, these encounters had quite a limiting effect on my creativity.

My goodness. What is this? Am I announcing that I’ve thrown in the towel as a writer because of perfectionism and bias-free writing getting in my way? That I’m canceling myself before anyone else can? Considering I haven’t released a novel since 2017, and I apparently abandoned this blog in 2021, I wouldn’t blame you if you thought this was the case. Or, am I here to tell you I’ve conquered my inner French farmer?

I have indeed made some progress with all three of the French farmers, hussy that I am. (Can I say hussy anymore?) These farmers have some good attributes. They help me to think and consider before I act. But they’re no longer the hot shit that I thought they were. Because I don’t need to write perfect prose, and I damned-well do have a right to exist and write what I want. I will be considerate and kind, but I will never be able to please everyone. I still have a lot of stories in me that want to be told. And I have a right to tell them.

Thus, this long diatribe is to announce that I am writing again! I might even finish a first draft of a novel this year. Yet it will still need to go through many steps before I release it into the world: it will need beta readers, a second draft incorporating beta reader feedback, and a professional proofreader other than myself to eliminate all of the typos and embarrassing mistakes that might pull you, dear reader, out of the story. After that, the novel will need beautiful cover art to convey the emotion and feel of the story, and I will need to develop a marketing plan so more than my friends and family will read said novel that will potentially be finished but probably not released this year. But in the meantime, you know that I’m still here; still writing, thinking, and creating.

Wow, did you just read this entire Lavender Diatribe? Thank you so much. Really. I’m so happy you’re still here.
Is this a one-off post sort of thing? I doubt it. I have a schedule now, as well as an accountability group of fellow writers. So it’s highly likely you’ll be hearing from me again. And much sooner than three years, two months, and eleven days.

P.S. If you feel like letting me know you’re still out there, that would be nice. Actually, that would be fabulous.