writing | Author Kristin Anderson

Arrival
When it comes to story ideas, most writers I know speak of a feast, not famine. Story ideas abound. Sometimes they are long in coming in the form of an idea that has been brewing for months if not years. But most often, stories show up like unexpected visitors with minds of their own. They arrive at the oddest moments–while you are taking a shower, when you are swimming or running, when you are on the verge of falling asleep–and ask to come in. Some stories gently flitter about, butterfly-like in their slow and erratic dance. Others arrive on the rapidly beating wings of a hummingbird, and yet others scratch vaguely at the back of your mind, dark and mysterious, waiting to be brought into view. No matter how they arrive, the trick is to get them down on paper or screen as soon as possible so they don’t disappear.
One such story arrived in November of 2022, its wings beating so quickly they blurred in front of me. Its arrival was nicely timed, as it coincided with the launch of NanoWrimo, a thirty-day writing challenge.

Departure
By the end of November, I had written 50,000 words of this new story. This not only garnered me a NanoWrimo winner T-shirt, but a story full of flawed, somewhat lovable characters who had navigated through a number of scenes. In the months that followed, the story proceeded along its tracks at a decent pace, the characters expanded and the scenes were filled in with fun and vivid details.

Delays
Due to inevitable issues at travel headquarters (life getting in the way), the story slowed down before eventually coming to a halt. Apparently, the story train had lost power, as had the digital boards at the current station, which were all blank. The passengers were none too pleased. The more seasoned travelers put on their headsets or downloaded a soduku, biding their time. Yet as the train remained in the station with no further updates or revised itineraries, the characters began to roll their eyes and glare at their watches and cell phones, impatient for whatever situation that kept them from their destination to be resolved.
The conductor, an accommodating type, gave each passenger a sleeping cabin. “On the house! You might want to settle in. It’s going to be a while.”

Powered up and on the Way
One day, the passengers awoke to the gentle swaying of the train traveling along the tracks. It had been so long since they had experienced the back and forth of forward movement that they had to reorient themselves. Oh. Yeah. They had some place to be. The conductor knocked on the door of each sleeping cabin, handing out refreshing wipes and a bottle of water as morning sunlight beamed through the windows. Characters stretched, brushed their teeth, and prepared themselves for arrival at their next destination.
They traveled along, scene to scene, chapter to chapter, reacting to the circumstances they encountered and interacting with one another. It wasn’t the best trip they’d ever been on, but they were having a decent enough time. They were well into their journey and had resigned themselves to just finish the damned thing, come what may, when the conductor made an announcement: “We are experiencing some technical difficulties and will be making an unexpected stop at the next station.”

Assessment
The train arrived at the station and the passengers looked around in alarm. No brightly colored restaurants or kiosks selling coffee and fresh croissants, no pigeons perched on ornately designed rafters or waddling along the platforms picking at crumbs. This station was white and sterile and gave off a clear hospital vibe. The conductor, usually friendly, crossed her arms and asked everyone to de-board.
The story train mechanic arrived in grease-stained blue overalls, a yellow hard hat covering her uncombed hair and a red toolbox in her right hand. The most naive passenger in the group commented on how nicely the mechanic’s red toolbox contrasted with the blue overalls. But the rest of the passengers were eyeing the smartly dressed woman holding a clipboard–clearly, she was from the logistics department.
While the mechanic checked out the engine and the electrical thingamajiggy that connects the train to its electrical power source, the woman from logistics studied each character and scene in detail, and she was none too gentle.
“Say aaah,” she ordered as she depressed their tongues and shone a light into their throats, noses, and ears. She put them on a treadmill and checked their vitals, and she even engaged the characters in dialogue to test their speech patterns and made each scene explain its significance in “moving the plot forward.”
The conductor, despite being sober for five years running, seriously considered a drink as she watched the inquisition unfolding before her.

Kill your Darlings
The words “Kill Your Darlings” were used, which sent all of the passengers into a panic, except that one Pollyanna-like character who said, “Ha! What do you mean by ‘kill your darlings?'”

Excess Weight
The mechanic determined that the train had exceeded its maximum weight. The lady from logistics agreed. This excess weight was not only bogging down the whole story, but taking the fun out of things. In short? Some scenes and characters would need to be cut.
“Let’s kill some darlings,” logistics said as she smoothed her hand over her gray wool skirt.
There was an uproar. Up until that point, the guards, barely noticeable in their storm-trooper white uniforms as they leaned against the white-tiled walls, had been casually smoking cigarettes and playing Candy Crush on their phones. But as the scenes and characters protested, all making a case for why they should be the ones to stay on board the story train, the officers pushed away from the wall, their hands eagerly resting on their batons. A few dropped their cigarettes on the ground and left them burning as they moved forward.
“Oh. I didn’t even see you folks over there!” Said the one character who still thought she was having fun.
After all, they were now playing a fun little game. Some of her fellow passengers had been given little arm bands with black exes on them, and other characters had been given a green light, which they had to hold in their hands and keep on at all times so as not be confused with the arm band group. She wondered, wide-eyed, what she would receive: the stylish X or the funky flashlight. Having received her game piece and being quite fond of exclamation points, she said, “Oh! Wow! The X!”

Intervention
The conductor pulled a white silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of her uniform, and after dabbing away the amber liquid that had dribbled down her chin, she took a deep breath and said “I have an idea, Ms. Logistics, which you need to hear.”
Logistics turned toward her. It had been quite some time since a mere conductor had dared to share their thoughts.
“Go on, then. I don’t have all day.”
“Very well,” the conductor said. “There doesn’t need to be any killing today. There’s an alternative.”
The guards, who had been looking forward to the pending brutality, grumbled. The passengers cheered. The mechanic, raising her voice over the cheers, reiterated her point about the excess weight problem.
Logistics held up her hand, commanding silence.
“Please. Continue.”
The conductor openly took a sip from her flask. “All of these characters. . .” she glanced over at miss optimism, “most of these characters are fairly well developed and have become quite dear to you and me. Instead of killing your darlings, why not just transfer them to a new story?”
The passengers applauded the idea and the mechanic took off her hard hat and raised it in the air, clearly in agreement. The lady from logistics, as if she hadn’t even heard the conductor’s words, said nothing. After spending an inordinate amount of time writing on her clipboard, Ms. Logistics finally spoke.
“I have an idea, why don’t we just transfer the lot of you with the exes to another story train?”
Typical, thought the conductor, before she said with just a hint of sarcasm, “What a great idea.”
“And you . . .” Logistics said, pointing at the naive, optimistic character in the pink dress. “You stay here. On this page. This is your story.”

Fit for Travel
Now that the story has been trimmed, and the remaining characters have more breathing space, this story is on a much smoother trajectory. The characters have already reported that they are enjoying themselves much more than before and appreciate the makeover, the exercise program, and all the other changes. Logistics, the mechanic and even the conductor, who finally got credit for her original idea, are all working together to keep things on track. And if it keeps going at this rate, this story could be headed for a spectacular finish.

P.S. Are you an author struggling to get your story back on track? I might be able to help. Learn more here: kristininholland.com

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.