I’m an Unpublished Author, so why do I have a Blog?

Let’s face it, most of you following my blogs, or reading my posts don’t know me. I haven’t done anything spectacular, I haven’t published one book yet, and I’m not an expert on writing.

Yet everyone keeps insisting that if I’m a writer with intention to publish, I need a blog.

So, I guess all I can post about is either ‘things about my personal life (not that exciting) and uneventful writing career events (also not that exciting)’, or ‘things I’m learning as I go through the novel-writing/editing/publishing phase’.

I guess writing this stuff is important too. But I’m on Twitter and I have followed over three hundred authors and they’re all publishing similar content. Some of those authors are amateurs, a few are making a living out of writing and have years and years of publishing experience. But they’re the minority.

So it comes back to the question: Should only experts publish about writing topics? Are amateur authors keeping blogs to try inflate their egos and produce unearned fandom?

Read more of my amateur thoughts here

Molly and Me

A while back I posted about the annoying cat that was keeping me up at nights. Here we are as friends.

Pantser vs Plotter: A False Dichotomy

Scene:

I clear my throat and stand up close against a microphone. Too close. The mic squeals and I flush red. The co-coordinating lady next to me gives me a big smile and gestures for me to talk. And so I do.

“Hi, my names Kylie and I’m a Pantser.’

Together the crowd chimes, ‘Hello, Kylie.’

I look around at the sea of faces, but all I can see are the tops of people’s heads. Are they as ashamed as I am?
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LOL okay, I’ll be serious now. It’s true though, us Pantsers are an unusual bunch. Writing by the seat of our pants, what a silly notion. Well, I’m one of them I’m afraid. I don’t plot much. The only thing I do is write down the ideas as they come to my head and, briefly, consider which ones I will keep.

So I’m still editing the first novel from Adenine, and I have decided to re-write the ending. I’m still keeping most of it, but I want to change some of it.

What does this mean?
Read onwards!

Praising Yourself

As a writer, being a critic comes with the job. But to be honest, sometimes I am genuinely impressed with my work. Right now, every page of my manuscript is littered with little ‘fix me ups’ in the form of red pen, yellow, blue and purple highlighter marks and black overwrites.

However, once every 20 pages or so, I find a section I’ve written well, and I just can’t help leaving myself a little ‘this is good writing’ note with a little smiley face.

A little cheesy? Absolutely.

But hey, this isn’t high school…no-one else is going to give me a gold star for good writing are they? And I just happen to like gold stars. Whatever motivates me towards the end product, don’t you think?

Short Story

Here’s an example of some writing I did a while back. I hate posting snippets of my work because I never feel it’s good enough. And maybe that will make me a great writer some day.

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He should never have grabbed her neck with one hand and locked his hand around her wrist with the other. Saliva coated the side of her face as he’d hissed ugly words through gritted teeth. Five years ago she would have excused the bruises and broken bones, saying she had fallen or stumbled. Drug store makeup would have been applied with a spatula to hide bruises and cuts — long sleeved tops and jeans hid the rest.

But not now. Not ever again. Ten years of abuse, fear and rejection had led to that moment. The moment where she had struck back at him. And so, he lay lifeless on the kitchen floor. She leaned against the fridge and slowly let herself slide onto the marble tiles beside him.

No pulse. No breathing. No worries.
The bottle of scotch that she had hit him with lay a few feet away. The brown liquid wasn’t responsible for his atrocities. Oh no. The monster had lurked below, waiting, watching for a moment to break loose and punish her for existing. Without the alcohol he was bitter, sarcastic and mostly passive. With it, well, the scars on her skin said enough.

She looked at the phone beside her. She’d already called the police. Why not? It’s not like her life had anywhere to go from there, it’s not like they wouldn’t know who did it. She deserved what was coming. Probably. Most daughters loved their fathers, but she’d hated him. Every. Single. Part of him.

There were other scars on her body. Self-inflicted ones. Her skin was his skin, she shared in his DNA and the burning, the melting of her skin made her ugly, made her disgusting, but most of all it made her look nothing like him. So every night she used fire to heat metal and press it against herself hoping that it would be enough to relieve her anxiety. It worked, but only for a moment. It was never enough, it would never be enough.

Every bruise he left on her face, every cut, changed how she looked. And it made her happy in a crazy sort of way. The pain felt better than anything else and now all of that pain would disappear. How would she cope without it?

But it was over and she felt relief, no remorse, only fear of the future. And as the police entered the house, she smiled when they cuffed her. She was leaving hell. The monster was dead and she felt good that one more evil person was removed from the world.

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