The musings of a struggling author

Karen L MacRae / November 2018
I woke up three years ago with the idea for a novel. Since then, I've experienced the joy of words seeming to pour from my fingertips just when I need them to, the surprise of a new character suddenly appearing from nowhere, the frustration of word block and tip-of-the-tongue forgetfulness, the high of getting the first paperback proof copy, the low of discovering that friendship does not necessarily equal reviews, and possibly everything in between. I'm told I should write a blog. Here it is...
A friend told me writing fiction is about enjoying creative freedom. I think, in my case at least, it's more like obsession.

About me

According to my mum, I started nagging her to teach me to read when I was eighteen months old. By the time I'd greedily inhaled the words on the first flashcards she made for me, a lifetime's dedication to fiction was well underway.  I find it strange, therefore, that I dreamt of being a ballerina, a teacher, a police detective, and the boss of a big business, but never an author.  I did dabble with the idea twice when ill health left me stuck at home for an extended period without anything to do. The first time was when I dared write up a small snippet of the many adventures of the very nice monster that used to live under my daughter's bed, but it was poorly written and its sole rejection was binned with a shrug. Years later, after my career had allowed me to develop my writing skills, I got to Chapter 5 of a contemporary fantasy novel before realising it had come off the rails during Chapter 3 and was going nowhere fast. I happily resigned myself to a life as a reader. And that's the way it was right up until my husband and I moved to Devon and my reading time was consumed with finding contractors, dealing with the planning department, choosing tiles, drawing up kitchen plans, and the gazillion other things that renovating a house requires. I wonder sometimes if my mind is only capable of being a reader or a writer because, without the distraction of one, the other burst through as if it had been caged behind the pages of other people's work all my life. Arguably more strangely, since I embraced writing, I read fewer books in a year than I used to in a week. There has to be a balance in there somewhere, but that has never been my skill. I live in hope.

For those who are interested in the other stuff biographies are made of: I'm a wife and mother, a ballet dancing businesswoman who became an academic and martial artist, I'm an unrepentant chocoholic, I read for pleasure and escapism rather than improvement, and I love to sing. My alter ego is Kat Farthing with a healthy chunk of Seleste. My favourite authors are too numerous to mention, but a shortlist might include David Gemmell, Anne McCaffrey, David Eddings, early Raymond E Feist, R J Ellory, Robert Crais, Kyle Mills and early Michael Connelly. My all-time favourite book is Frederica, by Georgette Heyer.

​ If you have any questions, feel free to drop me a message. I'll do my best to reply.

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