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Last week I signed the rights release for all my titles at Dreamspinner and soon my titles with them will start to disappear. It was a bittersweet moment. When I first stumbled across Dreamspinner a decade ago as a reader, it was amazing to realize there was actually a genre for the stories I was already spinning in my head. They bought my first (and still most successful) story, and that’s what encouraged me to go on and keep writing. Over the years though, we both changed. I have no hard feelings for the way things ended (although it would have been nice to have my missing royalties). The time was up—on both sides.

Being a writer and being an author are two different things I have learned. From a young age, I always thought of myself as a writer, but as it turns out I was woefully unprepared to be an author.

What’s the difference? A writer has the luxury of staying in their head. An author needs to get out there, hustle, market themselves and build a brand. It’s a business and that’s what I didn’t immediately understand. There are the rounds of editing, covers to vet, blog posts to write, tours to arrange, social media to post. And that’s all supposing they have a solid publisher backing them (harder to find these days). If you’re doing it yourself, it’s even more work. To do this job you have to have patience, stamina, commitment and drive. And I, as it turns out, have very little. No surprise to anyone reading this–it’s been 2 years since my last post. Maybe I didn’t want it badly enough. Maybe I didn’t need it enough.

The other thing I’ve learned is that if you are a lover of the written word, it’s best not to peer behind the curtain too closely. You see, I was a reader long before I was a writer, and as much as I found some great folks in this community, people to look up to, there is also a dark undercurrent that poisoned me as a reader, not just in this genre but across the industry in general. Amazon algorithms and fake reviews, street teams, plagiarism, shady publishers, royalties, authors behaving badly, ŷ�������� ��Those things were hard to see, and it’s only in the last year that I actually started enjoying reading again.

But there are some pretty awesome readers out there too. People who took the time to reach out, to leave a review and to support me with a kind word even when I went AWOL on them. When I think about my words disappearing from the ether, about Adam and Joe, Pete and Louie, Miles and Colton and all the other guys not existing anymore I get a little sad. But then I realize they won’t be entirely gone—they touched some reader somewhere even if only for a minute, and let’s face it—on the internet nothing is truly gone.

So, where do we go from here? Honestly, I’m not sure. I hate failing at anything. I don’t feel like I’m done, but neither do I feel ready to jump in again. There are still stories in my head. There are stories I’d like to rewrite now that I have them back. But I think they’ll have to wait just a bit longer.

Well, it’s April 15 and the second consecutive day of icy rain and snow in Toronto. The calendar may say spring, but Mother Nature has other ideas. It’s a good time to stay indoors and get caught up on things like this blog post. I’m less than 5000 words away from wrapping up my latest work in progress which makes me both happy and sad. On one hand, I’ll be glad to finally finish something; on the other, I don’t know what comes after.

It’s been a tough year writing wise. My full-time career has taken precedence, leaving me fulfilled but exhausted. And the unending drama in my genre has left me more cynical than ever. It’s taken me almost the entire year to write 45000 words (although I did write a Christmas short for Dreamspinner Pres in there too) and it’s harder and harder all the time to remember why I do this. Then I fall in love with my characters, like Henry and Cameron and I remember. I do it for them. Sometimes I think I’m a glutton for punishment.

Anyway, I’m trying to finish Run Away in the next month or so before good weather hits so I can spend more time outdoors in my garden, although that seems a long way off when I look out the window. Then I’ll probably take a bit of a break over the summer, recharge and re-evaluate next steps in the fall.

Happy Spring. Hope to see it soon.

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Looking at the infrequency of my posts here and on Facebook, it’s probably no surprise that I’ve been going through a bit of a creative crisis the last six months. After finishing writing ��The Mature Man’s Guide to Surviving Change�� last spring, I kind of crashed. There were a number of factors at play. My day job suddenly required a lot more of my attention, and after five years publishing I felt I was at a crossroads. I lost the joy. The days when I’d ask myself “Why am I doing this?�� became more and more frequent. With publishers closing, readers not wanting to pay for quality work, a genre that seems to churn out hundreds of titles a month and from which I felt increasingly separated, spending what little free time I had writing seemed pointless when I could be doing so many other things.

But this is what I think separates writers who write out of love from writers who write to get rich—we can’t stop. Characters, stories are part of us, and we’re lost when they go silent. At least I know I am. Even in the face of futility, we persevere.

So it’s only recently, as in the last couple of weeks, that I’ve begun writing again. I dusted off the story I began last summer and am slowly pounding away at it. It feels a bit like coming home, but at the same time, I’m wary. Things have changed, or I have changed. Some weeks I’ve only managed two thousand words, and if I have a taxing day at work, I don’t feel guilty about vegging on the couch rather than sitting at the keyboard. I’m happy saying it’ll be done when it’s done. For now I’m going back to where I started: writing for me, at my pace, without worrying about sales, or competition, or where I fit in the genre.

I can’t believe it’s December. This whole year, and particularly the last half of it, has flown by. Real life has, for the time being, supplanted my fledgling writing career. But it’s December, and that means one thing: the Dreamspinner Holiday Advent Calendar. Back in 2011 when I first subscribed to this story-a-day-for-the-month-of-December, I thought it was a fantastic idea. New authors to discover, little morsels of joy each day. It was actually the catalyst that got me writing again after many years and gave me the courage to submit my own story. In December 2012, my Christmas novella, , made the cut and became part of the anthology.

Now, five years later, is part of the collection. This short novella is about two friends in their fifties who have to readjust when their friendship becomes something more. Joel is a man-child who has never had a serious relationship, but secretly always longed for his friend Dale’s husband Perry. After Dale’s untimely death, he stepped in to help Perry cope and now that Perry is ready to date again, Joel is not sure if he should step up or not.

I always feel that holiday stories need to tug at your heartstrings; while this one is not sad, it is definitely poignant but with a sweet ending.

Happy Holidays!

Chris

I’ve just realized, to my shame, how long it’s been since my last post. I wish I knew where the time went, I wish I was more organized, I wish I was more productive. So many wishes. But life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans they say.

It’s been a struggle these last few months to feel creative and believe in happy endings. Whether it’s the global political climate and unending rounds of depressing news, or the fact that my day job requires all consuming focus at the moment, I have been feeling well�� empty. This is more than writers block. My characters just aren’t talking. It’s happened before and will no doubt happen again, but it still feels at times like a part of me is missing. While others may be turning to romance and happy endings for comfort in these trying times, all I can do is gorge on psychological thrillers and horror movies where people are nasty to one another. That’s not conducive to writing romance.

But it’s not all doom and gloom, I promise. I’m not waving the white flag and giving up yet. I am plugging away it fits and starts at a new novel, and my Dreamspinner Christmas novella “The Mature Man’s Guide to Surviving Change�� will soon be here. You can buy the entire story-a-day advent calendar at a discount until the end of October through , or individual titles go on sale December 1. More on this story soon.

Ah, reviews. The bane of an author’s existence. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em as they say.

For me there is a clear distinction between professional reviews (Publisher’s Weekly, newspapers, other trade media), semi-professional reviews (blog sites, ARC reviews), and reader reviews (ŷ������, Amazon etc.). The first two categories, I have a vested interest in. These are reviewers who generally follow some criteria, standards or provide reviews of value. These I follow and share when appropriate.

But as an author, I tend to ignore reader reviews and stay away from them. I’ve always felt that once I put the book out there, it’s out of my hands. Sure I want people to like it (I love when readers write me to tell me they enjoyed something), and yes it hurts like hell when they don’t, but I don’t see it as my job to police readers�� opinions. I have far too many other things to stress over (like writing the next book). It’s not that their reviews don’t matter, because on sites like Amazon they do, it’s that when it comes to readers, there are so many variants and so much subjectivity involved that in a way reviews become meaningless. One person’s five star review may be another’s three star. How can that be meaningful?

Which brings me to the dreaded one-star review. I admit I don’t understand this reader. And I definitely don’t understand the ones who intentionally one-star everything. They are clearly not book lovers. Book lovers know that a particular book may not be to their taste, but they generally appreciate the work that went into producing the book. As an avid reader myself, the only time I would ever make the effort to low ball a review is if I felt particularly betrayed or deceived, as in the description didn’t match the content. Or the book was unreadable. Like many people, if I simply didn’t enjoy the book or it wasn’t to my taste, I don’t bother writing a review. I mean, if I went to the trouble of buying the book, there was clearly something there that drew me. I’m not going to buy something knowing in advance that it’s not for me.

Many of these one-star reviews have very little “review�� content to them, so the goal is obviously not to help other readers in their selections. And most “legitimate�� readers know enough to take one-star reviews with a grain of salt now. Does the reviewer do it to hurt the author, either through sales or psychologically? Or are they just bitter, angry people who have nothing better to do?

I have some theories about the routine one-star reviewer. I envision them as the type of person who doesn’t leave a tip when eating out, despite the fact that they’ve made their server jump through hoops and asked for all sorts of substitutions and accommodations in their meal. They’re the type of person who is always angry or unhappy about something. My other theory is that these micro-aggressions are a form of bullying, and we all know that bullies are generally bullied themselves. Picking on others is how they lash out at what’s going on in their own lives. So, I guess if writing dozens of anonymous one-star reviews is what gets you off, then knock yourself out—there are clearly bigger issues at work.

I see so many authors decrying the one-star review, and yet it’s the “fake�� glowing five-star reviews that get me riled up the most. We don’t talk about these ones. There is a whole industry out there built on writing fraudulent favourable reviews, never mind champions looking to bump up an author’s profile with too-generous reviews. A struggling author can be tempted to look at another author’s reviews and go “Huh?�� But we can’t speak out against those for fear of looking jealous or vindictive. While I rarely use reader reviews to guide my own reading choices, I’ll often take a look at them after the fact out of simple curiosity. More than once, I’ve thought “Really? That was a five-star read?�� I’m not just talking about subjectivity here, I’m talking about books riddled with errors rating five stars. These readers either have lower standards than I do, or there is something fishy going on.

What’s my point here? There is no win-win when it comes to readers�� reviews. Some are good; some are bad. They’re subjective, written with bias and in some cases, agendas. But that’s the risk you take with putting words out there. Authors, stay out of them. Readers, like with any product, do your due diligence.

It’s that time again. When I have to step out of my introverted, wallflower shoes and jump on the self-promotion trail.

June 12 marks the publication of my third novel, . Back to You is a novel of romantic suspense, about a man who returns home to be at his estranged father’s deathbed and reconnects with his childhood friend and possibly first love, Benji. But a twenty-year old secret could spell the end of their budding romance before it even begins. It’s got dysfunctional families, small town secrets, a bit of a mystery, and first loves.

I’m always proud of my work for different reasons, but Back to You really represents the direction I see myself headed—a blend of romance and fiction. I was a little uncertain about how the romance would be received as it is secondary to the plot, but the early reviews have been good so far. Publisher’s Weekly specifically mentioned “the author’s deft plotting and prose, skillful uses of red herrings, and strong character development��.

I always feel I should be more excited than I am on release day. It’s not that I’m not happy, or grateful, or anxious to see how it’s received, but I’ve been carrying this baby around for a year and a half and mostly I just can’t wait for it to be delivered to the reading public.

To give you an idea of how long it takes me from inception to publication, I started plotting Back to You way back in December 2015. That took about two months, and writing didn’t actually begin until February 2016. My internal target was to finish by September 2016, and although my publisher was aware of what I was working on and had reviewed my synopsis, I didn’t sign a contract at that time. I’m always hesitant to contract a book too early in advance in case life happens. To me there is nothing worse than breaking my word and missing a deadline. At any rate, by spring it was clear I was on target, so I signed a contract with Riptide and delivered the first draft of the manuscript in September 2016. That led to an extensive editing and re-write phase between January and April 2017, and then finally release in June! It’s no wonder that by the time a book makes it to market I’ve lost a bit of enthusiasm.

Check out my virtual book tour June 12-17 where I’ll be giving away a $20 Riptide gift certificate. The complete list of dates and participating blogs can be found on the Riptide website: ����

I’ll be wrapping up the week on June 17 at 1pm EDT with an author take over on the Queeromance Ink Facebook page where I’ll be giving away some signed paperback copies.

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Generally, I’m not a fan of contests of any sort. Possibly because I have the worst luck when it comes to those types of things, and as someone who’s never been top or best anything there’s likely some internalized, deep-seated bitterness at work too. Book contests in particular make me cringe. For me personally as a reader they do little to influence my selections, but they can hold a lot of sway for others, so as a writer you can’t just ignore them.

Last year I decided to take a chance and enter my gay romance novel (Riptide Publishing) in a couple of contests. I was proud of my effort and felt it was something that showcased me as a writer. And, I won’t lie, there was a (not so) small part of me seeking validation because it never took off the way I hoped it would. The more logical, rational side of my brain said if all else failed, it would be good exposure and I should look at it as a marketing exercise, especially since I’m terrible at self-promotion. Out of three contests entered, Until September reached the shortlist of one, is a category finalist in another, and didn’t place��in the third. Which only goes to prove�� absolutely nothing.

Along the way, I learned a few things which I thought I’d capture here.

Contests can get expensive, so be selective. Most have some sort of fee to enter. The ethics of paying to enter a contest still trouble me, even in cases when I know the money is going to a good cause. I also understand there needs to be a way to offset costs or cut down on submissions. To ease my conscience, I chose to look at it as paid advertising rather than that I was paying for consideration.
It takes a lot of work to run a contest, so follow deadlines and instructions and don’t make the organizers chase you. That’s just inconsiderate and reflects poorly on you.
Book contests tend to fall into two camps, popular and literary, and if you don’t fall neatly into either it can still be a challenge to get recognized. It’s important to understand who the committee and judges are and how they are likely to receive your work so you don’t waste your time and/or money. If judges are average readers and your book isn’t geared to mass market, perhaps it’s not the best fit. It��would be a bit like submitting an indie film to the People’s Choice Awards.
How visible or prestigious is the contest? Some are geared toward the publishing industry, while others are more reader focused. How do those fit with your long term goals and objectives? For myself, I’m trying to raise my profile and get into libraries and bookstores which is why I entered the ones I did.
Be prepared for hard feelings. No matter how far you distance yourself from it, or how objective you may try to be, it still feels like a rejection if you don’t make it. Of the three contests, there was one in particular that meant more to me than the others. I longed to not necessarily win, but at least make it to the finals, and when Until September failed to place, it was a crushing blow at a time when I was already struggling with a lack of confidence.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled Until September has been chosen as a Foreword Reviews�� prestigious Book of the Year Awards finalist in the Romance category! In a competition with over 2200 other entrants, it’s pretty great to have made it this far, and I want to make the most of the opportunity. Despite reigning in my hopes, my fingers are still crossed for the end of June when winners are announced.

It’s hard to believe that 2017 marks my fifth year as a published author. All my major life events, from house moves to jobs, have been based around 5- and 10-year plans, so this year I have some thinking to do on where I go from here. At the moment, I’m in a new job that’s using up a lot of brain power and struggling to stay creative. It’s the first time in five years that I’m wrapping up editing on a project, and I don’t have the next one lined up ready to go. More and more I find myself wondering if writing is worth it.

I never went into this adventure looking to get rich. I knew my limitations from the start; I’m terrible at self-promotion, I have a full time job, I’m slow, and I don’t write what sells. I had no illusions. I can’t compete with an author who pumps out four or more books a year. Money is not what’s bringing me down. It’s the other stuff I find soul-sucking, like:

the expanding threat of plagiarism and “pop-up�� authors out to scam the system
genre drama that brings legitimate writers down
the instability of indie publishers and etailers and questionable professionalism
piracy and a general lack of value for other people’s work
proliferation of readers who will read anything as long as it only costs 99 cents

For as long as I can remember, I have always “lived in my head��, accompanied by an ever revolving host of characters who keep me company. When I was younger, I thought everyone did this; it wasn’t until I was out in the world at university that I realized how untrue this assumption was. My roommates got bored—they always needed to be with someone, or doing something—whereas I enjoyed simply laying on my bed daydreaming. I still do! Bored? How could you possibly be bored when your imagination is right there?

I credit my unique gift to summers spent at the family cottage on Georgian Bay where on a good day, we got one television channel, and there was nothing to do but play board games, read and sun ourselves on the dock. My parents were teachers, so we’d pack up at the end of June and not come back until Labour Day. In fact, my earliest memories are of me and my sister spending the 2.5 hour drive pretending to be fashionable nineteenth century ladies in our coach. How many seven-year-olds do that these days?

My grandfather, the original story teller.

On rainy days when we were stuck inside, we’d go through Grandma’s Sears catalogue, pretending to be models whose houses had burned down, and now we needed to buy everything we needed, from clothes to home furnishings. We even had a budget and everything.

I’ve been privileged to have two pivotal story tellers in my life. The first is my grandfather who regaled us on quiet evenings with tales of his boyhood in turn of the century Toronto; from delivering milk by horse and carriage, to stealing cookies from the kitchen, he was a troublemaker and had so many entertaining stories to tell. To learn years after his passing that he and my grandmother had no marriage certificate (he was a thirty year old man who talked an eighteen year old woman into eloping to Buffalo, but there are no official records) and that my aunt was an “early baby�� was no real surprise. In fact it seemed fitting. From him I also got my love of history.

The book my cousin wrote and illustrated for us almost thirty years ago.

My cousin must have inherited some of his talent. She was, and still is, one of those people you can listen to for hours. Back then, we would go on long walks in the woods and she would entertain us with often scary stories of three cousins who got into trouble exploring and had to rely on each other to save themselves. I don’t know how many hours she must have spent over the course of a dozen or more summers building up stories for us. She would parse out a bit each day and we would pester her mercilessly for more. At the time it seemed like magic, the way she could rattle something off the top of her head. Of course now, I realize how much work must have gone into it. She even wrote a book for us one Christmas. She was the one who taught me that you could create characters in your head, and now thirty-some-odd years later, I can’t imagine living without them.

I’m not a story teller—I’m no good verbally and that is an art I will never possess—but I like to think I’m carrying on that family legacy of spinning tales in my own fashion.