Colette Auclair, author of 2012 Golden Heart finalist Thrown, was kind enough to stop by and chat with us about how fate works in unexpected ways (and how sometimes that makes you a train writer!).
Check out Jumped–the steamy follow-up to her “page-turning debut” (Library Journal). Now on-sale!
About a year ago, I got laid off. But it was okay, because I had a novel to finish—JUMPED, which came out on Monday and BRANDED after that (coming in December), and between the severance package and savings, I’d get by. I pretended I was either making a fine living writing, or was an heiress. It worked for a while. I am good at delusional thinking.
When my debut novel THROWN was published in December 2013, I had a plan. My book was going to teeter at the tippy-top of all bestseller lists. With its lovely gray jumping-horse cover, it would wow reviewers and break records. I would be an overnight sensation. I would know this because Oprah was going to call.
Strangely, my plan fell through. By May I admitted I had to rejoin the “regular” work world. (Sad trombone wah-wah here.)
So I got a job as a copywriter and wondered how I was going to still write novels, ride my horse, play with the dog, exercise (at least occasionally), see friends, spend quality time with my husband and open the mail. (Please note “dusting” is absent.)
As the lyric to “When You Wish Upon a Star” says, “Fate steps in and pulls you through.” I discovered I’m a train writer. I have a forty-minute commute to work in Denver, then plop down with a nonfat latte at the charming coffee place near my building and write some more. Repeat at 5:00. My desire for a paycheck has imposed a structure that’s better than a whip-wielding Nora Roberts glaring at me while I sweat over my laptop. Not that she’s ever done that. But if she did…
The cliché, “If you want something done, give it to a busy person” seems to hold up. I’m a copywriter and a novelist. Tastes great/Less filling. Like legions of other authors who must write in their spare time, I hope this day job is the last one I’ll ever have, because soon I’ll simply be a novelist. Who writes on trains, apparently.