I met Sarah Porter and Judy Rogers at the February meeting of the Inland Northwest Writers Guild. Last October, these two friends self published their novel Hot Cross Buns. They came to the meeting to share their experiences.

The book took about six years (yes, years) for them to write because they both work full-time and have families. In short, they have lives. Once they felt the book was complete, they queried between 60 to 80 agents and heard either no or nothing. They attended a writing conference in San Francisco, where they heard an experienced editor say, “Agents are a dying breed.” He said with the ease of self publishing and ebooks, authors now can represent themselves.

Judy and Sarah elected to do just that. They started their own company, Penned Press. They hired a professional editor to review the text and a graphics artist to create the cover. Their book, which they own, is available on Kindle or print on demand. They also bought 10 ISBNs, the thumbprint for a book. They used one ISBN for the Kindle copy, one for the paperback version and down the road, they will use another ISBN for the audio recording. Plus, both women agreed that they have more books to write.

The two authors said they have sold about 525 books and have only promoted the book locally. But they are developing a brand name, a following, and that may be the most important part. Only seven percent of all new writers sell more than 1,000 copies of the book. Seven percent! So in these cash-strapped days, publishers won’t invest money in publicity for a new writer. Publishers want authors who are already a brand name, who bring with them a following.

Now, these ladies aren’t quitting their day jobs, and they were courageous enough to answer delicate questions about that most taboo of topics: money. Their book was put together on a shoe string budget, with an initial expense of about $1,000. They priced the novel below $10, so for every Kindle version they sell, their profit is $3.99. For each actual book, they make less than $2. They encouraged us to price our books higher, at least $12.

I think the litmus test of their success was addressed by a particularly astute and intelligent audience member (me!) who asked them if they had it to do it all again, what would they do different? Their answer: nothing.

Hot Cross Buns. Buy it!

Note: when I tried to buy a copy, Auntie’s Bookstore was sold out. Yippee! You go, Sarah and Judy.

Hands and arms inside the cart, please. Next: Self publishing. It’s no longer the red-haired stepchild of the book business.

I grew up in Brookfield, Missouri, a small town of about 5,000 people in the northeast corner of the state. There are a lot of great things about growing up in this community. It’s quiet. It’s safe. An ambulance siren shrieking through the neighborhood is an event.

But there are a few downsides too. One of them is that there’s not a lot to do. I spent my childhood in the days before the internet and VCRs, when the television only had 13 channels, all of which disappeared during bad weather.

So, I turned to books. The local librarian, Mrs. Burns, and I knew each other by name. The only award I received during my school years is for reading the most books in the fifth grade. I’m still proud of that. I read everything I could, including the Encyclopedia Britannica. I liked non-fiction but a good tale that I could escape into? Sign me up!

The thing that I loved then and still do is the lack of pretention in children’s books. You’re not likely to find a 60-word sentence describing a sunset. Nope. Nor are there any of the horrors that are so often captured in the daily newspapers. Usually.

As a mom, I shared my love of reading with my children. When a long road trip loomed, we checked out armfuls of books on tape. I read to them at each and every bedtime. When my kids were old enough, sometimes they would read to me. That didn’t always work out well, though. Often, I’d fall asleep.

In children’s fiction, and I propose in all great fiction, it’s all about the story. The three most important words: what happens next.

Arms and hands inside the cart. Next: Hot Cross Buns: A First Novel by Judy Rogers and Sarah Porter. (Note: I did not say Hot Crossed Buns. That’s a porn site)

On the back of this photo, scrawled in my mother’s handwriting: Annette Drake, 7 years, December, 1975.

As a new writer, I spend my time rereading my favorite middle-grade novels and dissecting them to see what makes them tick. I just finished doing so with the first Harry Potter novel, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.

I read this to my children years ago. In fact, I’m ashamed to admit, I used the book as a motivator to my oldest daughter to complete household chores. I’d say, if you do this task, I’ll read an extra 10 minutes of Harry Potter tonight. It usually worked.

What I found in this delightful book is how important friendships are to the main character. For this book, the friendship is between Harry, Ron and Hermione, though Hermione doesn’t join in until halfway in the book.

J.K. Rowling uses all three characters to tell her story, though the primary point of view is always Harry. I’m trying to do the same. My story is told almost exclusively through the eyes of my main character, Josey. At her side are her two friends: Eliza and Leighton. Eliza and she have been friends since kindergarten while Leighton is new to Josey’s community. Their friendship starts when Leighton’s mother, May Ellen, moves back to her hometown, Bennett Springs, to start a small business. May Ellen is based on my Aunt Mary Rose.

A few weeks ago, I made a list of seven scenes I still needed to write before I could call this book finished. I’ve crossed off all but two of them. But now I’ve realized that I must develop Josey’s friendships more before I can call this book done. Like Harry Potter, Josey needs her friends. I’ve given her too many problems not to allow her friends. So even though the book isn’t finished, the revisions have already begun.

James Thayer, in his book The Essential Guide to Writing a Novel, tells us that the main character’s sidekick has several important jobs to do. He lists six tasks, but I’ll comment on what I feel is the most important one: entertain the reader. Friendships make for good reading, I might suggest, because they elicit the warm feelings the reader has for his own friends. Thayer uses the example of Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee in “The Lord of the Rings.” I don’t think there is a better example.

A final note on Josey’s friends. I have written separate scenes in which Eliza, Leighton and a third classmate, Ricky Salinas, stand up to the boy that bullies Josey. Why, then, can Josey not do this for herself? Hmmm…

Hands and arms inside the cart, please. Next: why I love children’s books. 

Horses feature predominantly in the book I am writing.

My main character, Josey Miller, grew up with horses. Josey is an 11-year-old girl who lives with her father, Carl, on their farm in southern Missouri. Josey has always had an Arab mare, Ruby. She doesn’t know life without her. Toward the end of the book, Ruby is taken from Josey, so she is left with Chief.

Chief is an Arab stallion that their banker, Mr. McInerny, brings to Carl to train. Chief is chaos on four hooves. On paper, his bloodlines look great. The problem is, as my mother-in-law says, you can’t ride paper.

I’m a novice when it comes to horse training, so I didn’t know if this was plausible. Could a horse that is dangerously out of control with one trainer be rehabilitated by another?

I had the privilege of meeting a husband and wife team who compete in equestrian endurance rides on the international level. They are the real deal. He has published a book on this sport. How I got so lucky to meet them and see their horses, I’ll never know. I think it’s indicative of horse people that they are willing to share their time and expertise.

Sitting in their kitchen, they told me that yes, it is plausible that Carl Miller could retrain Chief. They have been given horses that were thought to be beyond rehabilitation and turned those horses around. Changing feed alone could affect a horse’s behavior. It is plausible. The reverse is true too. They have worked with horses that are not capable of rehabilitation. In that case, the horse is put down.

Readers may wonder where I got the name for these pivotal characters. If you’ve been reading this blog, you’ve met Ruby. She’s my cat. As for the name Chief? When I was a young girl, my grandparents owned a pair of American Saddlebreds. The gelding, Chief, was huge. I feared him and rightly so. My grandmother, Dorothy Drake, worked with horses her entire life. She was injured while riding Chief, and spent a few days in the hospital. My memory may be faulty, but it seems like her passion for horses, including Chief, cooled after that.

Hands and arms inside the cart, please. Next: meet Josey’s friends.

For some people, horses are mysterious and magical creatures. For others, they are an ingredient. I live in the first camp.

I met my first horse, Apache Miss, when I was about 10 years old. My grandfather, Carl Drake, bought her for me to learn to ride. Every day after school, he would drive to our house in his old pick-up truck, grab me and off we would go to spend time with Apache Miss. He taught me to saddle her and ride her at a walk and a trot. We never made it to the canter.

On the last day of school, when my brothers and I rode our bicycles to our grandparents’ house to show off our final grades, we found my grandfather lying in his driveway. We called our mother, and she rushed over. She told me he said, “My head…My head.” To the best of my knowledge, those were his last words. And that was the end of our riding lessons. He suffered a massive stroke and died a few weeks later.

My father gave Apache Miss to me for my 11^th birthday, but my dad had no interest in horses. He’s not in the ingredient camp, but horses are neither mysterious nor magical to him. My mother was afraid of horses, but to her credit, she found a young woman who gave me riding lessons. I sold Apache Miss when I was in high school. Letter jackets, a drivers license and the possibility of a boyfriend were way more interesting than horses.

During the winter of 2011, I made the mistake of browsing Craigslist. For sale was a registered paint mare, in desperate need of a good home, for the grand sum of $100. If not bought, she would be shot.

That was a dark winter for me, and I remember thinking that owning a horse would give me something to look forward to. I desperately needed something to look forward to. So, I called a family meeting and proposed that we rescue this mare. Chris and my youngest daughter told me absolutely not. I thanked them for their opinions and emailed the owner the next day: I would take her.

I didn’t tell Chris I had done this for about two weeks. Finally, I broke down and said in my most remorseful (and humbled) voice, “I have something to tell you…”

I sent the woman $100 and she delivered the 7-year-old mare to a local stable. When we moved to this community two months later, I met Lacy for the first time. Lacy’s knee joints are fused. Perhaps she could be ridden, but she shouldn’t. She shakes because she hurts, and just when I think it’s time to put her down, she runs off to chase another horse. I ask the people with whom I board her if they think she is in pain. They aren’t sure because she’s so active. If she hurt, would she traipse after the other horses? I don’t know the answer to this.

When I drive out to see Lacy and I call her name, she whinnies a hello and leaves the herd to come to me. I put her halter on and lead her to the barn. I brush her and tell her my secrets and my worries while Norah Jones croons in the background. It’s therapy of a sort. It’s also pure magic.

Arms and hands inside the cart, please. Next: Josey and her horses

Critique groups are an essential part of a writer’s world. I think finding the right group is like finding the right spouse, and with two ex-husbands, I should know.

In the right critique group, you’re excited about what you are doing. Your work moves forward and you become a stronger writer. In the wrong group, you become stagnant, bitter and eventually, you stop writing. At least, that was my experience.

I found the right group, but only after I found the wrong one.

I am a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI). There is a local chapter here in my community and last June, feeling bold, I attended a critique meeting.

I brought with me a manuscript that I had written two years previous and had shared with a critique group in Anchorage, Alaska. The group in Anchorage had been the right fit. Though I didn’t click with their leader, I found the other members to be welcoming and their input valuable. But traveling from my home in eastern Washington to a critique group in Anchorage is just a little too far.

I took a manuscript the Anchorage writers had critiqued to this new group. It’s a picture book, entitled “The Carwash Dragon.” This was a short tale I wrote when I attended the 2010 SCBWI Western Washington conference in the Seattle area. It’s about a little boy who is afraid of carwashes and dragons. He finds a lost dragon and takes her home on his bicycle, all the while facing his fears in order to help her. A shout-out to my husband’s niece, Emily Miller. Emily invited me to stay in her apartment because I couldn’t afford the swanky hotel where the convention was held. Thank you, Miss Emily.

I read the manuscript to four critique members – two of whom have published books and one who constantly referred to his agent. After I finished reading, the critique began. My manuscript was too long; my manuscript was too short. The ending was weak. The dragon cried too much. Why on earth would the dragon wear a bow in her hair? Everybody knows dragons have scales.

After they were finished, I wanted to apologize to them for reading this tripe. I wanted to apologize to the paper for assaulting it with my ink. What I didn’t want to do was write, and I didn’t for three months until my husband told me, “Find another group.”

So I did. I attended a writer’s group at Auntie’s Bookstore, and I stumbled upon two women who shared my belief that critique groups make for better writers. We met at a local library, we three writers who all were composing vastly different things. Cherise is writing a medical thriller. Caroline is writing about her experiences moving from southern California to rural Washington. A few months later, the group grew by two – a police detective and a teacher. The police detective is contributing to a textbook on how to conduct sexual-assault investigations. The teacher writes a cross-cultural romance.

Every Wednesday night, we read our work aloud and pour over the pages with one goal in mind: to improve the story. To help each other.

My work is stronger thanks to these four people. My writing is tighter; my scenes are more alive. Every now and then, when I share my novel with them, I see their eyes riveted on the page. They are completely absorbed in my story. And that, dear reader, feels like pure joy. Kind of like a good marriage.

Hands and arms inside the cart, please. Tomorrow, we talk horses.   

I am afraid of mice. I always have been and I always will be.

I would like to rationalize this ridiculous fear by saying that mice carry disease. Mice ruin grain. Mice are a bad lot. But then people like Walt Disney show us mice can be delightful creatures, if a little annoying.

When my husband and I first started dating, he glimpsed this cowardice in me early on. I awoke one morning to a mysterious “squeak, squeak, squeak.” I couldn’t figure out what the noise was until I tracked it down to my shoe. Inside was a mouse, who I suspect had been put there by our cat, Gizmo. I screamed; it ran. I called Chris and said, “You have to come over now! There’s a mouse in my house.” Sounds a little like Dr. Seuss, doesn’t it?

Chris came over and despite his best efforts, the mouse remained on the loose. He couldn’t catch it and, the nerve of Chris, he had to be at work at 7:30 a.m. so he left. You would think the cat, Gizmo, would take care of it. Nope. She was bored. Could I please let her outside?

Later that night, having trapped the poor creature in my bathroom, I summoned every bit of courage I owned and caught that mouse in a shoebox. My youngest daughter likes to remind me of my battle cry: “I will not be afraid of you!”

Like a lot of writers, I incorporate my everyday life into my books. Things that happen to me happen to my characters. I’m not unique in this way. Ray Bradbury wrote about being stopped by a policeman while he walked at night. He used that experience to pen “The Pedestrian.”

Like me, my main character, Josey, is afraid of mice. When she finds one in the kitchen, she asks her dad, Carl, why she has never seen them before. He explains that Josey’s mother put out poison to kill the mice. Her mother is gone now, so Josey begs her dad for a cat to catch this mouse. I’m glad to tell you he says yes.

Josey’s cat, however, is no better of a mouser than Gizmo was that day. So I stole the idea of how Josey actually catches the mouse from my mother-in-law. Hers is a kinder, gentler mouse trap. It’s also hilarious. I tested it myself when I found a mouse living behind our stove last fall. Yep. The Edith Poole mouse trap works. Please note: it requires a microwave. Write to me if you want the blueprints: Write2me@Annettedrake.com.  

Hands and arms inside the cart, please. Tomorrow, meet my critique group.

Above, Chris and our son, Jack, caught the mouse Ruby brought in on Valentine’s Day. Perhaps it was a small token to show Ruby’s affections.