I know that the minute you read anything by Raine Fraser you will fall in love with her work. If you are one of the fortunate few who knows her personally, you will love her, too. You will admire her dedication, certainly, but it is her irreverent humor, and her love words, written and spoken, that will completely captivate you.
Raine Fraser is a superb author, although she remains unpublished. I know this, because I have read her books. She writes as if she is Irish, although she is not. Or as if she is British. Again, she is not. Somehow, Raine manages to climb into the culture of a people, the feel of a small town, or a family and inhabit so completely that I am convinced, even after she tells me again and again that I am wrong, that she not has lived that Irish life.
That is how fantastic a writer Raine Fraser is. And I don’t write these sentences because I am biased, although I am. Raine is also my friend. She is in my writing group. I could not get the week without my fix of her encouragement, her wisdom, her humor.
After you get to know her, I think you will feel the same.
Therefore, it is my incredible pleasure to introduce you to Raine Frasier and her upcoming novel, Where We Come Home.
Raine Fraser, in her own words
Why did you start writing? Where does your inspiration come from?
According to my mom I exited the womb telling stories. Once I learned how to make words, I started setting them down. I’ve written, one way or another, ever since, but had tremendous insecurity about publishing. My inner critic loved reminding me I’m not Jane Austen, or telling me either my stories weren’t original or, if they were, someone else could tell them better. But when my dad died in 2015, my perspective changed. Dad lived his life to the full and there I was, letting fear stand in the way of me and my dream.
So, I got serious. I had an 8-5 job but wrote in all the spare moments of the day, and all weekend if I could get away with it. Within a couple of years I had a few manuscripts, in various stages of completion, but knew polishing them and getting them into the world required finding more hours in the day. I’m forever grateful my husband greeted my decision to leave my job with, “Of course, you should quit. You’re a writer.”
Inspiration is anywhere and everywhere, but you can’t wait around waiting for it to thump you on the head; you have to pay attention. Every story I’ve written came from an unexpected place. The idea for my current work-in-progress came from a YouTube documentary!
Have you ever shelved or thrown out a manuscript? Why?
Sure. If I don’t fall in love with my characters, I can’t write them.
Interestingly, I loved everything about my first manuscript, but it wasn’t strong. I put it into a box, convinced it would live there forever, dearly loved, but not fit for society. Every year I’d return to it, apply new lessons to the rewrite, and stow it again. I dusted it off in 2020 at a workshop with my writing group. Two editors came to give feedback on our writing samples, and I used a few pages of my Firstborn, so I could save face if the editors savaged it. (My group knew I had a you’ll-never-see-it MS.)
To my shock, the editors loved it and so did my group. One of them asked, “Is this the novel you’re pitching? Because if it’s not, it should be.” After about eighteen months of critiques, rewrites, and working with an editor, it is.
Are you going for self-published or traditionally published? Why did you choose that path?
I came into this game wanting a traditional deal, naively believing my agent and publisher would tend to promotion while I wrote new stories. But the industry has changed a lot; even agented authors still must do a lot of their own publicity. So, all options are on the table now. Currently, I’ve shifted focus to small traditional presses, but self-publishing isn’t out of the question. I’d love to have a book published while my beautiful eighty-something mother is still on the planet. I’ll give trad publishing a bit more time, but it’s nice having options. Most of my writer friends are indie authors, so I’ll have the company of talented guides if I go that route.
Do you use a writing coach or mentor? How do you think they make you better?
I rely on critique partners and my editor to shape early drafts into something worth printing. I get so close to the work, it’s easy to miss a plot hole that an objective reader will fall right into.
And at the start of my writing journey, I discovered Jamie Ridler, a creativity coach based in Toronto. Her programs through the years have helped me truly own being an artist. Working with her has changed every aspect of my life, including my writing.
Do you use an editor? How do they help you be a better writer?
My editor, Nicole McCurdy, of Emerald Edits, is a dream. I’ve learned so much from her notes and can now catch a lot of issues before they’re baked into the story. And though I didn’t work with her because she’s Irish, it came in handy for Where We Come Home, which is set in Ireland. I did a lot of research about customs, traditions, and attitudes, but when a legit Éirennach confirmed my artistic choices, it felt terrific.
Do you participate in a writing group? How did you find your group and what are the benefits?
Having supportive friends and family is wonderful, but nobody understands the joys and struggles of the craft like another writer. When Kat Caldwell started a group, I tried it out, hoping to connect with just one person. (Spoiler: I got more than one.) We cheer each other on (or up, when necessary), offer advice, critique, motivation, and friendship. We also laugh a lot. They are my tribe and I love them to pieces.
Are you an introvert or an extrovert and how does that help or hurt you in your work?
100% pure, unadulterated introvert. I’m happiest alone in my studio with a manuscript. The challenge is leaving the bubble to submit my work. Sending a packet off to an agent or press induces the same anxiety as going to a party where I only know the host.
What inspired Where We Come Home?
This sounds so Stephanie Meyers, but it came from a dream of a man and woman having a metaphysical conversation in a hilltop ruin. On waking I couldn’t remember what they said, but the mood of two strangers connecting in a way destined to change them both lingered. For years I puzzled over them and started daydreaming embellishments, mining for their story. Once I began writing it, the bones came together quickly. It took quite a bit longer to add the muscle and flesh.
What would you like people to know about Where We Come Home?
It’s the story of Clare Riordan, a young American woman, who inherits her grandfather’s cottage in Ireland. Lacking direction or self-confidence, she visits his childhood home before deciding what to do with it. The cottage bursts with memories and magic, but it has also seen better days. A sensible person would take her prickly lawyer’s advice and sell it. But Clare hates being told what to do.
The cottage presents a challenge, but everything about it, and Ireland, calls to her heart. The villagers of Killarkin offer friendship, and Maeve, who runs the pub where Clare takes refuge from her leaky roof, is the mother she’s always wanted.
Unable to turn her back on her Grand-da’s legacy she surprises everyone, including herself, by choosing to tuck in for a wee bit and renovate the cottage. She takes to the pace of village life, and learns to cook and play darts, to use her mind and her hands, and to believe in herself. She acquires new friends, and enemies, and the interest of Maeve’s sons—Declan who pushes her away and Ciarán who draws her close.
Stories about people, especially women, growing into their true selves—finding their place—are infinitely fascinating to me. Not every important self-realization comes from huge, explosive events. There are small flickers of insight available in everyday life, too. The trick is making note of them. I enjoy writing about those sorts of experiences.
Readers are cordially invited to learn more about Raine Fraser on her website, rainefraserwriter.com. Or as Raine would say, “Stop by for a virtual cuppa.”
An Excerpt from Where We Come Home
by Raine Fraser
You are so lucky! Very few people have seen even a paragraph but we have exclusive access to a short excerpt from Where We Come Home by Raine Fraser.
Blowzy, unkempt rose bushes leaned against the stone walls of the cottage and faded petals littered the muddy sod. As a child, I had never seen a more beautiful building, or one better disposed for magic. I took enchantment as writ; weaned on my Irish grandfather’s steady diet of stories, Celtic histories and folklore were the same to me, fable indistinguishable from fact. The small gray house conjured visions of Fionn ma Cumhaill striding across the fields behind the house, searching for his enchanted wife and I knew aos sí, pookas, and other denizens of Tír na nÓg were about their mystical business within the walled garden.
The memory never faded. I held it like a petite china figurine, its loveliness giving pleasure, even as the onslaught of school and growing up rendered it frivolous. Twenty-two years later, Grand-da Seamus died. When his loss muted to a dull, though ever present, ache on the heart, I returned to Ireland, believing myself ready to discharge the duties set on me by his will.
But I wasn’t prepared. Standing outside the Dublin airport, waiting for my ride, an unexpected tsunami of emotion swamped me. Alone amid tour groups loading onto buses and joyful individuals calling out to loved ones, I sobbed, then clamped chilly fingers to my eyes, striving for control over a soul throbbing with grief.
I hung my head low, grasping for enough wisps of composure to get through the day. After several shuddered breaths, I opened my watery eyes, and glimpsed a pair of polished black wingtips. Cringing, I peered up at the owner of the shoes—a tall, good-looking man in his late thirties with hands shoved deep in the pocket of a Burberry trench coat. He wore a perplexed, wary expression and asked, “Miss Riordan?”
Humiliated I replied, “Clare. Yes. You must be Mr. O’Donnell.” Damn. I’d anticipated a more dignified introduction to Grand-da’s Irish solicitor.
“Ya don’t appear well.”
I searched my purse for a tissue. “I’m fine. Early onset jet lag.”
Dubious, he nodded toward my battered duffle bag. “If you’re sure, we can go. Allow me to carry your luggage.”
We walked to the parking garage without speaking. I struggled to quiet mortification and pass for a reasonable human. He, no doubt, attempted to deduce the emotional stability of his new client. He halted behind a gray Mercedes and unlocked the trunk.
Distracted by the pristine, expensive vehicle, I blew an appreciative whistle. “Nice car.”
He grimaced, defensive. “It’s practical.”
“Sure.” Cowed by his interpretation of the compliment as a judgement, I waited by the passenger side, twisting a stray curl.
With a slam of the trunk and a rattle of keys he said, “We drive on the left here.”
Scurrying to the correct side, I slunk in, burning with an embarrassment which only increased when I caught my reflection in the window. Leggings, an oversized hoodie, and a messy bun granted comfort for a long flight, but I wished I’d thought to brush my hair.
I scratched at my palms, searching for an ameliorative comment to banish the awkward mood. As Mr. O’Donnell pulled onto the highway out of Dublin I said, “I appreciate the ride.”
“Ya needn’t have come all this way.” The clipped remark rang with reproof.
“Grand-da wanted his ashes in Ireland,” I said, more than a little defensive. “Besides, I wanted to see the old place.” The casual remark triggered regret. I could have accompanied Grand-da on any of his annual visits but hadn’t; thwarted first by an over-cautious mother, then the youthful arrogance which deemed summer camp with friends more compelling than a month in a small Irish town. Rather than risk crying again I attempted to take refuge in small talk. “Do you live in Dublin?”
“Killarkin,” Mr. O’Donnell answered, chipping out the village name between tight lips.
“And you don’t mind such a long commute?”
The corner of his eye twitched. “I’m in the city when required; my practice is in the country.”
The notion of a well-dressed, Mercedes owning solicitor managing a comfortable living from a handful of sheep farmers and shopkeepers strained credulity. “How do you keep busy enough?”
His mouth twisted in a disdainful smirk. “Sure, ya are an American.”
My Yankee patriotism didn’t run deep but the insult landed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He barked a laugh. “Americans love askin’ personal questions, even of strangers.”
“Oh.” I curled like a hedgehog, peering out the window under the cowl of my hoodie. I’d intended casual conversation, not the start of an international incident. I let down my hair to cover heated cheeks, and combed my fingers through snarled curls, wishing I’d taken the bus.
In a vinegary tone he added, “Most of my work at home is pro bono.”
His altruism didn’t make me feel less ridiculous about my sloppy appearance, unwelcome curiosity, or propensity for conversational mistakes. I contemplated the landscape, the one Grand-da loved and would never see again, and my heart stung like a skinned knee. Determined not to blubber in front of Mr. O’Donnell, I blew my nose with discretion, and watched the winter sun refract prisms through the fine rain falling from patchy clouds.
More about Writing Groups
I met Raine Fraser in the writing group she mentioned about, organized by Kat Caldwell, of Pencils and Lipstick fame. Writing is often considered a solo business but there are many types of ways that authors can support each other including virtual and in person regular meetings and sprints, critique groups and conferences. Raine and I were beyond fortunate to find not only writing support but true friendships in our group.
You can learn more about writing groups in my blog post about it here, and about it from others, here and here. Be sure you know why you want to join a group—to keep your butt in the chair, to get feedback on your work, to work with like-minded writers, to make friends with authors? For me, it was and still is about the accountability. Te friendships, the critiques, the resource recommendations, mentoring and everything else were bonuses I never expected. You can learn more about Kat and her Pencils and Lipstick offerings here.
Promoting Authors
I believe authors helping other authors. Readers have the capacity to read more than one book, so we are not in competition with one another. If you are an author looking to promote your romance novel or series, or a reader who wants to see your author in this space, let me know in the comments below or sign up directly to contribute to this blog