About
Kate Landers grew up in the suburbs of Houston, but now lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee. She likes really clickity keyboards, iced coffee, and other people’s dogs. Most people think she’s alright. Her eyebrows aren’t as thick as they look in this picture.
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Blog
To be…or not to be…crude
They always say to be yourself…but what if you’re a foul-mouthed pirate?
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Am I a Writer Now?
Learning to self-publish sucks. But holding your book in your hands is worth it.
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A Slight Tickle
In honor of Halloween this year, I thought I’d share a horror story with you. Well, it was horrific to me, but it may be funny to some of you. When I was 16, I got a job as a lifeguard. One day while I was up in the stands,…
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On Writing: Thank God for No’s
I’m at a point where I’m going to start querying agents again. I’ve got several picture books (PBs) that are ready to get off my computer and on to a bookshelf somewhere. Last year I printed (I won’t say published) a few copies using the Barnes and Noble Press, and…
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Little White Lies
Craig suppressed a gag as Martha set the plate of broccoli casserole, her “specialty,” in front of him. “I made your favorite,” she smiled. “And there’s plenty more in the kitchen.” “You shouldn’t have,” he said, subtly leaning to the side so as to avoid the hot aroma wafting up.…
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To the Woman Hiding in the Bathroom Stall
I have been you, many times in my life When I had no one to eat lunch with at my new junior high When I wanted to prove to myself that I was a rebel and I could smoke my step-mom’s stolen cigarettes in the Band Hall bathroom When my…
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Abandoned Spiderweb Still Catches Flies
I only think of you at times when I am too far away to do anything about you – The abandoned spiderweb stretched like a hammock between my ceiling and a door I never close. Sometimes on my way to the kitchen I look up and I see you’ve caught…
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Legs
I’m never going to forgive u. She hit Send, and as a second thought, quickly typed Hope ur happy. Then, before she could receive a response, she turned her phone off and set it on the bedside table. She closed her eyes and let her head droop for a moment,…
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Ode to a Cold Toilet Seat
My daughter’s hair is slithering down my throat Her flannel nightgown is making me hot, and I’m pretty sure she just farted on me I gently grasp her around her rib cage, about the same width as a rotisserie chicken, and move her a few inches away, but she rebounds…
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Kate the Writer 
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