Robert Tate Miller: Fall, 2018
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READER PRAISE FOR: 
​THE CHRISTMAS STAR: A LOVE STORY

"I without a doubt will be reading this one again. So touching and moving that you will want to share it. "

 "If you are going to read one Christmas story this year, you should make it be this one."

 "In my opinion, it is the most unforgettable Christmas story I have ever read."

 "What an unusual story. Loved it, couldn't put it down!"

"Blending the brilliance of It’s a Wonderful Life and the magic of The Wizard of Oz, The Christmas Star is deserving of a place on the shelf alongside these literary Classics!"
available NOW!

7/27/2014 2 Comments

My Friend Kim

My amazing friend Kim Lattanze passed away in an auto accident in 1986. Years later, the Chicken Soup for the Soul people called and asked me to contribute an essay to their latest compilation Chicken Soup for the College Soul. I wrote about Kim and how she reached out to me - a shy, gangly college boy. The editors decided to edit out the news of her passing in the final version of the story. Here it is:


My Friend Kim - Chicken Soup for the College Soul

I’d seen her around campus long before I pledged the Kappa Sigma fraternity the winter of my sophomore year. I’d admired her from afar—the epitome of the untouchable college beauty. I’d decided that if I were forced to choose one perfect girl, she would be the one. Even though our paths crossed several times a day, I felt as if she lived in some remote corner of a distant universe. I was sure she had no clue I existed.

She was there the night, several weeks into my pledgeship, when I was invited to join the brothers at a local honky-tonk. A favorite band was playing that night, and I welcomed the chance to get out of my stuffy dorm room and away from the grind of studying.

I arrived late and took a seat at a table alone in the back of the room. The others didn’t notice me from their front row of clustered chairs near the stage, but I didn’t care. I was in no mood to socialize with the same slave drivers who made me scrub the floors and take out the trash. I made a pact with myself to hang out for fifteen minutes and then beat a hasty retreat.

I heard a familiar laugh. . . . Then I saw her. She was sitting among them, and I wondered who had made her laugh, wishing it had been me. She seemed to shine, making everything and everybody else in the room fade to insignificance. I looked around and wondered if anybody else saw her, but they all seemed too caught up in their corners of conversation to notice. How could they not? She was stunning. Radiant. I discovered that if I shifted my chair a little to the left, I had a clear view of her. I could watch her surreptitiously—the band in front of her providing the perfect cover.

I imagined myself sauntering up to her and asking her to dance. What would she say? Would she just laugh or simply look right through me? Maybe my voice would crack, and I’d turn and slink away as if it had all been a mistake. Then I could simply spend the rest of my college years going around corners and taking roundabout routes to avoid seeing her.

At that moment, she turned toward the back of the room—her eyes searching as if she’d felt my thoughts on her. I blushed bright red when her gaze rested on me. I saw her lean over and whisper something to one of the brothers, and then she got up and weaved her way back through the cluster of tables. She was coming toward me.

For a moment, my heart began to race, thumping so violently I was sure she could see the fabric on my shirt moving. I looked over my shoulder and saw the “Restroom” sign. I breathed a sigh of relief. Who was I kidding? I took one last sip of my ginger ale. It was time to go home.

“Hey, Rob, what are you doing back here all by yourself?”

I looked up, and she was standing right in front of me. She was smiling as if we’d known each other all our lives. I swallowed hard. My voice vanished into thin air. She pulled out a chair and sat down at my table.

“How’d you know my name?” I finally managed to mumble, several octaves higher than normal.

“I asked around,” she said with a twinkle in her brown eyes. “I always make a point of knowing the names of all the cute guys on campus.”

I flushed a deep crimson, and even though I’m sure she noticed, she didn’t mention it. She took a sip of my ginger ale and began to talk. She told me all about herself. Where she grew up. What her family was like. Her favorite movies, what she liked to eat, her hopes and dreams and disappointments. Fifteen minutes turned into a half hour, an hour became two. We talked and laughed like old friends. There were people all around and a band playing somewhere behind us, but I’d long since lost consciousness of the din of voices, the music, the smell of smoke. We’d slipped into our own world—one where a new friendship was being born.

By the time the band finished its third encore, Kim Lattanze had stepped off the pages of my imagination and into my life. She hugged me good-bye at the door and walked off into the night.

We became the best of college friends in the months and years that followed. On graduation day, we hugged good-bye and promised to always stay close. At first, we kept our pledge with cards, letters and numerous phone calls. Sometimes we’d run into each other at some alumni gathering or football game. She’d take me by the hand and pull me to a corner, where we’d take up right where we left off as she’d pepper me with questions about my family, career and love life. We’d always leave with a promise to be a little better at staying in touch.

But soon the times between promises grew longer and longer, and our paths took us in different directions. She moved to Atlanta and became a buyer for a department store, and I eventually packed up and drove to California to try my hand at screenwriting.

Fifteen years later, my thoughts sometimes still drift back to those college days. I recall an evening—a moment kept alive in the memory of Kim’s smiling eyes. One small but unforgettable minute in time. A shy boy, a beautiful girl and the precious gift of friendship she’d brought to my table that night.

And now, when I invariably find myself scanning the corners of rooms at parties, I stay vigilant—always on the lookout for that timid stranger who might feel a little out of place, a little left out. I can recognize myself in those bashful souls, and then I think of Kim. What would she do in a situation like this? I walk over and say hello.



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7/21/2014 1 Comment

First Love Hurts the Most

I continue to be a lazy blogger by simply posting essays I had published long ago. Hopefully, this one never gets old.

Calling on a Girl Named Becky

By Robert Tate Miller MARCH 3, 1995 - The Christian Science Monitor

'MAY I help you?'' the man behind the counter at the ceramic shop asked. I barely heard him. My gaze was transfixed by the pretty teenager perched on the stool beside him. Her curly brown hair, round rosy cheeks, and shimmering green eyes were so distantly familiar. Once upon a time, eyes like those had captured a schoolboy's heart.

In the summer of 1973, Becky came to work as a waitress at my family's quaint stone inn in the mountains of North Carolina. She burst through the swinging kitchen doors one June morning just as I was sitting down to breakfast. It was love at first sight.

Becky was 16. I was 11. She was pretty, vivacious, and outgoing. I was shy, a little on the pudgy side, and, heretofore, more inclined toward bullfrogs and tree climbing than creatures of the fairer sex.

But there was something about Becky. The certain way she tossed back her head whenever an unwelcome curl drifted down over her eye. Her habit of chewing on the nail of her pinkie finger when she was lost in thought. The way she gracefully tucked her pencil behind her ear after taking an order. Becky was no garden-variety girl.

''What's that?'' Becky would ask innocently, pointing to some imaginary speck just south of my Adam's apple. I always fell for it, and she relished bringing her finger up to pop me on the chin when I looked down. ''Gotcha gain,'' she'd say grinning.

The summer of '73 Becky gave me a boy's greatest keepsake -- attention. She was never too busy to share a secret, a joke, or a playful flick of a wet dish towel. In return, I cleaned off her tables, fetched her soft drinks, sneaked her extra desserts, and worshiped the ground she walked on.

''I think he's cute,'' Becky whispered one afternoon just loud enough for me to overhear. ''Especially when he blushes.''

''Becky, I love you,'' I boldly ventured one morning into the bathroom mirror. ''I'll love you till the end of time.''

Unfortunately, our time was sliding by like a well-waxed shuffleboard disk, and there was nothing I could do to slow it.

''Robbie, can I talk to you for a minute?'' Becky asked one stormy August afternoon. My heart was racing. What could she want? Would she finally confirm her love for me?

''I'm going back to school soon,'' she announced. ''I won't be around much anymore.'' I swallowed hard. ''You've been a great friend,'' she said quietly. ''I'll miss you very much.''

I struggled to stay composed. I had worked so hard for her to see me as a grown-up and I didn't want to fall apart now. But when she grew blurry, and my chin began to quiver, I knew there was no turning back.

''I love you,'' I said abruptly and then cried my eyes out.

For a few minutes she watched me -- a bit startled by my sudden sobbing confession. Then she gently took my hand.

''Robbie,'' she spoke softly. ''I think you're very special and I love you so much as my friend. But I'm not the one for you, and I think, deep down, you know that.''

Slowly, like a steam engine pulling into the station, my sobbing ground to a halt.

Becky smiled at me until she forced me to smile back. ''Someday,'' she confided, ''you're going to find a girl so wonderful you'll know she's the right one for you. Then, you'll forget all about me. I promise you.''

''May I help you,'' the ceramic-shop man repeated a bit more firmly. ''Is Becky in?'' I muttered finally. ''Are you a friend of hers?'' he shot back suspiciously.

''Sort of,'' I mumbled. ''About 20 years ago she spent the summer waitressing at my family's inn. My father and I were waxing nostalgic last evening, and her name came up. He said I might be able to find her here.''

His furrowed brow softened and he extended his hand. ''I'm her husband. This here's her daughter.'' The girl snatched the phone from the wall and began dialing. ''Becky's at home today,'' the man explained. ''She's not been well.''

''Momma, somebody here knows you.'' The girl spoke in her customary mountain twang. ''He says you used to work at his family's inn.'' She listened for a moment and then wordlessly handed me the phone.

I stared at it in my hand as if holding one for the first time. She smiled a dimpled smile that seemed to say, ''go ahead.''

''Hi, Becky,'' I stammered a bit too energetically. The other end of the line was completely still. Five seconds. Ten.

''Robbie, is that you?'' The voice I knew. It was deeper, more grown-up -- but unforgettable.

''It's me,'' I assured her.

''Well, how have you been?'' she asked with a smile in her voice.

''Fine, Becky. How about you?''

We reminisced -- small talk among long-lost friends trying to fold 20 years into a five-minute phone conversation.

''I have such happy memories of that summer,'' Becky said at last. ''I am so touched you remembered. I only wish I could be there to see you because, you really made my year.''

''But, Becky,'' I said smiling at the girl across the counter, ''I'm looking at you right now.''

''Now, don't you go and fall in love with my daughter,'' she teased.

My cheeks flushed bright red. I was 11 again.

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7/15/2014 0 Comments

Once Upon a New Year's Eve

Okay, so another piece that ran a long time ago. There are quite a few of them out there and, if I keep this up, I won't actually have to write a new blog for quite some time. This is the story of a magical New Year's Eve I spent in Times Square. It's a memory and a moment I will never forget. The essay ran in the Christian Science Monitor in January of 2000. 

A year for which I'd waited a lifetime

By Robert Tate Miller JANUARY 20, 2000

Ten ... nine ... eight ... seven ... six...." As I stood near the corner of 44th and Broadway counting down the final seconds of 1999, I craned my neck up toward the sparkling ball perched high above Times Square and tried my best to freeze the moment in my mind. I wanted to be able to look back on this in years to come and vividly remember the giddiness I was feeling.

The seconds ticked down, and I felt the surging energy of the crowd rise to the moment. I couldn't help but wonder: What would I remember most about this night? Would it be the hail of confetti, the shouts of jubilant revelers, the shower of fireworks arcing high above the throng? What would, in years to come, stand out foremost about this single instant in my life?

I had dreamed of this night since I was 14 - back when I used to slip out the back door of the family home on balmy summer evenings. I'd gaze up at the heavens through the Carolina pines - stretched out on the soft wood of the backyard picnic table. It seemed such a distant event then. Nearly a quarter century in the future - so many starry skies in between, so much life to be lived first. Back then, I couldn't help pondering what the world might be like. Where would I be? What would I be doing? Would I be rich? Successful? Happy?

I decided to make a pact with the future. I'd be there that night. Somehow, someway, I'd make it to Times Square to bear witness to the celebration. It seemed a reasonable dream, then. It was one I could tuck away on a shelf until the far-off day arrived.

"Are you crazy?" concerned friends asked me when I told them of my New Year's plans. Nearly 2-1/2 decades had passed since I'd made my picnic-table promise. It was Dec. 31, 1999, my date with destiny. Anything could happen, they warned me. A bomb might explode. Riots could break out. The world might end.

I thanked them for their concern, assured them that I would be all right, and boarded a northbound train in Atlanta. Destination: New York City.

There's simply no place like Manhattan at Christmastime. The lighted tree at Rockefeller Center towers majestically over the ice where skaters crowd the rink. Hordes of tourists press against the railing with cameras flashing. The shop windows on Fifth Avenue are a carnival of red and green, decorated with lights, miniature trees, and pine-coned wreaths. I strolled along and breathed it all in: the electricity, the anticipation of what was soon to transpire. The moment was at hand.

The temperature hovered near 38 degrees F. as I walked up 86th street to catch a subway to Times Square early the morning of New Year's Eve. I arrived just before 9 a.m. and, in a steady cold drizzle, staked out my position with a $10 lawn chair I'd snatched up at a 7th Avenue hardware store. Fifteen hours to go.

People had already gathered by the thousands, jockeying for the best spots, settling in for a long, cold day of waiting and waiting and more waiting. Who were these strangers sharing my corner of Times Square, I wondered. Where did they come from? What had possessed them that they would willingly stand side by side, like human trees in an overgrown forest, to await with bated breath the passage of a single second in time?

"Where are you from?" I finally asked the two young women directly in front of me. "Germany," they responded with smiles.

"Where in Germany?" an eavesdropping Australian man asked.

"Just north of Berlin," they answered in unison.

"I was just there a month ago," another man chimed in. Soon, three rugged-looking characters from Philadelphia joined the conversation, and then a couple from Florida asked if I'd take their picture. It wasn't long before this group of shivering strangers had formed our own Times Square neighborhood, a borough rich with diversity, one that was destined to live only for a day and then disband.

"We need a name," one of the young toughs from Philly announced.

"How about 'Sbarro Eastside Posse'?" his friend offered, referring to the fact that we were just east of a chain restaurant of that name on Broadway.

"It suits us," said a young woman from San Francisco.

As the day rolled past, the group of strangers barricaded in an overcrowded section of pavement at the northwest corner of 44th and Broadway forged a New Year's bond. We played cards, laughed at one another's jokes, shared chairs, food, blankets, and stories from our dissimilar lives. Each hour we'd stand together and count down the seconds along with a giant digital clock, as another time zone rang in the new year somewhere far away.

The German women, Astrid and Claudia, wept when they realized their homeland had slipped into 2000 without them, halfway around the world. We gave them hugs, took their picture, and shared their mixed emotions.

At 10 minutes to midnight, I stood up on my tiptoes and looked over a sea of shining faces on all sides as far as I could see. Millions of eyes, all gazing up in joyous anticipation at a sparkling silver ball waiting to fall on the year 2000.

"Remember these next 10 minutes," I shouted over the din to my smiling new friend, Ian from Melbourne. "The memory will have to last you the rest of your life."

Five minutes to go, and I thought again about my question: What would I remember most about New Year's Eve 1999? After a long, cold day of waiting, I finally knew. The answer was all around me in the luminous eyes of these adventurous people. They had come from the four corners of the earth - from big cities and small villages, jungles and beaches, mountains and valleys and plains. They'd traveled here, just like me, to experience a tiny, crowded piece of history.

In a few minutes, we'd all turn and walk away. We'd return to our separate lives. But, before we did, we would stand together one last time and, in a unified act, step onto the threshold of a new millennium.

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7/8/2014 1 Comment

A Writer's Christmas in June

Hi readers! Here's a look back at the summer of 2003 when my NBC movie, "Secret Santa," was filmed here in LA. Good times! 

By Robert Tate Miller, Contributor to The Christian Science Monitor DECEMBER 12, 2003
LOS ANGELES — As snowflakes swarmed in the glow of the streetlamp, actress Jennie Garth - decked out in a heavy overcoat and gloves - fanned herself to stave off the heat.

Blizzards in Los Angeles in June are only a slightly less frequent occurrence than one occurring off-camera that day: I was a writer standing in a place few writers are welcomed - the set of his own movie.

Six months had passed since I'd first read the treatment for the TV movie that would become "Secret Santa." Producer Beth Polson's synopsis put forth a whimsical supposition: What if a cynical newspaper reporter journeyed to a town in search of a mysterious philanthropist - and ended up finding something more than she'd bargained for? I felt the yarn held a plausible premise and I buckled down to pen the script.

CUT TO: ONE MONTH LATER. The teleplay was complete, and I'd arrived at the moment screenwriters most dread. My newborn "baby" was off to live with a new family, and I wouldn't be granted visitation rights. It was only my second movie, but I'd been around enough to know that writers were about as welcome on a movie set as a rabid possum at a Brownie campout.

The first time out, I'd naively phoned the producer on set to ask if I could drop by and say hello. He abruptly cut off the conversation, promising to call right back. The next time I saw him was five months later at a media event where he looked at me as if he was struggling to put a name with my vaguely familiar face. Needless to say, I was wary that "Secret Santa" would merely be a sequel to the previous unpleasantness. Then, I received the shock of my professional life.

"Just so you know," Beth informed me the day before production began, "you are welcome on set."

I asked her to clarify when I was welcome. "Always," she said succinctly. "After all, you're the writer."

From Day 1, the cast sought me out to offer kind words about the script and did their best to make me feel welcome. When I went out of town one Friday, Garth welcomed me back on Monday with a playful scolding for writing a scene that had kept her busy plucking flecks of mud out of her hair all weekend.

Being on set, I learned that the best laid scenes can be ruined in an instant by a barking dog, a backfiring car, or an irrepressible sneeze. I discovered that the writer's cavalier choice to set a scene at night could throw the whole week's shooting schedule out of whack. I learned that "check the gate" means it's time to move on to the next set-up, and that a "martini" shot says it's almost time to go home. I learned that a good director can make the impossible a reality and a good actress can turn a simple line into a magic moment.

The huge crew had even managed to tiptoe around a nuns' retirement home. ("Shhh," Beth admonished everyone one night. "The nuns are sleeping.") The sisters had agreed to let us invade their shaded sanctuary after approving the script and learning that June Cleaver herself, Barbara Billingsley, would be a resident in the film home. So far, the 18-day shoot was just swell.

SCENE TWO: "The movie's short," Beth greeted me one morning. "We need more meat."

I felt I'd been socked in the solar plexus. The dilemma was immediately clear: How do I add to the script without it looking as if I was adding to the script? I desperately scoured each page, looking for any scene that could use a bit of flesh and then, just when I was about to admit defeat, I remembered Scene 84, the walk. This was our reporter's romantic stroll with the mysterious millionaire. I flipped to the scene, and my hunch was right. She did most of the talking. Maybe it was time to find out more about him.

"I like it," Beth said the next day. Our male lead now had a page worth of personal history to learn - and fast.

CUT TO: "Report to wardrobe immediately." It was the last night of shooting, more extras were needed for the Christmas party scene, and I was a warm body. The costumer took one look at my 6-foot, 4-inch frame and announced that she didn't have a jacket my size. Minutes later, I was standing on my mark wearing a yard-sale sweater. I was ready for my Hitchcock moment. Then the director called "action," and I proceeded to blindside a cluster of fellow extras. "Cut!"

"It's a wrap." The famous words were spoken just after midnight. As I watched the cast and crew file away, I wished I could cling to my Christmas in June just a little bit longer.



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    Author

    Robert Tate Miller was raised in the North Carolina mountain town of Hendersonville and began writing at an early age. He began his writing career with homespun essays of small town life that were published in such publications as Reader's Digest, The Christian Science Monitor and the Chicken Soup for the Soul book series. He moved to Los Angeles in the late 1980s and wrote hugely successful family-oriented telefilms for NBC, ABC Family and the Hallmark Channel. Robert lives in Northridge, CA..   


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