Do What Works

Just write what you love. If you are passionate about your characters, your readers will feel that way too.
-Virginia Henley

This past week, I attended three different RWA chapter meetings. Tonight, I’m trying out a local writers’ group, and I submitted the first scene from Her Last First Kiss for critique. This group is not affiiliated with RWA, and is multigenre (slanted toward mainstream and literary, IIRC, but don’t quote me) so I have some reservations. I’ve had experiences both good and not so good with multigenre critique groups, but at the same time, want to keep an open mind and give things a fair shot.

The pluses are easy: this is a local group, meets at the local library (most of the time) which is a lovely walk from my house and I do like the members, from emails exchanged and the one meeting I was able to make a few months back. In-person critique and/or support groups can be like catnip for the extroverted writer. There really is some truth to the theory of hybrid vitality, and getting input from readers outside one’s genre of choice can provide insight that couldn’t come from anywhere else. Did I mention this group will be meeting in a library? Building full of books and movies gets an automatic point in its favor right there.

Then there’s the potential minuses. Not a romance group. In the past, this could have been a source of anxiety. Maybe I should try to tailor what I write to suit their needs. Writing is writing, right? Keep the peace, fit in, all of that stuff. Now…no. I write historical romance, I’m happy with it, I’m proud of it, and if it doesn’t fit with a particular group, then that’s probably not the group for me to bring my own work. I’ll critique pretty much anything, because I love stories, period, but knowing what to share with whom, that’s a learned skill.

There is always a chance, in a multigenre group, that somebody (count on at least one) has not read the genre a particular member writes. The good side of that? Honest reaction of a reader totally new to the genre. You get to be their first. Maybe they’ll find something new they might like, and so might you. Making assumptions about who reads what based on age or gender is usually a bad idea. When in doubt, ask. “So, what do you read?” is a classic reader/writer icebreaker, and a good way to test the waters. If it’s not a good fit, say so, in a polite and friendly manner, and move on along, no harm, no foul. Reach out to any individuals with whom you feel a connection and keep on doing you.

Which brings me to today’s picture. I have a lot of books. I mean, a lot of books. Most are in storage, but one box more than the boxes I’d tagged to make the move ended up getting on the truck, and into my office. Since I’m reorganizing said office in preparation for new-to-me desk, chair and computer (which will free my beloved secretary desk for longhand writing, which is what it was built for in the first place) I’m going through things that have sat for a while. I opened this box and hello, old friends. Where I’d been casting sidelong glances at a static TBR shelf of mostly new releases and telling them the reason they’ve been on that shelf for so long isn’t them, it’s me, the sight of these spines looking up at me from their cardboard cradle made my heart go pitty-pat.

Look at all those settings: 20th century time travel, Tudor England, Medieval England, Victorian England, Victorian-era Australia, Interregum England and Africa? (Not pictured because I’m currently reading it) Don’t see all of those that often these days, do we? All of these date from the mid 1980s at earliest to 2000 at latest, confirming that my current reading interests are, at present, very comfortably ensconced in books written/published in the 1990s, give or take a few years either way. After reading two brand-new releases (thumbs up on both of them) I’m ready for these. That’s what works now, and darned if I’m not plowing through the tale of a runaway bride in the midst of the English Civil War, and a hero who I’m pretty sure is going to wind up enslaved in Northern Africa, if I’m reading this right.

There is, of course, the voice of current marketing in my head, reminding me that we’re on page x and hero and heroine haven’t met yet, and that is not done. Grab the reader now, now, now, be fast, be clear, be…shush, voice. Mama’s reading. I’m engaged in the story; that’s enough. It’s a romance. They’ll be fine. That’s all I need to know, so that voice can be quiet now.

Typing With Wet Claws: Creative Thinking Edition

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Big week at our house, as usual, so that is no big surprise. Anty is very happy that she will be going to three RWA chapter meetings this week. Three. She has never been to that many in one week before. She went to Saratoga Romance Writers on Tuesday (you can read about that here, in case you are new or missed it.) Tomorrow is her day to go to Capitol Region Romance Writers (they are the closest to us) and on Sunday, she goes all the way back to where we used to live (the area, not the house) to go to a meeting of New England Romance Writers. She is gone all day when she goes to that one, but happy when she comes home.

Being around other writers, especially other romance writers, is very good for Anty. She comes home from those meetings all excited and wanting to write more.Sometimes, she comes back with more books. Sometimes, she comes home with snacks. That is people snacks, unfortunately, and not kitty snacks, though that is okay, because I only eat the food Mama, Anty and Uncle give me, and they never miss, so I am fine. This week, Anty came home with flowers. In case you missed them, they looked -and still look- like this.

They're baaaaack.

They’re baaaaack.

Anty getting the flowers was a good thing, because she likes flowers, and she, Uncle and Mama had wanted flowers for the front window (the one I watch birdies through) for a while now. She was happy to get these, and thinks they are very beautiful. There is only one problem, though. They make her head explode. That is very frightening for a kitty. When her head explodes, I run out of the room, because the sound is very loud. Then I come right back, because I am brave and curious. Then her head explodes again. I am exhausted from all the running. That is probably why Anty moved the flowers from the front window and into her office, where she can close the door.

There is only one problem with that. If the sneezy flowers are in the office, she can’t be, and she needs to rearrange the office because a new destktop computer is coming home in a couple of weeks (it is not new-new but it is new to Anty, so that still counts.) This means the flowers have to go, but where? At first, Uncle had a good suggestion. Anty could bring them to a friend who had to stay at the people vet for a while. Anty agreed that was a good idea, and she took the sneezy flowers all the way to the people vet, only to find that their friend’s room was…empty. A nice nurse assured Anty everything was okay and that the people vet said their friend was better and had gone home only a few minutes before. Anty took the sneezy flowers back home and told Uncle they had to think of another place.

Then Uncle had another good idea. He could take the sneezy flowers to the prayer chapel near his work. I should mention that Uncle is Catholic,which does not have anything to do with cats (I know, I was disappointed to find that out, too; it has c-a-t right in the name. That is rather misleading.) even though all the Catholic people I know personally like cats a lot. But some do not. Anyway, Anty was happy to hear the flowers could have a home in the chapel, and went off to write, When she got home, surprise – flowers. She waited for Uncle to come home and asked him why they were still there. He said he’d forgotten it was Lent, and there cannot be any decorations at that chapel during Lent. So much for that.

Anty does not want to throw out these flowers because they are not cut, but are in soil, so they are alive. She says she might take them to her CRRWA meeting tomorrow and give them to somebody there. I hope they are not allergic to flowers, too. Maybe next time, she should get catnip.

Speaking of catnip, since notebooks are like catnip to Anty, she wanted me to share her newest acquisition, her very first 5×8 hardcover Moleskine. Can you believe she went this long without one?

I think the discount helped...

I think the discount helped…

Anty has been very busy this week, not only with meetings, blog posts, and stories, but with her brand newest thing. Today is her day to talk at 31 Days and 31 Ways to Jumpstart Your Life. She is excited to talk about how being creative helps make life better. Tomorrow is the day she posts at Buried Under Romance. If you have never read her posts there, here is last week’s post, about finding new books. Here is the picture she took for this week’s post. What do you think she will talk about there?

what could this mean?

what could this mean?

Anty says this is getting long and she needs the computer back, so that is about it for this week.

Until next week...

Until next week…

Until then, I remain very truly yours,

Skye O’Malley Hart-Bowling
(the kitty, not the book)

Lobsterriffic

Some notebook brands get under my skin. Moleskine, of course, and Picadilly, and Markings are all good, solid workhorse books that I use for my all purpose needs. They get marked up and carried around and hold a rainbow of ballpoint ink colors and highlighters in various  hues and formulas. I could not do what I do without them. Try to take them from me, and you’ll pull back a stub. Not giving those up anytime soon, but then there are the other kinds.

By other kinds, I mean the ones that make me drool with their outright gorgeousness, the ones that are works of art all on their own without any help from the consumer. I’ve blogged about a trio of floral notebooks I got from Paperchase before, here. Perfect for a historical romance writer, yes? So, no surprise that Paperchase would do it again, with this lovely specimen.

It's my lobster

It’s my lobster

No, I do not eat seafood (allergies) but I have always wanted to write an American Revolutionary era historical romance with Loyalist characters. One of the terms for British soldiers during that era was “lobsterbacks,” referring to the red coats, so of course that’s exactly where my mind went when I saw this beauty. I could write that book in this book, I could. So I picked it up, which is where I found the next lovely surprise:

Red and blue lines. I repeat: Red. And. Blue. Lines.

Red and blue lines. I repeat: Red. And. Blue. Lines.

My heart went pitty-pat at the sight of alternating red and blue lines. My mind whirled – the lines remind me of airmail envelopes, which I dearly love and need to use more, both in correspondence and art, and the mere fact that they are not the usual sort of lines hints at maybe a not so usual sort of story (but still happy ending, because of course, I am me) and I knew a sudden urge to use one of the front pages to list the books in Miranda Jarrett’s Sparkhawk series of historical romances. (I really need to reread those, but my copies are all in storage. :sigh:) At any rate, the book did not come home with me the first time I saw it, because of course it had to be exhorbitantly expensive. Still, I had to pick it up and pet it every single time I came into the store.

Anchory endpapers!

Anchory endpapers!

Notebook fiends know what it’s like to imagine all the lovely things we will do to a beloved but not yet owned notebook. What types of ink to write in it with, what colors, which specific pens, the precise size, shape and color of sticky notes, if any are to be used at all. These things matter. As do pockets. Have I mentioned how much I love pockets in the backs of notebooks?

Pocket!

Pocket!

So, notebook love, repeated pettings, all of that means that there comes a point where dang the stress, the book must come home. First, it must be purchased. Only of course there is a snag. This particular book wouldn’t ring up at the register. Huh. Okay, consult manager. Manager also flummoxed. Manager takes book to the special manager cave to check codes and numbers and possibly an oracle or two. Manager comes back out even more flummoxed. According to stock, this book does not exist.

un-American pricing

un-American pricing

Blurry shot here, but since nobody could find a US price -tag lists price in British pounds and Euros, but not US dollars- it was determined the book A) could not be sold, B) technically did not exist in the store, so the manager said I could have it for free, since it would need to be damaged out anyway. Definite case of right time, right place for that one. Now to wait for the proper story, and when it comes, I’m thinking fountain pen…

A Camping I Will Go (NaNo style) And Other Tales

I’m doing Camp NaNo this year.

I hadn’t planned on it. In fact, I’d planned on not doing it, because NaNo wordcounts give me the heebie-jeebies, and as I told the delightful Shannon Kauderer at today’s Saratoga Romance Writers meeting, tend to leave me in a fetal position under the dining room table, sobbing uncontrollably. Shannon reminded me that I can set my own word count for Camp NaNo, even zero, and that the moral support, which is what I’d liked about NaNo in the first place, was the main point. So, this year, I’m camping. Also, Shannon has mermaidy green curly hair and charm for days, so that may have had something to do with the fact that I am now officially signed up. Not focused on word count; it’s all about the story for me.

ready to work

ready to work

Good thing, that, as Shannon, the regional municipal liason for NaNoWriMo (and camps) was the guest speaker, presenting her workshop on the Snowflake Method of plotting. I’ve taken this before, when Shannon presented at CRRWA, then, as now, with the delightful SueAnn Porter as my companion, so I knew what I was in for, and surely, I’d whip through this, no problem, be all set to charge forward.

Not exactly. The first step, creating a one sentence description of one character’s journey, had me stymied at first. Lots of writing, lots of crossing out, lots of squeezing in teeny tiny words above those crossed out lines, and I finally came up with this:

A disreputable rogue finds the love of a lifetime in the one woman he can never have — his best friend’s mistress. 

Hm not half bad there. Okay, the meeting itself went rather smoothly. I felt right at home in the, warm, welcoming and professional group, and definitely plan on visiting again. I am not only saying that because I won the drawing for these lovely blooms right here:

Free flowers, that's how to welcome visitors.

Free flowers, that’s how to welcome visitors.

It was when SueAnn and I hit the parking lot that things got interesting. Flat tire. SueAnn figured we could limp along to the nearest service station, but reversed her decision and direction and we headed back to the parking lot. There was a quick fix kit in her trunk, which we both gave the old college try, but the green sludge in the squeezy bottle refused to go into the actual tire.

actual green slime

actual green slime

In my family, the words “dripping green slime” are a way of expressing barely contained anger, but there was none of that as SueAnn and I waited for AAA to show and swap flat tire for spare tire, which turned out to be the smaller donut sort. With weather thankfully warm for the day, we waited as only writers can – picking apart bad endings to good movies and TV shows, and fixing them. By the time AAA did show, we had a couple more stops before I could head home and charge straight into writing.

at least we tried

at least we tried

Adventure over? Not a chance. SueAnn wanted to get the real tire fixed and back on, which makes sense as she’s off on another adventure with Mr. Porter after she drops me off at home, so we had a short detour to the place from which her tires originally came.  There, we met an individual SueAnn has asked me to dub “Ridiculously Handsome Tire Guy.” We do not have a picture of Ridiculously Handsome Tire Guy, but SueAnn put him at “Derek Morgan level” (Shemar Moore in Criminal Minds) found herself distracted enough to momentarily forget how to speak English, which she assures me is indeed her native tongue (but sorry, SueAnn, “tire” and “photograph” are not synonyms, no matter that the gent in question seemed to catch her drift even so) and drop her purse. Somewhere out there, she’s sure, a romance novel is missing its cover model.

ridiculously handsome writer's dog

ridiculously handsome writer’s dog

Quick stop by Chez Porter to feed Bailey and make sure he got to :ahem: visit the great outdoors (and pose for a photo op) and then time to brave the traffic to drop me home. What do I do immediately upon arrival? Yep, head for they keyboard. A day spent talking writerly things gets me excited to go home and put all that theory into practice. The more I live with that one line blurb, the more I like it. Should be a fun time at camp this year.

Update: Flowers now exiled to office, as incessant sneezing makes me suspect I may be allergic. Balcony door now open to let in the evening air as I snuggle under a blanket to further explore story doings.

Typing With Wet Claws: Crunching the Numbers Edition

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Exhausting week this time, with Uncle sick, but he is feeling much better now. It is still cold outside, even though there are some birds outside the living room window. If I could jump (I do not, because I have special paws) I would be on the window seat all the time, because birds are very, very interesting.  The art across from Anty’s favorite seat at the coffee house has changed. It is now this:

i1035 FW1.1

This week, Anty has been writing a lot. There are the blog posts, here and elsewhere, and she is hard at work on a new book. There is a lot that goes into writing a new book, besides only telling the story. Since Anty writes historical romance, she has to make sure that she has the historical details right, but not in a boring or heavy handed way. The love story is the center and the history has to come second to that, but still provide versimillitude. That is a big human word that means it has to feel right. Anty  has to get enough of the historical flavor to make sure the story fits its time and the people don’t think, talk or behave like modern humans, but still in a way that modern humans can understand and relate to them. Anty usually does have kitties in her books, and I am her consultant. I make sure the kitties are still kitties, because we do not change that much, no matter the time period.

Humans, though, are another story. I did not mean to put that pun in there, but i will let it stay. The humans who are in Anty’s stories…how should I put this?  They have problems. Personally, I think that if they  had more kitties, they would have fewer problems, but Anty says humans without problems are not that interesting. I guess she knows best, because she has books out and I do not, but I still think there should be more kitties. I hear there may be dogs in this book. I am not sure how I feel about that.

Yesterday, Anty spent a chunk of time figuring out how old the important humans in her story were. Sometims, Anty gets anxious about certain details. If she gets it wrong, does that mean the book is doomed? Is it too much detail or maybe to little? Is this marketable? Maybe she should write something more on trend (I have to remind her that is a very silly human concern, since trends in books are really about two years old when they hit the shelves, and that is slightly less than one third of my age. I say she should write the story and she says I am right and then she goes back to making clicky sounds on the keyboard and I can take another nap, because i find that sound soothing.)

Where was I? Oh, right, human ages. That involves numbers, and Anty does not like dealing with numbers. She would rather tell stories, but because her stories are historical, that means she is going to have to deal with numbers at some point. Anty likes to have clear boundaries when she writes. That means she needs to know how old her people are, what year it is, and things like that. Vague definitions make her fidgety, and I pick up on that, so really, if she wants a happy kitty, she needs to deal with this. Yesterday, she was on the glowy box, and her friend , Vicki, helped her figure out the ages.

Anty was having problems figuring out who was how old. Vicki is good at noticing when Anty goes into a loop (that means worrying about the same thing over and over again so that no writing gets done.) She suggested Anty look up the average age for first marriage of male heirs of peers during the era in which her story takes place. (Anty had already figured out the year the story has to take place by looking at historical events that impacted her people, so she knew when to look for this.) The answer was late twenties to about thirty. The hero in this book is a second son, so these figures did not apply to him, but it did apply to a secondary character, and Anty knows that the hero is two years older than that character, who is two or three years older than the heroine, so there was a lot of math involved, and talking about that is tiring me out, so I can only imagine what it was like for her.

Anty and Vicki agreed that it all depended on how old Anty wanted the heroine to be (Anty would say it’s not how old she wanted the heroine to be, but how old she is, because that’s the way people show up in her head, and you can’t go around telling people how old they have to be, because that’s not the way that it works. Plus, I think that would be rude.) and they could figure out everybody else’s ages from there. First round of numbers Vicki came up with, Anty shot down because everybody felt too old. So, Vicki asked Anty (Vicki has known Anty and the way Anty writes for a long time, so she is smart about things like this) how old the hero feels. Anty said twenty-seven, which is what Vicki also thought, so that meant the other human male was twenty-five and the heroine twenty-two or twenty-three. This is, some might be surprised to find out, not out of the ordinary for a woman to be that age at that time and not yet married. These are things humans find out when they do research.

Anty is giving me that look again, and I want a snack, so I will wind this up for now. If you did not get to read Anty’s post last week at Buried Under Romance, about how to pay tribute to a favorite author who has gone to Rainbow Bridge, it is here. If you are new to the blog and have not read her posts on remembering BertriceHuman, they are here, here, and here.

That is about it for this week. Until next week, I remain very truly yours,

Skye O’Malley Hart-Bowling
(the kitty, not the book)

Until next week...

Until next week…

Remembering Bertrice Small, Part Three: Beyond The Pages

The most vivid memories I have of Bertrice Small aren’t between the pages of her books. While there are others who knew her far longer and far more intimately than I did, these are the memories that come most to mind.

Bertrice Small was my very first phone call. I was three days old, newly brought back to my parents’ New York apartment from Viriginia, where I was born. Their way of letting close friends know they had adopted me was to put me on the phone, and, as Aunt Sunny herself told me, she was the first. Her exact words to my mother, were, according to her, “Oh my God, you stole a baby,” then delighted laughter when my mom assured her it was a legal adoption.

Okay, not technically my memory, but that was so completely Bertrice that  I had to share it. Her voice is the most calming voice I have ever heard in person, and she was the first person I called when my father was taken off life support. I didn’t have to say anything; she said “it happened, didn’t it?” and we shared the moment, together. Those two phone calls alone could serve as memory enough. Bertrice Small was, beyond a pioneer in her genre, a true matriarch who could give any of her heroines a lesson or two (and she did) but the more time I spend on the matter, the more examples spring to mind. Photographs, alas, are currently in storage, but the memories can come at any time, and my copy of Lost Love Found will always have an extra special meaning, on more than one level, so I’ll let that suffice.

To me, this book will always symbolize friendship, not because of Valentina and Padraic’s story (which I love) but because of the friendship attached. Bertrice had originally wanted her dear friend, Elaine Duillo, to illustrate that cover. Unfortunately, contractual obligations made that impossible, and another illustrator friend, Robert McGinnis, stepped in to provide the cover art. I wish I could remember the entire story, because it was a good one, but I remember the animation in her voice and the spark in her eye when she told it. I do know that her covers sparked my ongoing interest of the works of both illustrators, different styles but equally talented.

My copy came to be courtesy of Nancy,  a family friend, with whom I was spending the day. I insisted we stop in a bookstore because Lost Love Found would be out and I had to touch a copy, though I didn’t have the cash on me to buy it yet. It was there, and I plucked it from the shelf and read the first few pages. Put it back with a sigh of regret. Picked it up again and stroked the cover. Nancy, kind soul, bought it for me because it was clear the book and I had bonded, even though she didn’t read romance herself. A very Bertrice-like thing to do, and all the more special because Nancy passed away shortly after that. Now, when I reread or even pet the cover, it feels like they’re both there with me still.

It’s difficult to pick out the personal memories to share.  As any two people do, we had our differences over the years, and navigating a child/adult relationship as it turns to teen/adult and then adult/adult is going to have some bumps in the road, but if I had to say only one thing about Bertrice Small, the person, it would be this: her heroines would be proud. I remember that calm, yet lively voice, telling family stories with as much imagination and care as any of her novels, doling out much needed advice and opinions, making command decisions when they were needed most and showing me that it was, indeed, womanly to be smart and strong.

Typing With Wet Claws: The Book, Not the Kitty Edition.

Hello, all. Skye here for another Feline Friday. I know my picture this week is fuzzy, but so am I. This has been a sad week, because Anty had somebody she loved go to Rainbow Bridge. That would be a human, not a kitty, the human who wrote the book for which I am named. My Anty first read that book a long, long time before I was born, but she and my Mama, who also likes that book very much, both agreed that its title fit as a name for the new family addition. The Skye O’Malley in the book was a brave, smart, beautiful female who had many adventures and triumphed over much adversity, to find true love at last. I like to think that fits, but there are some differences, too.

the book, not the kitty

the book, not the kitty

HumanSkye -I will call her that to avoid confusion, and I will still be me- lived a long, long time ago, in a place called Ireland and a lot of other places, like England and Algiers. I do not know where any of those places are. I am seven and was born in Massachusetts. I live in New York now. HumanSkye was both friends and not friends with a very powerful human named Elizabeth Tudor, who Anty tells me actually lived in the really real world. I know there is a difference between really real world people and those who live in writers’ heads like Anty’s characters do. HumanSkye was born in Bertrice Human’s head, but she was inspired by a really real world person named Grace O’Malley.

Writers, I have found, do that quite a lot. They will take something from the really real world and then make it into something else. Sometimes this is a person, like with HumanSkye, and sometimes, it is a place or part of a song or a picture. The writer takes many different things and mixes them together until they become one new thing. This is how books get made. My Anty is working on a book right now, and that  means that she is gathering lots of inspiration.

One thing she likes to do is make soundtracks for her stories. That means that she finds a lot of songs she likes, that sound like her characters or what happens to them, and she puts them in order and listens while she writes. Some writers do not like to listen to any music, or any music that has words, but Anty says the words do not bother her, and the lyrics mean something, so they are fine. I like when she plays very soft music. That makes me want to curl into a ball at her feet and take a nap. it is very relaxing when she does that.

Another thing she does is to make Pinterest boards with pictures of people and things that look like her story. I would share those with you, but she says that if she makes the board public, then she does not want to work on the story anymore, so they must stay private until the stories are done. She can put music with pictures on those boards, too, although I do not know how that works. Sometimes, she will stare at pictures and listen to the same song over and over and then she will write a lot. That is part of the writing process, too.

So is watching TV shows that she really, really likes. One of those is Sleepy Hollow. She says she now has an idea for a new colonial book, but it must wait until her current book is finished. She wrote about the season finale, which may or may not also be the series finale, here. It looks like this:

season finale or series finale, what do you think?

season finale or series finale, what do you think?

Anty had two other bits on Heroes and Heartbreakers this week. First, she shared her favorite read of February along with other H&H bloggers here. There are a lot of books in that post. I do not know how many of them contain any cats, though. They should put things like that on the website. More cats would read them then, I think, but nobody asked me.  There are also links to posts Anty wrote before about BertriceHuman’s books in the news roundup here. She will put links up later in another post with all posts where she mentions BertriceHuman, so they are easy to find. Maybe her best read for March will be one of BertriceHuman’s books. Or maybe the new Nick Hornby. She likes his books very much, too. She likes a lot  of books, which is probably a good thing for a writer.

One more thing before I sign off. Any has talked to SueAnn Porter and said that Bailey may be coming here for a posting playdate soon. I think that is very exciting, and also a little bit scary. If you know of any questions you would like to ask a writer’s pet, please let me or Anty know, and maybe we will use it.

Okay one more one more thing. Anty was quoted -twice-  on Peter Andrews’s blog, How to Write Fast, here. Anty first met Mr. Andrews a couple of years ago at the NECRWA conference, and they had a very interesting conversation about writing and reading. She took his workshop on how to write fast and still uses some of what she learned there in her writing now.

Anty needs the computer back, so that is all for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

Skye O’Malley Hart-Bowling,
(the kitty, not the book)

Until next week...

Until next week…

Remembering Bertrice Small, Part Two: As a Writer

Bertrice Small was the first professional writer I met in person, and long before I knew that writing stories of loves long ago even could be a job, but as soon as I figured it out, I knew that was what I wanted. I never had anything but support from this lovely lady, even when that support took the form of tough love.

The summer I was sixteen, I had the great good fortune to assist Bertrice Small’s assistant, which mostly consisted of answering fan mail, an experience I still cherish to this day.  This up close and personal view of what a working author actually does, besides the making up stories part only cemented my desire to pursue writing. I spent part of every weekday at the desk in the basement, so much that Bertrice joked that I was going to turn into a mushroom, spending all my time in the dark, underground. As I’m sun-sensitive, that was not a hardship, and I found the whole process fascinating. My “job” consisted of typing out responses to every piece of fan mail, already pre-sorted into one of three prepared responses. No email in those days, and so I had to physically type each reply from a template.  There were three of those: one for readers who read the latest book and liked it; one for readers who had read the book and did not like it (very few of those) ; and those who had read their first Bertrice book. There were special flags for letters that required a personal response beyond that, and those had to go back upstairs before I could stuff the envelopes and send them on their way.

I became a fan of her fan mail that summer. The stories in those letters proved beyond the shadow of a doubt the profound connection romance authors and their readers share. I still remember the letter from one reader who wanted to name her daughter Skye, but her husband vetoed the choice and they settled for another heroine-worthy name. Years later, I worked at a nursery school at college where two of the preschool students, sisters, were named Silver and Skye. Skye would have been old enough to have been born after that letter, so I always wondered if perhaps their mom was that reader. I never found out, but it’s possible.

That summer, I also had free run of Bertrice’s research library after hours (apart from the shelf that held what she needed for her current book) and it was kid in a candy store time. I had no idea what I was doing, so pulled books down at random and paged through them, hoping I’d catch the magic.  Knowing that these books I held in my hands had played a part in creating my favorite novels was a thrill and a half. The best part, though, was yet to come.

I had to write. That was a rule. At the end of the summer, Bertrice would read what I had written and give a fair and honest critique. I. Was. Terrified. I wrote what would be termed YA today, even though that wasn’t what I loved to read (big lesson there – “write what you love” is as important as “write what you know”) and there is no agent or editor pitch that will ever be as nerve-wracking or mean as much to me a sitting on that couch in her office. She pulled no punches, and I am glad she did not. She pointed out every plot hole. Every character blunder. Questioned my adjective choices. She told me to get a dictionary and learn how to spell. She told me to say “fuck” or don’t say “fuck” and not to be coy with allusions. She told me I needed to live if I was going to write (that one, I can safely say I have done) and told me I was going to be terrific one day. I left that meeting emotionally bruised and encouraged all at once. I wanted to write after that, even more, and I did.

I chucked the YA and started a historical romance. Heavily patterned after her own books, I will admit, to the point of pastiche, but here’s the thing. I was hungry to write that book. Starving for it. I raced home from first high school and then college classes to pound out new pages every single day. I lived and breathed that hero and heroine. Bertrice said I could call her anytime with writing questions, and I did. No, I could not give my Tudor era English hero a French first  name.  Yes, politics of the time were interesting. She answered a lot of questions about the industry and gave me a lot of homework. She never saw that manuscript, which now lives in a storage unit where it can’t hurt anybody, but being treated, not as a kid on a whim, but as a serious novelist myself, did more to sustain me than anything else during that writing.

Fast forward double digit years, and we were both at the Long Island Romance Writer’s Luncheon. Mentor and aunt at once, Madam Bertrice asked me which editors or agents I had wanted to meet at the event, and charged me to stay put. “I’ll go get them,” she said, and she did. “This is my niece,”
she said. “She’s going to pitch her book.” She told them she always thought my wanting to be a romance writer was a phase, but it obviously wasn’t, so she’d do what she could. The rest was up to me. She did it again at another luncheon, a year or so later. Both times, I got requests for full manuscripts. No sales from those encounters, but valuable input and experience.

I’m sad today that I won’t ever be able to hand her a paper copy of one of my books, but the fact is, my books, both past and future, exist in part because Bertrice Small was a wonderful writer, an encourager, a tough teacher and a lover of the great genre she helped to build.

Remembering Bertrice Small, pt 1: As a Reader

I’ve spent some time thinking about how I could encapsulate the influence Bertrice Small has had on me as a reader, writer and human being in general, into one post, and what I came up with was that I couldn’t, so I’m not going to try.  One post is going to be three.

i1035 FW1.1

I read my first Bertrice Small novel, which was also the first Bertrice Small novel, The Kadin, at the tender age of eleven, but I’d known about it long before. Bertrice’s husband, George, and my dad, had been in the army together, one of those friendships that was so close, it was a shock when I figured out they weren’t biologically related. So, it was normal to have grown up with mentions of “Aunt Sunny’s book.” A story fiend from day one, I remember asking a lot of questions about it, most of which were creatively evaded, and I remember being in the local Caldor with my mother, combing the paperback racks on one fateful day when The Kadin was a brand new release from a new author. Could I read it? No, my mom said, I was too young, but I wouldn’t be put off. Something about the cover called to me. I pestered and pestered and pestered her for at least a rough outline of the plot.

At last, my mom bowed to the inevitable and gave in. A sixteenth century Scottish girl got sold into slavery and spent forty years in a harem and then came home because her daughter in law didn’t like her. I remember the words rushing out of my mother’s mouth all in one go, and the way her eyes darted as if looking for a better answer. I also remember the insistent voice in the back of my head that whispered an insistent, “sold!” I stole the book from her nightstand shortly after that, knew, within the very first few pages, that I had found what I wanted to read and write for the rest of my life. Mom caught me reading The Kadin under the bed in the guest bedroom, by flashlight, during a thunderstorm that knocked out the power. She confiscated the book. I stole it back. I also wrote a book report on it. To her credit, my teacher, Mrs. Potter, did not contact my parents and gave me an A. She also took me aside and talked to me about becoming a writer myself someday. Good spotting, Mrs. P.

By the time the second book, Love Wild and Fair, a title which I was and am rapturously in love with, came out, I was still too young, but I did it again. Stole that book, saw exactly why Aunt Sunny was as in love with Bothwell as Catriona was, and I fell as hard for Scotland as I had for Ottoman Turkey in the previous book. It all filled my mind to overflowing. Not the sex scenes at that point, but the history, the drama, the descriptions and relationships, all lush and full and vivid as life. I got caught again, got a lecture from my mother again, got steered again toward more appropriate reading, which fell flat for the reasons above. I also got a stern talking to from Aunt Sunny herself.

By the time her third book, Adora, came out, I received my own autographed copy as a gift, along with a promotional poster. I have no idea where that poster is now (hopefully in storage, where it can be retrieved and displayed) but I still have my much-loved copy of the book, signed, this time, to me. I’ve acquired a few more signed copies since then, by the same and other authors, but none will ever match that thrill of seeing the very first book a favorite author signed with their very own hand.

I remember exactly where I was when I first read the opening pages of Skye O’Malley (the book, not the kitty) and not wanting to get out of the car to follow my father to the yard sale that was apparently more important than me diving into this book. My mother had passed away by that point, and she and Aunt Sunny had agreed, when Adora came out, that I was going to steal the book anyway, so I may as well have my own copies in the future, no matter my age. When I first met Skye, the fictional character, my life changed. Strong, smart, headstrong heroines, who could be adventurous, leaders, survivors, history-makers, beautiful inside and out, make mistakes -even huge ones- and still come out on top? Oh yes, please. Give me that. Teach me how to make that.

I soaked it up like a sponge, and was unspeakably thankful to have someone as knowledegable as the author herself to help me counter my father’s argument that romance was “all soft porn” with facts and definitions. Her recommendations of other amazing books in the genre – The Outlaw Hearts by Rebecca Brandewyne and The Spanish Rose by Shirlee Busbee stand out, and, boy, was she right. She recommended other authors I might like if I liked her: Cynthia Wright, Virginia Henley, Morgan Llewellyn, and a man named Jennifer (Wilde, aka Tom E. Huff.)

Bertrice Small opened a whole new world for me, one where love stories were worthy of history, and in some cases, sprang directly from it. For a kid who had honestly thought that the only options for me were hard science fiction and mystery, neither of which caught spark with me, no matter how hard I tried, it was a revelation. In historical romance, I found my reader heart set free, and I knew, deep down in the marrow of my bones, that this was what I was meant to write, as well. I will always, always be thankful to Bertrice Small for that.

Typing With Wet Claws: Post-Presentation Edition

Hello all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday.  A lot has happened this week. I know I always say that, but it is always true. This week is a little different, and I do not know what to make of that. On Sunday, my Mama got a call at work that her mama (her name is Grandma) had to go to the people vet, so my Mama went to be with her. Mama says People Vets are taking good care of Grandma and she should be home soon, which means Mama will be home soon. It is nice being with Anty and Uncle, but I miss my Mama, too. Grandma’s home is far away; we took a long car ride to get from our old home to our new one, and I did not like being in the carrier that long. But that was a long time ago.

Anty's class

Anty’s workshop

This time last week, Anty was getting ready to present her workshop at Capitol Region Romance Writers. She had a really really good time and went home and wrote on her book. For those who told her they wished they could have been there, she is getting something ready for you so that you can have a taste. I do not know what is written on the papers she has been crumpling, but they are very fun to bat around the floor, so if they are as fun for you as they are for me, you will have a very good time.

The view from the meeting room

The view from the meeting room

There was a lot of snow the day Anty gave her workshop, and there is still a lot of snow now. There will be more falling from the sky tomorrow and then again later in the week. As a Maine Coon Cat and descendant of Norwegian Forest Cats, if even I have had enough (and I am an indoor kitty) then I can only imagine what it is like for humans who have to go out in that every day. I will think of you while I nap next to the heater, in my built in fur coat.

Whiteboard = Anty toy

Whiteboard = Anty toy

Anty was very happy that there was a whiteboard in the room where she gave her workshop, because that meant she got to write all over it. She got too excited with the presentation and discussion, and forgot to take pictures of what she actually wrote on the board, so here is a picture of the board as she found it. A very nice librarian cleaned it off for her, and she got to play with a blue marker. Now she wants a whiteboard for our house. I do not know how I feel about that. I cannot bat a crumpled whiteboard around the floor. Those things are huge. Maybe if she gets markers that smell good, that might make a difference.

I think this means more paper...

I think this means more paper…

It is a good thing that Anty and I both like paper, but for different reasons. Most books have only words in them, and Anty likes those very much, but she also likes to put pictures and colors along with the words in other sorts of books. She has not done that a lot recently, but says she would like to get back to doing that on a more regular basis. I am in favor of that, because it probably means more paper for me. Anty says she is not entirely sure how to go about this thing, so she likes to consult magazines like this one that help people figure that out. I want to know where there is a magazine for kitties of people who do that. I bet the pages would crinkle very nicely.

That is about it for now, except for one more thing: Anty has added a new book to her favorite romances shelf on Goodreads. It is  Attachments, by Rainbow Rowell. and you can read about why she liked it here.  Anty needs the computer back so she can work on her book, so I will go sit by my dish and look very fluffy. That usually gets me fed, and it is about lunch time.

Until next week...

Until next week…

Until next week, I remain very truly yours,

Skye O’Malley Hart-Bowling
(the kitty, not the book)