Author: annabowling

Call and Answer

annabowling 2 Comments

Today almost ended up being a video blog, but I know myself, and that’s going to have to wait for later. What’s on my mind today is -are?- a bunch of things. There’s no time tomorrow, the last day before the conference, to sneak in an entry, and so it needs to be today. I have one ear open for the doorbell (as if anyone can miss a big ol’ prewar doorbell that vibrates the walls and scares the stuffing out of the cat…and the me, because yikes, that thing is loud. Effective, though.) because I’m waiting for a delivery for something Real Life Romance Hero ordered and the rest of my head is…not scattered, exactly. Lets call it multitasking.

We’ll jump right to something from my morning pages (in italics):

That’s where I feel I am now, coming back home in a different season of my life . A lot of things are changing. Some people who were always there, are now elsewhere. New people have moved into some of the vacant houses. At some point, this will be the way it’s always been.

Last night, I chatted with a writer friend, about a scene in her WIP, the emotions so finely honed that it viscerally shook me, made me first think A) well, crap, I can’t top that, and then B) I want to do that. Not top her work, because it’s not a contest. What I do want is to create my own version of that. Get that kind of response. Be that deeply involved with the characters and emotions and elicit the vivid sensory images. That kind of thing.

Her scene affected me so much that, a good night’s sleep, walk through the park, daily pages and half a blog entry later, part of me is still back there, not yet ready to leave it. Wanting to draw some of that in and make it my own and put it back out, mingled with my people and my era and their story and and and and…yeah. Writers, you know what I mean. Readers-who-do-not-write, it’s too late for us; save  yourselves.

It’s not the only thing that  has me under the influence, either. There’s a new picture in my inspiration folder, that I’m still not sure why I like it as much as I do, but I keep coming back to it, so there is something in there, even if I don’t know, at this point, what it is. I don’t have to know; figuring that out is part of the journey. There will be time spent staring at it, thinking about it, isolating different parts so that I can see them from different perspectives, trying on and discarding lyrics and quotes and looking at and looking away and thinking and feeling and not-thinking and not-feeling and putting it on the back burner until it tells me.

That’s all part of this homecoming process, knowing that, sometimes, the story tells me, rather than the other way around. It’s the difference between pushing and pushing and pushing and pushing and pushingpushingpushingpushing on a door, and reading the sign that says “pull.” Then pulling, et voila, open door. Funny how that works.

I keep coming back to this idea of homecoming, this place that is familiar-but-not. Keep coming back to the magpie stage, gathering this and that and incorporating it into what I already know. Into what I don’t yet know. It’s…not weird. Not strange. Not familiar, either, but familiar all the same. It’s part of the process. Knowing that not-knowing what I’m doing is exactly what I need to be doing, and knowing that it’s going to be different every time. Knowing that that difference is always going to be a constant. Knowing that, even though I may shy at this jump, I’ve taken it before, and  I can certainly take it again. Knowing that another lap of the place is what I need to build up the speed for that jump. Knowing that my metaphors are going to muddle. Knowing that they are going to mingle, along with pictures I don’t know why I like, songs that grab me from the first note, the scent that grabs the reins of my attention and pulls hard while I’m doing something completely unrelated, and, without my conscious effort, there I am, fully absorbed in the world of the story. Inside the characters’ skins, living their story with them. That’s home.

 

 

 

 

Coming in out of the Cold

annabowling Leave a comment

Monday afternoon, cold still hanging in there, but negotiating its exit strategy. We will see how that goes. No idea right now what I want to blog about today, so I am going to jump in and blabber and it will go where it goes. Which is, of course, the magic seven hundred words for the mandatory entry. I could bump this entry back to tomorrow, as I know I get two hours of uninterrupted time after my weekly meeting with N (note to self – bring Mont Blanc and standard cartridge so I can figure out what the heck I’m doing wrong in inserting the darned thing. Seriously, I’ve tried both ends, and nada. Scratchety-scratch on the paper, but no ink after I ran through the mystery dregs of the old ink that somehow missed getting rinsed out when I flushed it during a rare moment of clarity over the weekend. That’s flushed with warm water in the kitchen sink, not in the bathroom bowl. Even at prime coldbrain, I would not do that.)

Okay, pens. I can talk about pens.  The Pilot Namiki cartridges did come on Saturday, and went into the Plumix like a dream, so I have my very first fountain pen back in action. Possible review to follow, because that feels like a natural progression, and it really is an easy to use pen, plus the sepia ink is gorgeous. We will not talk about my adventures trying to put the Jinhao (international standard size) cartridge in the Mont Blanc, even though that should have fit. It probably does, and it was operator error. Hence plans to consult N, who actually knows what she’s doing with the whole fountain pen thing.

I promise that I will talk about things that are not pens, but can be done with pens, namely, writing, once I get my full brain back. Going through the process of writing down anything, as with both my morning pages and blabbery blogging, even without a plan set out beforehand, is a big help in that direction. As a once upon a time writing group facilitator, J, used to remind those of us in her group, the practice begets the product. Or something like that. Like I said, I am not fully back yet. Too fuzzy, don’t remember version – put pen to paper and/or fingers to keyboard and write something. Anything. Sooner or later, writing will kick in and something will start to make sense, fictional or otherwise.

One step at a time kind of thing, the left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot kind of thing.  With the conference only a matter of days away now, there are going to be questions asked by new friends and old, and the answers aren’t always what I wish I were giving at this stage of the game. Am I signing this year? That’s one of them. Answer I give, with game smile: “Not this year.” Answer my Hypercritical Gremlins want to give: :hysterical laughter, breaking down into wrenching sobs that give way to sniffles: They, obviously, are not my biggest supporters, and are quick to remind me that my current crop of titles are A) not all that current, and B) electronic exclusives. Neither making it all that easy to sign, but that’s okay. That’s this stage of the game. That’s this year.

This year, I am at work on one novel and one novella, and cast periodic glances at the post-apocalyptic medieval novella, suspended in mid-revision. Next year, I can have up to three manuscripts ready to make the rounds. That’s pretty darned good. Yay, me. This is not a race. Success and happiness and all that other good stuff are not finite quantities. All the hundreds of other writers and publishing professionals in attendance are proof of that. All the books laid out at our seats every meal and given away as prized in baskets and at workshops and for sale at the literacy signing are proof of that. Every one of those was, at one point, butt in chair and fingers on keyboard. Every one of those was an idea. Every one of those was a “what if?” Every one of those was a “I wonder if I can…” Every one of those was a “I’m going to show up and put something on the paper/screen today.” I can’t think of anything more encouraging than that.

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Conference Week Edition

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hereLet Your Imagination Take Flight conference,Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. This is the last week before Anty heads off for the annual Let Your Imagination Take Flight conference, put on by the New England chapter of Romance Writers of America. A whole weekend in a hotel full of people who love the same things that Anty loves is something she looks forward to every year, even if that is also a hotel empty of kitties. At least she has pictures of me to tide her over, and many of the other writers like to talk about their kitties, too, so she is not totally doing without. I will, however, expect extra scritches when she gets back. I think that is only fair.

This week means it is time to prepare for the conference. Besides picking out what outfits and other personal items she is going to bring, there is also the task of the elevator pitch. If you do not know what that means, I will explain. An elevator pitch is a very short description of one’s manuscript, quick enough to tell someone (hopefully an editor or agent) during the span of an elevator ride. This means whittling the whole story down to its very basic parts, while still whetting the appetite so that the other person will want to hear more. As you can imagine, this can sometimes be quite the challenge.

For Anty, this week, it may be even more of a challenge, because she is dealing with a spring cold. This cold is the kind that makes her brain all foggy, and her body want to take go to sleep at times that are not nighttime. Nighttime, during colds like this, is for staring at the ceiling, and thinking about story things. Also going through a lot of tissues, though she does that during the daytime, too.

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Pen guts for Pilot Plumix and MontBlanc Noblisse

Anty thought that getting some of her pens ready for new ink would be a good idea. That is not exactly what happened. The part of the Mont Blanc that takes ink does not work, and Anty thought she could put the standard cartridge from Jinhao in that pen, instead. It went in, but she is not yet getting the new ink to show. That is okay. She will put the pen, capped, nib side down, in its cup and then try again later. The Pilot cartridges should arrive later today. Uncle will probably check for her, because he is home, and does not have a cold. Also, he ordered Chinese food. I do not eat Chinese food, because I am a kitty. I eat kitty food. Speaking of which, I think I have some humans to stare at once I get this blog entry posted.

In case you missed it last week, Anty’s most recent Buried Under Romance discussion post is here, and it looks like this:

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What kinds of books do you wish your favorite (or new) writers would write? Anty is always interested in hearing answers to questions like that, even when she has a new topic. I would like to see more books with kitties in them, but maybe that is just me. Humans probably have different answers.

Anty will find a lot of humans with different tastes in reading and writing at the conference, but they all have a love of romance fiction in common. Anty loves the energy she gets from these conferences, and says that Saturday morning breakfast, is extroverted morning person Christmas. A room full of people, who love what Anty loves, want to talk to other people, plus endless caffeine and breakfast foods? That is about as good as it gets in that respect. There will be old friends and new friends and free books and lots of swag, plus the ride there and back, with Anty Melva, where they can talk about the story they are writing together. Best of all, Anty will get new stories to tell, both about the conference, and maybe even some seeds for new books yet to be written.

Since Anty will be getting a late start on her pre-conference preparations, I will be standing by, in case she needs me to take on one of her regular blog entries in the upcoming week. That is part of the duties of being a mews, and so is making sure Anty gets enough rest. To do that, I curl into a ball and sleep right in front of her chair, so that she cannot get up without waking me. I had better get to that, so that is about it for this week.  Until next time, I remain, very truly yours,

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

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

Spring Sicko

annabowling Leave a comment

Yesterday morning, I woke at my regular time, feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. No energy, sandpaper throat, hot and cold running nostrils. I decided to drag myself out of bed and do laundry anyway, because A) I am a big ol’ stoic, and B) I was convinced that a couple of hours in Laundromat B (Laundromat A is the one kitty corner from our house, Laundromat B, a few blocks away) with its calm atmosphere and the promise of clean clothing would make me feel better. I was wrong.

The near-weeping-with-joy moment when I found a forgotten licorice cough drop in the bottom of my bag should have been a sign. I am not always good at reading this kind of sign. I used the time to make some notes on the current writing and make some headway on reading a book pertinent to an upcoming Heroes and Heartbreakers post, washed, dried, folded, and headed home. I should have known something was up when Real Life Romance Hero met me at the door. He and Housemate were going to run a few quick errands, and did I want to come, or stay home and get some work done? I elected to go, because extroverted me would rather die in misery around people than die in misery alone.

Errands ended up taking a solid eight hours, six if we don’t count the two I insisted on spending in Panera, because I had a scheduled conference with Critique Partner Vicki, and was not going to miss that. To my surprise, I actually got something done, but did pay for it later. Today, I have no voice, am going through tissues at an impressive rate, and consistent awake-ness is not one of my strengths. I am vaguely amused by all of this.

 

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Real Life Romance Hero provided French toast therapy.

 

 

There’s still writing and reading to do. The ink cartridges for the Jinhao pen (currently using a converter on that one) arrived, and I want to see if they would fit the MontBlanc. The Pilot cartridges should be here any time now, and you bet I am stopping whatever I am doing at the time, to stick one of those babies in my Plumix and take it for a spin. A new friend asked me for a short story for her birthday, which is next week, so there is that. I am rambling here, and that’s fine, because it still counts for the blog entry. I still have my morning pages to write, and then it’s time to visit with Hero and Heroine, puzzling my way along to that bullet point draft in June, which now seems super close, yet still do-able.

While writing an email a few minutes ago, it hit me that the NECRWA conference is…next week. I’m not pitching this year, because I have learned we do not pitch books that are not completed yet. Head down and eyes on my own paper with HLFK and novella, and then, next year, I will have two projects to pitch, if they haven’t found homes already. Three, if I want to dust off Ravenwood and see what I want to do with that. I think I still need some time and distance there, but one never knows. One of the best things about a conference is that there are people there who are as excited about the types of books I love as I am. There are people there who want to buy what I want to sell.

Conferences are a place where a stranger can become a friend in an instant, when the answer to a generic “what’s your all time favorite romance novel?” asked of everybody at the table gets a joyous squeal from a few seats down, because that’s my favorite book, too, and we must now discuss it at length, quote favorite passages, compare and contrast with other books by the same author, by different authors in the same setting or subgenre, and detail how it affected our overall reading and our own writing. Free books and swag don’t hurt at all, either.

Where am I going with all this? Immediately, a nap. I’m thankful that both writer and domestic warrior queen duties mean I don’t have to get out of pajamas when I feel like road kill, and that I can go at my own pace, even when that pace is mostly “pause.”

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Top notch nursing staff makes sure I get my proper rest.

In the Pen

annabowling 4 Comments

I have a lot of pens. I mean a lot of pens. I probably picked up some of this from my dad, who was an artist, as I have vivid memories, still, of sneaking into his studio when I was but a wee princess, stealing various mark-makers (pens, pencils, higher end markers, etc) and putting them back exactly where I had found them so he wouldn’t know I’d even been there. If he did know, he never said, but I do suspect I was mostly successful. My pilfering of his papers was harder to camouflage, because, well, paper, but suffice it to say, if I were a dragon, I have no doubts what I would hoard. Pens and stationery. Well, books, too, but that’s another story. Pun intended.

My family is well aware, that, in case of Walking Dead style zombie apocalypse, we are heading to NYC, because I want to loot the Moleskine store. Also any other stationery vendors we encounter along the way, because Papaya! Art, Punch Studio, Markings, Picadilly, Anna Griffin, etc. I am hardwired for this stuff, and make no apologies.

Most recently, I have fallen down the fountain pen rabbit hole, and am waiting for two different orders of ink cartridges to arrive in the mail. I’ve said before, how writing longhand, and specifically with a fountain pen, adds an extra something to getting in the historical world of my characters -though I can also be found making notes on my phone, so I’m not a total Luddite- and I have seriously considered trying a dip pen, to get even further connected to the methods of writing my characters would have known.

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The fountain pen gang, as it currently stands, minus my Pilot Plumix, which started the whole love affair, and is now in hiding. Perfect timing, as I have an order of sepia cartridges for that particular pen winging their way to me right this very minute. Ahem. Pilot Plumix, Mommy loves and misses you very much. Please come home. All is forgiven.

ETA: My plea worked. Plumix has returned.

Current roster is:

  • six Pilot Varsity disposable-yet-potentially-hackable pens
  • one Pilot Plumix (now out of hiding)
  • one Jinhao (actual name escapes me, but we are in love, okay?)
  • one vintage MontBlanc Noblisse (thanks, Dad)
  • two ink samples, which names escape me.

 

On the way are:

  • blue cartridges for the Jinhao, which currently has a converter and lovely purple ink
  • sepia Pilot Namiki cartridges, for Plumix, which is in hiding. Show of hands who thinks I should order another one for backup?

 

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N has helped me troubleshoot the MontBlanc, and suspects that the reason it’s not drawing ink is that the suction on the converter may be all done, a small rubber part having given all it can. Considering that this pen was made in 1971, I suspect it’s had a good run. I’ve done some research on what refills it might take, and have my eye on a lovely set of burgundy cartridges by MontBlanc. Failing that, it looks like the pen should take international standard size, so there’s that option.

I am very new to the whole fountain pen world, still a wide-eyed newbie, and yet, I have an excitement that sparkles my blood when I babble about, use, look at, research, etc my pens. Inking the MontBlanc or Jinhao is a special ritual, one I look forward to, that honors the writing I do, both personal and commercial. It’s not the tool that makes the craftsman, not by any means, but there is a certain recognition, a this is mine knowledge that goes beyond mind, into heart and soul. Does that have an impact on the content of the writing? For me, I have to say yes.

The featured image  at the top of the page is not a fountain pen, but a rollerball, a gift, as part of a business card holder with plaque, that was a gift from a once-upon-a-time friend. I’d loved the pen, and was disappointed when the ink ran out. I want to say there were a couple of refills included, but that was another life, and the mist is heavy between that time and this. Nevertheless, I hoped I’d track it down someday, and, recently, by accident, I did.

I’d hoped to get a refill for a totally different pen, and picked up the wrong refill. I tried it anyway, but pen and refill were not compatible -different makers- and, again, I was sad. then I had a whim – why not try it on that pen? I did. Perfect match, and, as is super important to those of us who love pens and are not independently wealthy, super affordable. Win-win. I wasn’t sure what I was going to use it for, but, when I sat down this morning to write to a friend, my gaze drifted from the cup of fountain pens, to the glossy black barrel, then down to the pad in front of me. Then the pen was in my hand and we danced. The pen did, that is, and by danced, I mean moved across the paper, but pens don’t do much without hands to move them, and, before I knew it, seven pages were ready to wing their way to their intended recipient. It felt right.

Last night, I chatted via Skype with a writer friend, partly about a scene that wouldn’t come and wouldn’t come and wouldn’t come. The computer had eaten the original document the scene was from, jump-drive-that-is-on-its-last-legs says that copy is corrupted, and really, that’s pretty much a sign when that happens. I told my friend that I knew what I had to do next. Shut off the word processing program, plug in my earbuds, and break out pen and paper. Time to dance.

 

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Adaptability Edition

annabowling 4 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is a very nice sunbeam day, but I am a dedicated mews, and so I am blogging for my Anty anyway. Anty tried to take some pictures of me in the process of fur maintenance (I am in shed, because it is spring) but I kept moving, so she could not get a good image. I do not always have good fur days when I am in shed, like  I am right now. Uncle tried to help by getting my attention, but that only made me look at him, not at Anty, who was not interested in photographing the back of my head. Note that I did not say who I was helping. Anty gave me treat anyway, because I am cute, so I do not see a problem here.

Anty had an interesting morning today, because she went to two different Laundromats. Normally, she goes to the one that is kitty corner to our house (I cannot see too much out of the window, because it is high and I am a floor girl, but if Anty is going to a corner where there are other kitties, when there is a perfectly good me here at home, I am not sure I am okay with that.) and she did, at first, but she did not stay there. Some almost-grownup humans came in, and not to do laundry. Anty was there to do laundry, and to get some writing and/or reading done, neither of which were going to work out well with the almost-grownups not-doing laundry. They way they don’t do laundry is distracting, so she took her load out of the dryer (it was still wet, and there was still time left on the dryer) and walked to the other Laundromat, a few blocks away.

That other Laundromat is very different. It is farther away, for one thing, and bigger, and there is an attendant in the dry cleaner next door, so almost-grownup humans do not feel as free to not-do laundry there. Anty stuck her load in one of those dryers, then sat down nearby the dryer to get back to her writing. Nobody interrupted her, so it was a good session. Anty may consider using this Laundromat more often, because it is a nice walk, and easy to get both laundry and reading/writing done there without any bother. The regular place is closer, though, so she may have to see.

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gratuitous duck picture; ducks make everything better.

 

Anyway, this is the first Friday since Sleepy Hollow made a lot of humans angry with their maybe-season, maybe-series finale. Anty is glad she did not have to recap that episode, because it brought back memories of when she did have to recap the How I Met Your Mother series finale. I will give you one hint as to what both finales had in common: she hated them both. Like really, really, really, saying bad words at the TV hated. Mama thinks Anty should write a blog entry about how angry it makes Anty when (mostly) boy writers think a good romantic ending means one half of the couple dies, or they break up for no reason.

One thing Anty likes about writing  and reading romance novels is that, because we know what the end point is going to be -that the two humans want and get to be together- that means the writer can throw absolutely anything at them on the way there. That is a pretty sweet deal, if you ask me, although I do not know if anyone should ask me about writing romance novels, because, after all, I am a kitty. Maybe ask Anty instead. Anty loves to talk about writing and about romance novels. She especially loves to talk about writing romance novels, so if you ask her about that, I hope you have brought some tea, and probably some gummi bears. Anty can talk a really long time when she gets going, and it does not take much to get her started.

Although it is never fun to see a TV show, movie, or even book that Anty likes take a sudden turn in the wrong direction – especially cutting off a romantic arc with a tragic ending, when the story was not billed as a tragedy in the first place (Anty will admit to being interested in seeing 500 Days of Summer, in which it is allegedly said at the outset that the humans do not end up together; it is okay in cases like that.) or strongly indicating two humans will be happy together, but whoops, no, one is dead now- there is still a good thing that can come out of it.

 

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Updates? Notebook, you’re on!

 

 

Bad and/or disappointing endings in other works can still be good for a writer because they are a natural call to playing the what-if game. What if things had gone differently? What if the human who left did not leave? What if the human who died had not died? What would have happened next, in the natural (or supernatural, if it is that kind of story) course of events? What unexpected thing could happen so that the humans still have (or still can have) each other, but the story would not yet be over? One of the superpowers writers have is that they can make up different endings for stories where they do not like the ending that was given, and, more than that, they can make that be the beginning of a whole new story of their own.

A little bit of a favorite TV show, a little bit of a disappointing movie, snatches of songs and whiffs of scents, a few interesting images from media and real life, an assortment of other things, let them sit for a while until they are ready to filter through keyboard or pen, and a whole new story can be born. Sometimes, this happens right away, and sometimes, it will marinate for a really long time, but, with dedication and discipline, wonderful things can come from all of that. Like I said, pretty sweet deal.

In case you did not see Anty’s post last week at Buried Under Romance (there is a new topic every Saturday,) on the effect character names can have on the reading experience, you can still read -and comment on it- here, and it looks like this:

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That is about it for this week, so, until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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

It Happens

annabowling Leave a comment

Winging it today, because I’ve tried three different openings and none of them stuck. I was going to blog about pens, but I’m waiting on that one until the ink cartridges I ordered arrive. They were due yesterday, so my optimistic side want to say they should be here any day now, and my pessimistic side wants to know when they’re going to get here already. The there’s the suspicious side that wonders if the mail carrier put them in our neighbor’s box instead (I’ve had the pen I ordered at the same time for over a week now) by mistake. Odds are fifty-fifty that I will find them on my doorstep when I arrive home.

Today, I ran a scene from Her Last First Kiss by Critique Partner Vicki, and got back the tough-but-useful sort of response that first stings, but, dangit, does make things better. So, I’ve been doing that, and I like this angle better than what I’d originally had, which may be why it’s harder to come out of the story space to write a blog entry. These things happen. It’s not that I mind, exactly, (the redoing of a scene, that is; I do mind waiting for the ink cartridges, because I am a newly converted fountain pen lover and I want to play with my inky toys, dagnabit) but that, sometimes, getting to The End of a book feels very far away while firmly in The Middle.

Breaking things down into manageable bites helps. All I need to do is focus on one scene at a time, and put them all together in my bullet point draft. It’s messy-ish, may not make sense to people who are not me (or Critique Partner Vicki; N has yet to see one of my bullet point drafts, so we will see how that goes. One day at a time, one foot in front of the other, and we get there. That’s how it works. I’m not nervous about Never Having Another Book Released Ever Again, because that’s not the issue. There will be a next book. There will be next books, plural. I got this. I’ve written books before, I’m writing books now, and will be writing books in the future. I got this. If I don’t find the right fit in traditional publishing, I can go the indie route, and I don’t have to please Every Reader Ever (pretty sure that’s not even possible) – only my readers, so that’s a lot of pressure off, right there.

Finding my readers, well, there’s a thing we can talk about if we want. In publishing years, I’m basically dead starting fresh, it’s been that long since my last release. Life will do that sometimes, and even in the times when I feel like it might be easier to just stay down, as it were, the stories don’t stop coming, the desire to see them published doesn’t go away, so okay. This is what I’m doing. The stories are going to be told. The books are going to happen. That’s not the question here. I certainly hope that readers who like my blog and my articles and other posts would like my fiction as well.

Some won’t, and that’s fine. As the late Eugenia Price once said, not every writer can please every reader; that’s why there are so  many of us.  There’s a lot of truth there, and it helps keep things in perspective. It’s not an “if” in my mind, but a “when.” When the draft is done. When the next draft is done. When the book goes out in the world, to meet a nice publisher and make beautiful book babies, or stride boldly into the teeming throngs on its own, seeking readers where it may find them.

My goal, when I began this iteration of Typing With Wet Nails, was to be honest about the writing experience. It’s rough sometimes, fun other times, sometimes both at once, and every point in between. It’s not something I can put down or turn off (I’ve tried; it did not go well.) It’s something I am. These are the stories I have to tell, and they are the stories that are going to get out of my head and into the hands of readers. Every step in that direction is progress. Including this one.

I Saw Three Ships

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This has nothing to do with the Christmas carol. What it does pertain to is the fine art of shipping, something common to romance fans, of the reading and/or writing persuasion, and I happen to be both. I write romance, I write about romance, and I have been reading romance since the age of eleven, when I stole a then-brand-new copy of The Kadin from my mother’s nightstand and inhaled it under the big brass bed in the guest bedroom. I’ve been a first round judge in several romance writing contests, write posts on romance novels and recap shippy TV moments for Heroes and Heartbreakers, so I think I know a little something about the smoochy stuff in stories.

For those who may still consider “shipping” to refer to the transportation of goods by water, I’ll clarify. I don’t mean that. I mean “shipping” as in “relationshipping” (yes, yes, not techinically a verb, I know, but still valid in the vernacular, so we roll with it) or following a work of media, in this case, a television program, primarily for the sake of a romantic relationship. That, I do mean, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. Even before I filched The Kadin, I was very strongly drawn to the happily ever part of fairy tales, and devoured them in endless variations. I preferred the darker, pre-Brothers Grimm versions, the ones where Cinderella’s stepsisters actually lopped off parts of their feet to fit into the glass slipper, Rapunzel gave birth to twins in the wilderness, Sleeping Beauty gave birth to –I am seeing a theme here– you get the drift. In short, I don’t want la-la-la perfect; I want my lovers to earn that HEA.

I can’t plan when I connect with a ship, but I know when it happens. I’m watching, I’m interested, and BAM, the chemistry hits me, and I’m a goner. Some ships are casual, and others, well, they get me thinking. I’ve been thinking a lot lately.

Fans (and former fans) of How I Met Your Mother know exactly what two-year anniversary recently passed, and may of may not have been part of the mini-kerfluffle that stemmed from Neil Patrick Harris’s tweet on the occasion of Cobie Smulders’ birthday. No, actors are not their characters, but there was a reference to their HIMYM characters’ relationship. There was the word “marry!” There was the word “divorce!” There was the word “love,” which came after, and therefore is the defining statement! Past references to NPH introducing CS as his HIMYM co-star and wife (present tense, no “ex”) though their characters did divorce in the finale…but the alternate finale suggested that may not be the end of the story.

Out of the two options, I’m an alternate girl, myself.There are enough holes in the out-of-the blue divorce plot to qualify it as a spaghetti strainer, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. Well, not entirely. Stick with me. I’m going somewhere.

Sleepy Hollow’s maybe-season/maybe-series finale similarly hit fans between the eyes with a two-by-four, killing off the Abbie half of the popular Ichabbie ship, and leaving the other half, Ichabod, vowing to find Abbie’s eternal soul in another body. Ummm…yeah, about that. The tweets, during the original airing, that had started as #RenewSleepyHollow turned to #CancelSleepyHollow, and the fandom (or former fandom) is split between defending the original Ichabbie bond and being done with the whole deal. Others are happy to see the show continue, if it does, but we’re dealing with shipping here, so that’s for someone else to discuss.

For me, the appeal of the show was the relationship between Abbie, a thoroughly modern law enforcement officer with a storied past, and Ichabod Crane (yes, that one, albeit a much more fanservicey version,) man out of time, fish out of water, devoted husband….wait, did she say “husband?” Oh, yes, she did. At the series start, Ichabod was married to and determined to return to his wife, Katrina, whom one might say was not worthy of him. Didn’t tell him she was a witch, didn’t tell him they had a child, buried him alive (but she had good intentions,) that kind of thing. The connection was palpable from the start, but he was married, there was the whole staving off the apocallypse thing, we never saw a single lip lock (closest we got was an impassioned hand kiss in their last moment together) and yet…the chemistry crackled. In the season two finale, Ichabod had to make an impossible choice, and kill Katrina to save Abbie. That should have gone somewhere. It didn’t. Even if there is a fourth season, even if Ichabod does find Abbie’s soul in another body, will fans be there to watch it? I’m not sure.

This comes straight on the heels of the sinking of another favorite ship, Derek Morgan and Penelope Garcia of Criminal Minds. Buff, alpha male FBI agent meets quirky, colorful, optimistic computer nerd, and it’s magic. He’s her Chocolate Thunder, she’s his Baby Girl, their in-office flirtation is the stuff of legend so much so that a seminar on proper conduct in the workplace quotes their specific exchanges. They’ve been there for each other in the other’s darkest moments, she’s been on the line with him when they both thought he wasn’t going to make it, and his most distraught moment during a near-death experience was not related to then-girlfiend, Savannah’s reaction to his death, but of Garcia letting go and walking away from his memorial photograph on a wall of agents killed in the line of duty.

I recapped Morgan’s farewell episode at Heroes and Heartbreakers, and while, on the surface, it was a good exit, Morgan choosing his now-wife and newborn son over the BAU, for Morcia fans, it didn’t sit right, because, dangit, what could have been. I’m not going to address the brother/sister argument here, except to say that I’ll skip those family barbecues, thanks, I know, I know, the actor wanted to move on to other projects, and Criminal Minds is a police procdural, not a romantic drama, but my shipper heart still aches over the loss. Maybe if we’d seen more of Derek and Savannah’s relationshp grow, come to know her, it would have been easier to accept, but it’s Morgan and Garcia that we saw, so that’s what’s going to stick.

So, where am I going with all this? Straight to my initial reaction after turning off the Sleepy Hollow finale: “I need to read a romance novel.” Granted, commercial fiction and TV writing are two different things, and I’m not about to tell a different kind of writer how to do their job, but when I’m there for the romance, I want…the romance. I want the two lovers who went through hell and back to be rewarded for all they’ve been through. I want to see that the charater arcs have taken the characters to a better place (and not in the “they’ve gone to a…” variety.) I want to see the couple become more than the sum of their parts. I want these characters, whom I’ve fallen in love with, individually and together, to have each other’s back, from this day forward. I want the you-and-no-other. I want them to know they’ve found the place where they won’t be judged, won’t be rejected, will be accepted and valued and cherished. I want to know these characters have found, in each other, the one who will walk through the darkness with them, as well as dance in the light. That, even though it may not be strictly puppies and lollipops and rainbows ever after, it’s going to be good enough, still, because they have each other, no matter what life throws at them.

That’s what I want from romance fiction, and that’s what I strive to put into mine. While a TV show may be about wacky hijinx, a supernatural take on history, or the dark corners of the human mind, and incorporate love stories that may end happily or otherwise, in romance fiction, both protagonists win. Always. That’s a promise, and one I am proud and happy to keep.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Z is for Zoomies Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. My day started early this morning, and, because of that, so did Anty’s. What happened was that I had a case of the zoomies. That means I had too much energy, and I needed to run. A lot. Very fast. I needed Anty to know that I was running, so I would run up to her, chirp, and run away again. I kept that up until she knew it was time for up, which means time for feeding me. As you can imagine, I worked up quite the appetite with all that running. Uncle thinks it is cute when I get the zoomies, but he is not the one who has to deal with the aftermath, which is usually my, um, stuff. Needless to say, Anty required more tea than usual to get her brain into gear after a start like that.

In case you missed them, Anty has two posts at Heroes and Heartbreakers this week. Her post about the second-to-last episode of this season of Sleepy Hollow is here, and her post about the first book in Charis Michaels’ Bachelor Lords of London series, The Earl Next Door, is here. They look like this:

 

There is a new member of the family that joined us this week. The Jinhao fountain pen Anty ordered online came in the mail. She was super excited, because she did not know it came with a converter, which meant she did not have to wait for the cartridges to arrive. She could ink it right away, which is exactly what she did. The ink is purple, which is very good for writing in Anty’s daily pages book. Here is the pen, resting on that book. Anty gets grumbly when she reaches the end of a two-page spread, because she usually wants to keep going, but that only means she is ready for the real writing of the day.

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deskscape, with new pen and daily pages book

 

Yes, that is Henry VIII peeking out of the top of the Paris notebook. Anty likes to live dangerously. This is one of the perils of being a historical romance writer with various interests. Although Anty does not write her books in her daily pages book, sometimes, she writes about them. That is kind of like zoomies of the brain, when she has so much in her head that she has to dump some of it out on paper. It is fitting that she does that with a fountain pen, because filling those can sometimes be messy, the same as it is putting things down on the page for the very first time. Also, going over the same thing multiple times, exploring new layers, from different angles, until Anty gets what she needs.

Another way of getting things out of her head and onto a page is with her art journals. Those do not always involve words at all, and the supplies smell very interesting, so I like to stay close when she is working on those. This is a current page in progress:

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Anty says that the Picadilly paper is not very good at taking wet media, so she probably will not use it again in this book. That only means she can get a different book, with watercolor paper, so she can use wet media in that one. Pencils and stencils and magazine papers are better matches for this sort of paper. Anty has put more things on this spread since this picture was taken, but we do not have pictures of that new layer right now. There will probably be more by the time she is happy with it and ready to move on to the next spread. She also needs to find stencils that can make different shapes from the ones she used here.

It is kind of like that with writing. In the stage where Anty is with Her Last First Kiss, the bullet point draft, it is only when Anty drops things onto the page and mushes them around, that she can tell what the story still needs. This week, she found out she misplaced a certain character for several chapters, so that, when she needed that character later on in the book, she had no idea where that character would be. This will involve reading through what is already there and finding out how fast that character’s injury would heal, so she knows if they would be able to move around on their own or not. She also is working on a scene where she knows the beginning and end points, but does not know the middle of the scene. She has worked both ends against the middle before, so that is not a new thing, even if it can be aggravating at times.

Anty is also getting ready for the Let Your Imagination Take Flight conference, which will be at the end of the month. If you are going to be there, Anty would love to talk to you. She will have pictures of me on her phone, if that is an incentive. Maybe even some videos.

That is about it for this week, so, until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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

Elsewhere

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Yesterday, I left the plug part of my phone cord plugged into the wall at Panera. I did not realize this until I had walked all the way through the park, was at home, inside, out of my winter gear (Winter gear! In April!) and computer bag unpacked. I informed Real Life Romance Hero that I was not going all the way back there to get it. I wanted to pick up a new cord anyway, as I would have had to replace the electrical tape holding the…um…bendy…part…of…pointy…thing…that…goes…into…tiny…hole…on…bottom…of phone… together. Jack. It’s called a jack. I think it’s called a jack. Look, I write historical romance. These newfangled gadgets confound me. Let’s say that I needed a new cord anyway, and leave it at that. Maybe I can find a pink one.

Also yesterday,  Real Life Romance Hero kicked me out of the apartment, because I would be cranky if I didn’t write at the coffee house, even though I said I might take the afternoon off and do nothing, due to spotty sleep the night before. He said I’d hate myself if I didn’t, and I’d be grumpy, an he’d have to deal with my grumpiness. (The man is astute, I tell you. He also informed me I was not allowed to pretend to get stuff done; I had to actually get stuff done. He knows me.) I got to the coffee house, and realized, while setting up my work area, I had left the computer cord at home. Twice in one day, that is a new one, even for me. Caffeine obviously needed. I would have run home and grabbed the cord, but I had my tea already, so decided to make the best of it. Worked off battery for Scrivener, used my phone for Spotify, and commenced poking Her Last First Kiss with a stick for the duration.

Also yesterday (I am going to say Tuesday was my Monday this week) I saw my copy of Romance Writers’ Report sticking out of our neighbors’ mailbox. Yes, I am sure it is my copy, because my copy is not in our box, and our neighbors are three college-age gentlemen, whom I have never once seen at a CRRWA meeting, nor discussing writing or romance fiction. There is more of our mail in their box, plainly visible, and I have no idea if it’s legal to take it if I can see it, or if laying in wait for the postal carrier tomorrow is my best option.  Their box is full to overflowing and ours is empty, so maybe carrier only looked at the street address, not names or which box goes to which floor?

Today, I got to the coffee house, proud of myself for remembering the novella notebook so that I can transcribe the scene I wrote for that, set up for my workspace photo…and realized I’d left my phone at home. At least I left it in the charger. Well, the charger for my tablet, because that charger is doing double duty until I can replace the phone cord. :headdesk: Still, “blog entry” is the next thing on my list, and I have to earn my leisure time with writing time. Which is why you get a picture of the back of my head, instead of the front of the computer. At least it’s a good hair day. Now, if we can get what’s inside my head working correctly, I’ll be good to go. Blog , novella work, novel work, then I get reading time.

Speaking of reading time, I have a new post up at Heroes and Heartbreakers today, gushing all over The Earl Next Door, by Charis Michaels. As Skye would say, and may well in her post, because I’ve been a busy beaver with the posts lately, it is here and it looks like this:

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Though I’d originally intended to use today’s post as a “you are here” sort of thing for new readers/followers/leibchens, and six hundred and seventy-five words into a post is a wee bit late to be starting that kind of nonsense, I’m thinking it’s not that far off. Random ramblings from the brain of a romance writer, blogger, domestic warrior queen, and babbly extrovert with intermittent confidence issues, about the process of mojo reclamation, making things up and muddling through. Three times a week, seven hundred word minimum per post. My cat posts on Fridays, because that’s how we roll.