Author: annabowling

Making the Map as I Go

annabowling 2 Comments

I need to watch things and feel like I can do that, too, or feel like if that thing got made, there’s no reason I couldn’t make one of my own things.

          -Will Wheaton

One more trip around the sun down, aka brand new year of me. Lovely birthday experience all around, with lots of love from dear ones both in person and in cyberspace, requisite reexamination of life, some reading, some writing and cake-like things on top of frozen yogurt in lieu of actual cake, and we now embark on a new week of a new year.

my partners in pondering

my partners in pondering

Today, I came to the sad conclusion that my office is, indeed, the place the internet goes to die. If I move a few feet to my right, as in leave my office and set up shop in the kitchen, everything works fine. Except for the fact that I am in the kitchen and not in my office. Which is kind of the point of the whole thing, a special room where I can Get Things Done, behind a closed door, Writing Cave sign (at this point, a faded Post-It with “writing cave” written in similarly faded Sharpie on it) optional. Housemate said it sounded like there was some sort of lead shield around my office. Good enough explanation, as the entire list to date of devices that cannot get connection in that room and only that room includes:

  • ancient desktop
  • old laptop
  • possibly the older than that laptop, but Merman took that one over so long ago that I don’t remember, so it gets half credit
  • new laptop
  • tablet
  • first smartphone
  • second smartphone

By the time even my phone could only take less than a minute of connection before it made like a tired toddler and refused to do anything, I decided it wasn’t worth my time and effort to make things work. I’d take things old school and bust out the pen, paper and three ring binder, because it is indeed story bible time. I’ve resisted making one for a while, because character questionnaires and such tend to make  me forget not only very basic things like my character’s ages and appearances, but that I understand English.

Cranky Anna does not like filling out forms.

Cranky Anna does not like filling out forms.

Getting all my ducks in a row, however, is essential, as I am dealing with more than I can keep in my head right now. The calendar says I am a big girl, so time to be that big girl and do what I need to do to get this book written. Which means, in this case, I have to haul out The Binder. In the past, I’ve tried to do it the way I “should,”  which means the way it has worked for other people. The “research” section generally ends up with me resentfully printing out a few webpages of historical detail, three hole punching them and never looking at them again. Normally, this gest accompanied by a hefty dose of negative self talk about not being smart enough or intellectual enough or academic enough, etc, but that is what Real Historical Writers do, so :grits teeth: on with it, girl.

This time? No. This book is mine, and this story bible is mine, and it’s going to serve me, instead of me serving it. So far, I have a section labeled “story junk,” a section for my hero, one for my heroine, and one labelled “support,” a purposefully catchall term. Dividers are littered now with sticky notes of various sizes and colors, all the things I’m going to need to know scribbled down in hasty scrawls, with lots of blanks and question marks. Those who have known me for any length of time know that I am prone to overthinking things like this, so I am shoving some of the work off onto Critique Partner Vicki, who actually likes looking up such matters. I can send her my out of order lists of things that have to happen and who was born when, and such, and she can send me back a timeline.

The things that throw me are the numbers. Dates, distances, how much things cost, how long it takes to get from point A to point B in a carriage vs on horseback, and how long it will take mail coaches to make those same trips. Also transatlantic travel when the options were “ship” and “how long can you tread water?” It’s not enough to know that certain characters have stately homes “in England.” Where in England? Manor? Castle? What does it do? There are duties and obligations that come with being a peer, so, in the case of characters or their families who fit that designation, what are they? Fine, the earl can send his son to Eton and Oxford, but what did the boy study? How did he do in those studies? Would he have rather studied something else? Expectations are different for my second son hero (with a happily married and remarkably fecund big brother) than they are for his only child best friend, dear old dad’s heir. My heroine? Mostly taught herself. She’s resourceful.

This, for me, is the grunt work, and I can’t rush it. I’ve torn the outline apart, put some back together, and some of it now needs to be shaped by the realities of what was practical and/or plausible for the time. Which is not to say every person who lived in historical period X always did Y and never Z. Far from it, but what works for this writer who goes heavily by intuition, is to see what the world my people lived in was like, and from there, see how they respond to it. That’s where the fun comes in, but the foundation has to be laid first.

Typing With Wet Claws: Almost Anty’s Birthday Edition

annabowling 4 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. This is a special week, so I wanted to have a special picture today. Tomorrow is Anty’s birthday. In case you are wondering how much Anty likes her birthday, it is very close to this:

Because I was born wild, with no humans around to record these sorts of things, we do not know my birthday. The shelter people said I was about ten months old when Mama and Anty brought me home, so we count ten months back from the day I was adopted and use that when a vet needs to know these things. Anty is also adopted (I do not know how people shelters work when getting human kittens to their parents) but she does know her birthday and even the time she was born. That was eight in the morning. Anty was a morning person right from the start. Her mama and papa got a phone call very soon after that, to tell them Anty was born and it was time to come get her.

The way the story is told, Anty’s mama had to go on a plane by herself because Anty came sooner than they thought she would come and Anty’s papa still had to be at work. One would think humans could be more understanding about things like that. They probably would be, now, but this was a different time. Family lore says that Anty’s mama got very worried on the plane ride back, because she fell asleep on the plane and when she woke up, she could not find Anty. At least not her face, which should have been sticking out of the blanket in which she was wrapped. Anty was all right (as you may have guessed, because she is here now) and had squiggled herself down to the very bottom of the blanket. I do not blame her. When I was first brought home, I huddled in the back of my carrier, too, and I was a big girl of ten months. Anty was only three days old and had no idea what was going on.

She likes to think she has learned a few things since then. Like how to write good stories. She did teach a cat how to blog, so that is something. Anty really likes birthdays in general. They do not always have to be hers, which is good, because birthdays are one to a human every year. She gets  equally excited about Uncle’s or Mama’s birthdays, and she even likes my adoption day (that is in December, and she says that allows her to tick “Christmas kitten” off her bucket list. I am glad I could help her with that one.) This one is hers, though, and she is glad that it happens in her favorite time of year, October. The days get shorter, nights get longer, leaves turn pretty colors and pumpkin flavored things are everywhere. It also means Halloween and Thanksgiving are coming up, and then Christmas, which is her favorite day of the whole year, even more than  her own birthday. It counts as a birthday, though, and an important one for people who believe the way our family does.

This birthday is Anty’s, however, and, for her, it is the start of a whole new year. She likes to mark the start of a new year with new notebooks. Here are two.

Future story receptacles?

Future story receptacles?

Both of these notebooks are blank right now, but they will not be that way for long. The solid blueish notebook is a Moleskine, and has a soft cover and dotted pages. That will be a new thing for Anty to try. Well, she did try dotted pages once, but the pages were a funny whitish color and hurt her eyes, so she had to give that notebook a new home. She is interested in trying the dotted pages on Moleskine paper, which is a nice, soothing ivory.

The other notebook is by Punch Studio, which makes very very pretty stationery. Anty has been accumulating a lot of Paris-themed stationery, but here is the funny thing; she does not have any Paris-set ideas right now, so she is not sure why. She knows why she collects peacock-themed stationery (they are very pretty birds and probably taste good, because they are related to turkeys. I have recently started eating turkey, in case you are wondering, but Anty collects peacock things because they are important for a future book.) but the Paris thing remains a mystery.

There are some other things in this picture, taken on the desk that Anty had wanted fro her own since she was a very young human kitten. Now it is hers, so that is another life goal reached. The stuffed bunny in the corner is Happy Bunny. He says “let’s talk about me” when Anty squeezes him. She says he is good for focus. The big square thing is a stress cube. It is good for squishing when Anty needs something to do with her hands. Sometimes that is a lot, during the part of writing when she stares at things that are not there and has to think really hard. The fact that there are sticky notes and papers around these books are proof that they are going to be written in very very soon. The solid notebook will become her all purpose computer bag book once the current one is filled. As for the pretty Paris book, she does not know. It has pretty page inside, three different designs repeating. Anty thinks this might be a good book for morning pages, as it is easier to write on pretty pages than completely blank ones. She is not sure yet, though.

What she is sure of is that it is time to read Critique Partner Vicki’s chapter, so that is about it 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…

Things That Make Me Go “Whoa.”

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I want to know that there’s something just beyond MY ability, that I can eek (sic) out one day that can move people like I’ve been moved.

–Ben Folds

Once again, we’ve arrived at blog day, but my first reaction is to say I’ve got nothing and see you next time. Not going to do that, however, as this is on my to-do list, so it is going to get to-done. This is one of the reasons I keep a list of writing related quotes on hand. That way, I always have something to use as a prompt, whether it’s strictly adhering to the original quote or using it as a jumping off point to something more loosely related.

Right now, still not sure in which direction I’m going to go, but I am going. The first time I remember being aware of Ben Folds was in my BFF’s car, on a long ago December 26th, at precisely 6 AM. Points to the DJ who cued up “Brick” at exactly that moment. From the first haunting piano notes, I knew I was listening to something special.

I didn’t know at the time that this was a song about an abortion from the viewpoint of a seventeen year old boy, nor that it was from the singer/songwriter’s personal experience. All I knew was that this was raw emotion, the very serious subject matter at odds with the beauty of the music, and played against the mood of the holiday season, the contrast was sharp. In short, it wakened that “how did he do that?” reaction in the story part of my brain.

My father was an artist all his life, and I remember, from a young age, being brought to art shows and museums, and noticing people with sketchpads or easels, in front of certain works. I wasn’t sure what they were doing -it seemed rude, from my four-ish year old perspective, to be in a museum and they’re paying attention to what they can do at home on their own?- so I asked. My father told me that they were copying the masters in order to learn how they did what they did. Centuries before YouTube videos, webinars, mass communications or even widespread literacy, this is how it happened. Try and fail and try and fail and keep eyes on the good stuff and try to figure out how the good stuff got good.

This is, as a matter of course, going to result in turning out a lot of crap along the way. That’s part of the process. As much as I would love to spit out a bunch of words and have them arrange themselves into timeless fiction while I sleep, that’s not going to happen. What is going to happen is that I need to treat this like any other form of education. I need to study the books in my genre that work for me, and figure out why they work for me. What elements of these books, these writers’ voices, etc, can I adapt to my own use? I  need to study books in my genre that do not work for me, and find out why they don’t work for me. Do I see any of my own bad habits there? How can I work on improving those? I  need to study books outside of my preferred genre, to see what elements in those books can enrich what I do and add something new to the time honored elements.

Sometimes, it feels like, well, work. Which it is, of course, for those of us for whom writing is a profession as well as a pleasure. When I feel a reluctance to get to the work, that usually means I need to reconnect. Which, for me, means a lot of reading, because story in, story out. Though I’m still reading a lot of realistic YA these days (because they seriously deliver the visceral emotion and make me want to step up that game in historical romance) I’ve missed the deep immersion of the older historical romances, so revisiting a lot of those, and will likely be doing a lot of rambling on that in the future.

So, these days, I have at least part of my brain in magpie mode. I want to be challenged in what I take in. Surprised. I’m listening to a lot of music on Spotify these days, sometimes dedicating time to read the lyrics (I love that feature) while listening to the music, and treating that as research. The way Ben Folds uses language – seriously impressing this gal who completed an English minor in two years without even trying (I honestly did take all the required courses merely because they interested me ;  go figure) and am now in a serious Damien Rice mode, because my heart is still dying a little from “Accidental Babies” and “The Greatest Bastard.” Lots of brilliant turns of language and emotion there, essential for writing romance.

I can feel the closing paragraph coming on here, the one where we restate the topic sentence (did I have one here?)  and leave readers with a takeaway. Not sure how well this is going to hew to that (look at me, using vocabulary words) but here’s what I’ve got. I want that “wow” moment. That “I never thought of that” moment. That thing where all I have to do is hear three piano notes and a whole movie plays in my head. Hopefully on my pages as well. Story in, story out, in all its forms.

Crabby Monday

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This blog entry exists because I want to cross something off my to do list. It’s one of those days where writing related things are getting done, but the actual writing has been scarce. Not anybody’s fault, as domestic tornadoes happen when domestic tornadoes happen. This is one of those days when inspiration takes a back seat to discipline. Which means, in short, butt in chair and fingers on keyboard and/or pen to paper.

I’m sitting in my favorite coffee house right now, a cup of cold tea in front of me. It was hot when I ordered it, but it, like me, today, is pretty much kind of there and that’s it. Blah. Not what I was going for, for either of us. I will credit the barista with leaving the infuser in the cup and giving me a generous splash of skim milk in the cardboard cup so that I could let the tea, a delicious chai I get almost every time I come here, brew to perfection and then add the right amount of milk. That’s not exactly what happened, my apologies to the tea.

This is one of those parts of writing that is not exactly glamorous. Meh. Cold tea, blank brain, tired body. Still, the idea of totally blowing off the day bothers me. It rankles. Doesn’t fit. I mean, I could. That’s within my grasp, and, some would argue, within my rights. Part of me would actually like to do that, but then it runs straight into the part that rolls its eyes. OMG, are you whining about how hard writing is again? No wonder it’s been a while since your last book release. Sit down and do it. It’s easy. What, you can’t? Must not be a writer, then. There, there, you tried. Failed, but tried. Now go  home and put away the laundry and…mmm nope, that’s about all I’ve got, but I will flip through this list of anxiety triggers while you wrangle the laundry and then we’ll see which one we’re going to go with for the rest of the day. How does that sound?

Actually, not very good. Not very good at all. True, not every day can be a perfect one, and the slower days do get balanced out with the days when everything seems to want to come out of my head at once. There are times to produce and times to take in so that I can produce later. Even on those days when story brain says “nope,” there are still things I can do. Crit a critique partner’s chapter, discuss the next steps for the novella (partner and I there agree we are wrapping the end of the beginning and are pumped to get to the beginning of the middle) and write a blog entry. Not too shabby there, even if I am spending most of the entry blabbering.

Let’s see, what else? Conversing with some writer friends via email and discussing the use of angst in romance (a favorite topic) and trading songs that make our hearts hurt but also create plot bunnies. My favorite contribution for that discussion would be “Accidental Babies,” by Damien Rice:

Somewhat related to Her Last First Kiss, as there is a love triangle of sorts in that one, though my heroine wouldn’t say she’s in love with the other gent, but there is some fondness there. The mood fits, though, and it makes my heart ache the way my heart needs to ache for my hero’s situation at a crucial point in the book, so been listening to this one quite a bit, but haven’t actually moved it onto the book’s playlist, but that will probably happen soon.

So. Getting around time to wrap this sucker up and call the entry done. Likely also time to stick my nose in a good book and refill the well. Mondays are going to happen; that’s a fact of life. Okay. They happen. The adventure comes with what I choose to do with them. If putting out is an issue, then it’s usually time to take in. Even spending time in favorite places can count toward this. The brick walls of the coffee house, the street-level windows, eclectic tables and seating, the ever-changing flow of other guests; these are all good things. I am looking forward to the month progressing into Daylight Savings in the not too distant future, when I get to look up from keyboard or notebook and watch the day fade into night. Those evenings when I can go to the coffee house in daylight at walk home at night, still on my regular twoish hour stint, that’s the good stuff. I can pin my sights on that and keep moving toward it.

In the meantime, this entry is here. I did it. Novella progress is moving forward and partner and I agree on where the next step goes. Chapter critted for critique partner, and I can shoot her a note saying I’m brain-free today, but would love to brainstorm tomorrow. Then…maybe reading, maybe adult coloring book, maybe movie. We’ll see. What’s important is that this entry is here.

Typing With Wet Claws: Care and Feeding Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. I would have had this posted earlier, but Anty had to help Mama with a very important errand. They did not have to buy my regular food while my tummy was wonky, but it is better now, and I had eaten through what they had of my regular food, so they had to go to the store.

Well. I know it is time for humans to have fun with scary things, but the regular food store not having my regular food is very scary. I am a creature of habit, which means I like for things to be The Same. One time, the store did not have my scent of Febreze, so my humans brought home a different scent. They said it smelled good, but I did not think that at all. I moved my pee spot, so that they would know my opinion of that new scent. They never bought that new scent again, but I still use the new pee spot, because I am used to that now. We will see what happens with this new food they are trying me on this week. I ate some of it before, when my tummy was getting better, so it is not entirely strange. That is a good thing.

this is a good grocery haul

this is a good grocery haul

An even better thing is that I have eaten through almost all of my dry food treat, and my humans had to buy a new bag. Last winter, the humans could not find my regular size bag of treat, and got me the big bag instead. It weighed more than I did. That was a wonderful day. Today will be a wonderful day, too, because Anty and Uncle will probably give me a little extra treat if that will finish off the old bag. Anty likes the pantry shelves to be tidy, and if she can get rid of the old bag, she will be able to put the new bag there in its place.

kitty's got a brand new bag

kitty’s got a brand new bag

I had not tried any new foods for a very long time, because I was used to my regular ones (and my vet said I should stay away from gravy foods. I will not have any more of those for a while, and that is okay. I have plenty of other things I can eat, that do not have gravy.) I did not want to eat for a few days while I was sick, but then the medicine Mama and Anty gave me did its job and I got hungry. I did not want to go to my bowl, so Anty came down on the floor and offered me different foods until I took some. Then, I ate a lot. Now, I am back to normal. I run toward my bowls when it is time for my meals, with my tail up high, because I know that what is in my bowl is going to taste good and help me be a healthy kitty. I need to be a healthy kitty if I am going to follow my people everywhere and fulfill my duties as being a mews.

It is like that with inspiration, sometimes. Sometimes, a human might lose the taste for something that normally makes them happy. This does not mean that they have sick tummies. Well, not all the time. Sometimes, it might, and in those cases, seeing a people vet is probably the best idea. I am not talking about that right now.

What I am talking about is when a writer human does not find the same pleasure as they usually do in reading their regular books or watching regular TV shows and movies and such. That does not mean that those things are bad, but it may mean that it is time for the writer to try taking in something else for a while. That happened to Anty a few months ago. It was hard for her to get into reading a lot of romance novels, and romance novels are something she really loves. That was very frustrating, for her and for me, because I take my cues from my humans.

Thankfully, the library, which is a big house full of books (Anty says it is a wonderful place) has many different kinds of books and movies, so she had other things to investigate for a while. That was how she discovered there are some very good romances in realistic Young Adult novels, and those books can teach her things she can use in writing historical romance, even though they are not historical (well, most of them are not, at least as far as she can tell.) and the romances do not always end with happily ever after. Anty says her old high school biology teacher would call this sort of thing hybrid vitality. The way I see it, if what you are eating does not taste good, it is a good idea to ask for some different food. I do not think any other humans, even librarians (they are the humans who work in libraries, and know a lot about books; they are very smart) would rub a book in anybody’s face to get them to read some of it, but one never knows.

Anty says it is important for creative humans to take in different things that inspire them, so that they will have more tools with which to work. I think she is probably right, because she is reading a lot more now, both older books and newer ones, and all of that is fueling her writing. She has a new Sleepy Hollow recap up at Heroes and Heartbreakers. It is here and looks like this:

look at how they look at each other

look at how they look at each other

This show has some things that are familiar to Anty: it is set in Sleepy Hollow, a town near where Anty lived when she was a people kitten; she is familiar with the story by Washington Irving that loosely inspired this idea; it has history and romance and some spooky things, too. It also has some things that are different from what she usually likes; the Ichabod in this TV series is very different from the Ichabod in the story, but she does not mind that, because it is entertaining. The history and theology do not always make sense, and there is a lot of hand-waving going on regarding those. Usually, those things bother Anty, but here, she takes it in stride, because she is here for the things that she does like. Anty says inspiration is like a buffet: take what you like, and leave the rest. Come to think of it, that pretty much sums up being a cat, as well.

random me picture because Anty likes it

random me picture because Anty likes it

I have talked for a long time, so Anty says I need to wrap it up. She has to work on her novella now, so 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…

That Time of Year Approaches Again, And This Time, I Have a Plan

annabowling 4 Comments

By that, I mean NaNo, and, once again, for me, this year will be NaNot. I love the sense of camaraderie and support, and the mere idea of meeting other writers to get together in person and get some story down, no censors, no edits, etc, gets my motor running. Focusing on word count, however, shuts it off all together. So, not the best program for me, especially when my focus is getting not one, but two, manuscripts to The End.

This time, instead of whingeing about how NaNo and I are not a good fit at present, I’d rather focus on what does work for me. Working on multiple projects is a big part of that. If one isn’t working out, I can switch gears, focus on the other and trust that the first one will take steps to sort itself while my conscious attention is targeted elsewhere. What I do for relaxation when I’m not working on novel, novella or articles, is also writing-related, so, basically, I either do not have an off switch or I taped that sucker in the on position at some point.

Which brings me to my next thing – if I’m that busy, why don’t I have elbenty bajillion new release? I could cite the domestic tornado chains that have whipped through our family of late, and that’s part of it, but that’s not a part I can control. What I can control is the fear. Fear that I’m not good enough. That I missed my chance. That nobody wants to read the kinds of stories I have to tell, so shut up, step away from the computer and wet Swiffer the linoleum because people track stuff in on a regular basis, and that all shows on light colored flooring. Well, they (and I) do, and it does, but here’s the rub (pun intended) – housework makes my story brain chug into motion. The trick is getting that motion all the way from Once Upon a Time to They Lived Happily Ever After (though with a few bruises and smoke rising from the ruins of collateral damage.)

One thing I’ve learned from failed (and won) NaNo attempts is that I need to focus on the story, not the writing. Counting words completely derails my brain, reminds me that adverbs are bad, keeps an eye out for the size of my vocabulary pool, seizes on minutiae, and I can’t hear the voice of the story and characters anymore. This is why we can’t have nice things, and by nice things, I mean completed manuscripts. If I shut the inner critic, with her clicker that logs every word in some mental spreadsheet, away, I can let the metaphorical horse have its head. Get the bones down, take notes, as it were, on the movie that plays in my head. Most times, that’s going to be in bullet points, present tense, riddled with (figure this detail out later kinds of notes to myself) and a big ol’ jumbled mess that probably makes sense only to me. Also to Critique Partner Vicki, who is used to this by now.

The other big takeaway I’ve had is that I write best in layers. Get the bones down, add some muscle, add some sinew, add some veins and capillaries and aortas, add flesh and all the rest, and we’re good to go.  Probably not in that order, so good thing I am not employed in the medical sciences. What I’m going for at present is a bare bones draft, done my way. Can I get a scene outlined every weekday? Not counting words, but putting down my bullet points, from the movie screen in my head, onto the page. Laying the foundation, beginning to end, putting the jumbled mass of notes into order (organization! See, already fun, right there. I love organizing things.) I used to number the scenes in my outlines; not sure when I stopped doing that. Whoops, yes, I do, but probably time to give that another go and see where it takes me.

After a long examination of how I work best (at present; process can be an ever changing entity, which only proves that it’s alive) I’m comfortable with my layers, and not so comfortable with the big stack of partial manuscripts that piled on each other in the interim. This doesn’t mean that every partial will make it all the way; some aren’t viable, or need big changes, like transport to a setting that does not make me gnash my teeth and fuss against the bonds of the “shoulds” that come with that particular territory. Instead, it’s time to blaze the trail that gets me where I want and need to go.

Happily Ever After, Epically Speaking

annabowling 1 Comment

First and foremost, Happy Anniversary to Real Life Romance hero. Not our wedding anniversary, which is a different date, but the anniversary of the day we fell in love. We are mushy enough to remember the exact day (having it happen on a national holiday probably helped) and mark the occasion. I will not give the number of years, but I can say it was in another century, in a far off land called Santa Barbara. We were two college students, majoring in things that have nothing to do with what either of us are doing for work at present. Go figure.

This year, we marked the occasion with lunch at home, dragged out of the freezer and microwaved, because it’s the day before grocery day, and we both had stuff to do. Also because one of us cut the amount of bread in the household down to one slice while the other was off doing laundry. In a completely unrelated piece of news, a grilled peanut butter sandwich is apparently delicious but super melty to the point of liquefied peanut butter. I will not say which of us did what, because a good marriage always has some secrets, but it did end up with us dipping things in Malibu sauce (1/2 mustard, 1/2 mayonnaise, whisk together; excellent on chicken) at the kitchen counter and discussing what we thought life was going to be like cough cough years ago.

College majors, once of crucial importance, turned out not to be so much, in the end, for us. RLRH is now in the restaurant industry, and I make up stories, blabber about books, and tell people who kissed on TV. Living in NY state? We’d hoped. Now we’re doing it, in a beautiful apartment in a wonderful neighborhood we never want to leave. We share that apartment with Housemate, who knows all our dirty laundry and loves us anyway (or none of us can afford the blackmail; that’s also a plausible explanation.) Though I studied early childhood education, I did not take the degree, nor have I worked in that field since my last nannying gig in college. A few years in retail, many more in family caregiving, but the writing has always been there, even during the dark years when not much was actually coming. I did not expect those years.

RLRH and I went over a few things we would have never expected, if Present Us had been able to talk to Cough Cough Years Ago Us. Health issues, financial crises, deaths of parents and other loved ones, watching friends become parents, career derailments and changes of direction, changes of interests, the eclectic bunch of friends we’ve accumulated, a kitty who does not climb, jump or cuddle (but she does blog, so that makes up for a lot,) and other things we never would have thought of. We’d cut out on a school activity (not a class) that day, long ago, and threw off the person who’d gone out to look for us, because those two people on the athletic field looked like us, but he and I were not a couple, so that couldn’t have been, person kept on looking. We eventually returned to the event, knowing, from the time we’d spent soaking in the other’s company, that something was different, and always would be.

I’ve always known romance was my writing home. That was true back then, and it’s even more true now, maybe because I’ve lived the ups and downs of what life has to offer, with RLRH at my side. A lot of romances are courtship stories, maybe even the majority, and that’s fine. Falling in love is romantic, that’s for sure. Everything is new and shiny and overwhelming, and nothing has been like this before, and maybe, maybe…. RLRH and I threw around a lot of “did you ever think we’d…” questions to each other. Some were answered with “yes,” some with “no,” some with incredulous laughter, and, my favorite, a soft “I’d hoped,” from him.

That’s the other level of romance, and one I like to include in my books whenever possible. A lot of the current romances take place over a short period of time, so focusing on the courtship makes sense. That other level, though, the love that has been tried, broken, mended, grown stronger, as broken bones do, that’s also worth celebrating. Those stories also need to be told. That’s one of the reasons I’m studying some of the older historical romances these days, the ones with a bigger scope and taking place over a longer period of time. For me, the very best historical romances, the ones that linger with me years and decades later, are epics. Sagas. Romances worthy of historic record. Those make my blood sing, so that’s where my focus is going these days.

I once described an early work, which I still find satisfactory these many years later, as feeling like I was dancing in a room that was too small. That’s the best way I can put it, even now. I had a sense of restraint then, a keen concern about what I was “supposed” to do. Levels of historical accuracy (I go for verisimilitude now)  and sensuality and which periods are desirable and which are not. Word count is  a big bugaboo for me, useful in marketing and editing, but needs to be firmly locked away during the drafting process. I need to tell the story the way I tell the story and then we’ll focus on the form and all that during the next pass through.

Am I where I thought I was going to be all those years ago? Mostly, no. Am I where I need to be? Probably. Am I where I actually am? Most definitely. One of the questions RLRH and I asked each other was, did we think we were going to be this happy? Life isn’t perfect. It’s not ever going to be, and of course we have some what ifs, but we also have each other, and that’s what this happily ever after thing is all about, in life and in fiction. Onward we go….

Typing With Wet Claws: Feeling Much Better Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It has been a momentous week for me, and also for Anty. Everybody at home, really, because this week has mostly been about me. Last week, when I went to the vet, the vet told my humans they should try to get me to eat. That is the kind of vet advice I like to hear. It was not the easiest thing, though, because of my upset tummy.

Anty was very determined to get me to eat. She even got down on the floor, under the bed with me, and shone a flashlight on me to make sure that I was okay. Then she offered me different kinds of food. I did not want to take any at first, because I had been so pukey earlier. I was afraid I would get sick again, but Anty would not give up, She stuck her finger in tuna juice and people baby food and mushy cat food with gravy and rubbed it on my fur. I do not like messy things on my fur, so I licked it off. That was Anty’s sneaky way of making sure I got some food in me. She did that for a couple of days, and even started bringing her tiny glowy box down there so she could talk to other humans while trying to convince me to eat.

After a couple of days, I changed my mind. Anty put the gushy cat food, with gravy, in front of me. That smelled good. I do not normally eat gushy food with gravy. I normally eat fish jelly, which is soft, and my treat, which is crunchy. The gushy food smelled like birdie. The vets said that the medicine Mama squirted in my mouth twice a day for a whole week was birdie flavored. I do not know what kind of birdies they have eaten, but it tasted like medicine to me, plus it was cold. This gushy food was not cold. Anty offered me some gushy food on a soup spoon, and I was tempted, but still scared. Then Anty put some on my mouth fur. She knew I would lick it off. Well, I did. I liked it. I took a very small bite from the food on the spoon, and it was good. I mean really good. I ate a couple more spoonfuls, and then Anty put some of the food on a small people dish. That is what the big picture at the top of the post is from; Anty took pictures of me eating, so Uncle and Mama would know I was doing better even though they were at work.

Anty fed me a few meals like that over the next days. I would get excited when I saw her come with the flashlight and the gushy food and the plate. Here is where Anty got sneaky again. Every meal, she would move the people dish closer to the edge of the bed. If I wanted the food, I had to come closer. Then, one night, when Uncle came home, he rattled my treat bag. I ran out from under the bed, into the hallway and to my regular room, where Purple Bowl is. I only have treat out of Purple Bowl, ever. Anty and Uncle were very happy to see me eat like a normal kitty. The next day, Anty tried feeding me my normal food in my normal bowl, and I ate it.

 

The next thing is kind of gross. Anty has been very interested in my poop. That is getting better, too. I have not peed yet, but Uncle told Anty I have been running around, which I always do before I pee. I like to hold it for a long time and then let it all go at once, so this is normal for me. My old vet once said he never saw so much pee come out of one cat at one time. I set the office record. I had a reputation there, because I made a BIG poop on my first visit. In my defense, I was young and scared and new to the whole pet thing.

Anyway, I am feeling much better now, and can pay better attention to what Anty is doing, so I can tell you all about that. She says this week has been pretty much a wash on writing, but she took good care of me, so it is still a good week. She will write more this coming week, because October is when Anty gets her super writing powers back. The air is cooler, the days are shorter, and the leaves turn wonderful colors. Now that she has her mews back in working order, work will be a lot easier.

She wanted me to mention that she will, once again, be recapping every other episode of Sleepy Hollow at Heroes and Heartbreakers (she shares the job with another human) so that is some writing already. She is very excited about the new season, though there still do not appear to be any cats in this program. Maybe the lack of cats is intentional, to enhance the horror.

It is almost time for people dinner, so that is about it for this week. Until then, I remain very truly yours,

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

Until next week...

Until next week…

Thursday Rambles

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“Be willing to expose yourself to your readers. Plumb the depths of your own experiences and emotions in order to make your stories authentic. Don’t hold back.”

— Madeline Hunter

Wednesday’s post was going to be a special midweek update from Skye, but a domestic tornado chain touched down, here it is, Thursday, and Skye will be able to make her regular Feline Friday post tomorrow, so this one is all on me. Which would be lovely if I had any idea what I had planned to write here in the first place. Keeping the discipline of thrice-weekly blogging is one of my goals, so here I am, and my complete lack of focus means that I am going to babble and trust that some sense will come out of all of it at some point.

I will admit that, in a not that long ago romance writer’s conference, I had the great good fortune to be seated at the same table as Madeline Hunter at one of the meals, but did not get to talk to her. Despite my best attempts to peek at her name badge, I couldn’t get a good view, and the noise level was high, so shouting across a big round table wasn’t the most practical thing to do. Point is, I was at the same table with Madeline Hunter for an entire meal, and did not get to talk to her. This will haunt me to my grave. Either that or until my next opportunity, because these things do roll around again.

Granted, due to the lack of a clear name tag sighting, I didn’t know who the new arrival to our table was, and her only answer to a tablemate’s question of “what do you write?” (universal writer to writer icebreaker there) was “historical.” If I had known, I would have loved to talk with her. I still remember, long, long ago, when Madeline Hunter first came on the scene with well-received medieval romances, and feeling betrayed when she switched to Regency. I’m all for writers writing in different eras, and, in fact, I encourage that. I’d like to see more of it. What hit me hard at the time was the loss of a writer who used the medieval setting in all its grit and glory, leaving for more populated Regency assemblies.

There are multiple reasons a writer might switch time periods. Medievals have been declared dead multiple times since I started reading romance novels, let alone writing them. I don’t recall if it was that same conference, though it may well have been, where I pitched my own medieval, with a working title of Ravenwood, to a very interested agent, who said she loved my voice, quoted my own lines back to me, and assured me she would totally read this book for her own pleasure…but she couldn’t sell a medieval in the current market. Did I have a Regency?

I was working on one at the time, and told the agent that. She said great, send it when it was done, but don’t rush. She wanted the same level of polish as she could see in the medieval. Well, dear readers, I can say that I tried. I love the characters in that once upon a time Regency, love the conflict, love the resolution, but, as Critique Partner Vicki pointed out, I hate writing Regency. Georgian seems to be my natural default these days, so, when I do go back to that manuscript, everything will get bumped back a few decades, to fit within my natural reach. It’s going to take a while to get to that point, as I have the current novel and novella that need my attention, and I’ve blabbered on this subject before, so I won’t belabor the point.

Does this post even have a point? Does it need one? It’s written, that’s what, or mostly so, and I’ve had a few discussions, at various places on the interweb, about writing historical and how and why and all that. Defining what makes a particular period appeal to a particular reader or writer is far above my pay grade, so I’m not going to try (today) but here’s what I do know: I need to feel the era. To us, it’s history. To the characters, it’s life. Barring time travel (and I have a time travel waiting to burn off its own bad juju – this may be payback for all the jujubes I inhaled as a kid) the characters don’t know how the war is going to turn out. They don’t know they’re inching up on another ice age, or that the thingamahoozie is going to be invented two months hence, thus changing the world forever. They don’t know any of that.

What they do know is that they want the same things we do; home, health, shelter, food, companionship, purpose, love. All that good stuff. The way they get it, though, that’s where we find the differences, and what historical characters can and cannot do are influenced by any number of things. I find that endlessly fascinating. It’s easier for me to climb into a character’s skin and move around in their world if that world strikes a chord in me and plucks me like a stringed instrument so we can make beautiful music together. No doubt that can happen in any number of settings, and there are probably some I haven’t ever thought I’d employ that, someday, I will. For now, it’s Georgian, and, for today, that’s one blog entry down.

Order of the Golden Curtsy: Call Back the Dream, by Barbara Hazard.

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Write what is wrong if it seems true to you and hang the critics of romance who would have it otherwise.
—Judith Ivory

I have not read a lot of Judith Ivory. I intend to correct that. I’ve read some (and need to re-read that) but this quote jumped out at me, and it is extremely relevant to my interests at present. While it’s been some time since I’ve spent the majority of my writing time scrawling in endless notebooks about how I can’t write, want to write, need to write, but nothing is coming, oh my word, am I all done? Well, no, obviously not, because I would not have a writing blog if I were. I would not be filling out invoices for my work sold to other markets, and I would not be working on current novel, novella and other projects. At the time, though, it felt like it, and that’s a feeling I want to remember. Not relive, but remember, because it has a job to do.

Earlier today, I finished rereading an old favorite historical romance, Call Back the Dream, by Barbara Hazard, which I’ve talked about some before, and likely will do again. This book is one of the special ones, that has stuck with me through decades of reading, held up exactly as I’d hoped it would. It reminds me why I love reading and writing historical romance, and makes me excited to read its companion book, which I have recently discovered somehow got separated from its parent and is in storage. :sulk: No matter, I’ll pick another read from the same bookcase, though I can’t say which right now. What I’m going for is the feel more than anything else, the big, thick bug-squasher historical romance steeped in the spirit of the times (Professor Facos, thank you for introducing me to zeitgeist, probably the greatest gift a professor could give a writer of historical romance.) – the characters think, believe and behave as people of their time, and that drives the plot.

Call Back the Dream by Barbara Hazard

Call Back the Dream
by Barbara Hazard

I. Love. This. Book. So. Hard. It. Hurts. I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to know what sort of books I prefer to read, and, ideally, write, and will definitely read it again. During this particular reread, a new thought occurred to me: this book might not have made it to mainstream publication today, and if it did, there would likely be differences. Granted, there are fashions in writing, especially in genre fiction, same as there are in clothes, makeup, hairstyles, etc. It’s also true that publishing does go in cycles, so maybe some of the things that may read as dated now to the very modern reader may be all the rage next year.

Long separations aren’t common in many historical romances published today, but that doesn’t mean it takes away from the romance. Alexander and Camille are separated for fifteen years in this story, by parents who don’t take kindly to mixing classes, and both do marry other people in the interim. Reasons for and outcomes of those marriages make sense in Georgian England, and neither spouse is demonized. I liked that. When Alexander’s first wife dies, there’s pressure to seek another wife, as soon as possible, because he’s not getting any younger, and the title can only be passed down to his direct male descendant. This. Is. A. Problem. Alexander didn’t want to marry anybody but Camille in the first place, but he did his duty, and is willing to do it again. Well, to a point, that is, which I am not going to blab about here, because the scene where he Does A Thing out of strong emotion still makes my skin prickle merely thinking about it. That’s what I want to put into my books, too.

This is not a sexy book. There’s one intimate encounter between Alexander and Camille, and that not spelled out explicitly, but the strength of their love and the bond between them does perfectly fine without going into physical detail. It’s not a inspirational book, though Camille is a vicar’s daughter, her faith affects her choices, and we see her making observances of same. Her first husband is agnostic, and though it’s not gone into depth there, either, their differing views provide for stimulating conversations between the couple. Sex and faith both influence the plot but don’t dominate, though the love Camille and Alexander share, and its obstacles, do. When I read these pages, I ache for these characters and what they need to go through to achieve their HEA. I want to make that.

I love that, when Camille and Alexander do find each other after all those years, it’s not quick or easy. One of them is still married, for one thing, there’s a child involved, and both parties have huge paradigm shifts regarding things they thought they knew beyond any doubt. There’s anger. There’s betrayal. There’s an offer nice people don’t make. There’s consideration of that offer, and consideration of what acceptance of that offer would mean to other people, on an intimate and grander scale. I want to suck this in and soak in it and breathe it and learn from it and make it mine.

There are some books that we read. There are some books from which we learn. There are some books in which we see ourselves, as we are or as we would like to become. Long ago, I had the idea of starting a feature, on my previous blog (or the one before that?) to ramble about my favorite-favorite historical romance novels, but I never did it. No idea why, but no time like the present, and so I induct Call Back the Dream by Barbara Hazard as the official first member of the Order of the Golden Curtsy. Time to show respect to a mistress of the genre.