Influences of Late

June 1, 2016annabowling 2 Comments

The last couple of days, I’ve been bingeing. Monday, I stumbled across Grace Burrowes’s FAQ section, which led to glomming on her blog, a couple of years’ worth of entries, full disclosure. I haven’t read any of her novels -yet- but I know I have some in my TBR bookshelf, some waiting in my Kindle, and they take up a significant amount of the B shelf in the romance section at my local library branch. I started with the About Writing section of the FAQ page, and fell immediately in love, which may be a good indicator it’s time to dive into the actual books. Thankfully, there’s a suggested reading order on the author’s website, because there are a heck of a lot of t hem.

Tuesday, I investigated the Bad Girlz Write blog, whose members include the fabulous Jeannette Grey, a CRRWA chapter sister, and Heather McGovern, whose workshop on the big black moment I have heard-but-not-actually-seen, because the day she presented at CRRWA was also the day my former pair of spectacles died, and my valiant attempt to hold them together with electrical tape and a binder clip A) did not work, and B) hurt, because electrical tape, when folded, has sharp, pointy corners, as well as C) made me dizzy and gave me a headache. I took notes anyway, but will not vouch for the legibility of same. Here, as well, I hit the back button to read blog entry after blog entry about wandering and, heck, the entire section on writer life in one go. There may or may not have been actual tears in either of the above.

There sure as anything have been a lot of tears in my other binge, Parenthood. Not the life state. The TV show. Yes, I do live under a rock, and no, I do not know how I somehow managed to never ever see a single episode of this until Netflix, but I needed a show to binge and Netflix said I might like it, because Netflix knows me, and yessssssssssss. Oh so very much yes. Only a few episodes into the first season, I had to check to make sure my OTPs (from the adult generation, that is; everybody shush on the teens, because I want to experience it myself) were going to be endgame (they were) before I could allow myself to get as deeply attached as I am wont to do in these situations.

All three of these binges brought that same reaction in my writerheart: YES. This. This is what I want to do. This is what I’m shooting for when I write. This connection. This emotional impact. This need to stop everything I’m doing and check to see if Crosby and Jasmine are going to be all right, because if they aren’t, there is no good left in the world. Also Joel and Julia. I already know a couple of things about the finale, and I am fine knowing them, but the rest, I want to discover as I go. I want to take all of this in and use it as food to fuel my own work. The tightly-knit family, made of people who aren’t perfect, who do get mad and lose their tempers and yell at little kids and shove their elders and say horrible things and lose every last shred of hope, and yet don’t give up because that’s not what they do; I love that stuff.

In the midst of all this, I noticed one interesting thing. The more I binged, the fainter and farther away the voices -and influences- of the Hypercritical Gremlins became. Maybe Ms. Burrowes, the Bad Girlz and the Bravermans are taking turns helping to barricade the Gremlins’ closet. Shutting out the “shoulds” is one thing, and a good thing, but there has to be something to move into the old “should” place, or they’re only going to come back, with more “shoulds” and more Gremlins, and that only leads to paralysis and anxiety and literally ugly crying in the middle of a critique group (yes, that actually happened, and yes, in public, and yes, to me) and miscarried manuscripts and…you get the picture. But replace the “shoulds” and the forcing and the gnashing of teeth with the things that elicit that YES in every fiber of my writerheart? That brings back the joy, lifts the weight and, well, of course I can do this; it’s as natural as breathing, and I’ve been doing that for a few decades now, right? Right.

What could go wrong? Well, plenty. That’s part of life, but the encouraging part, thanks to reading accounts of others navigating the often treacherous writing waters, is that I’m not alone. I’ve done this before. I’ll do it again, and I have no shortage of fuel for the journey.

Typing With Wet Claws: Delicate Balance Edition

May 27, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is also a domestic tornado day, so I may have to write some of my blog now and some of it later. If I post later than usual today, that is why. Also, this is a really nice sunbeam, where I am sitting.

First of all, in case you missed it, Anty talked about medieval romance novels on Buried Under Romance this Saturday. Do you like medieval romance novels? Why or why not? Anty is very interested in this topic, and not only because she has a medieval romance gathering du…um, I mean in her portfolio. She likes to read them, as well, so is always on the lookout for recommendations. The blog post is here and it looks like this:

Saturday was a very big day for Anty, as she also got to recap last week’s episode of Outlander. Watching this show and writing the recap gave Anty a big boost, because they reminded her why she writes her particular brand of historical romance. That recap is here and it looks like this:

In case you have not read any of Anty’s books and are wondering what kinds of stories she writes, there is an easy way to get a small peek. Anty (and I) currently has (have) four hundred and forty-nine followers. Anty would like to have four hundred and fifty. (She would actually like more than that, but she has to hit that number before she goes over it, so she wants that number first. ) If she (we) get one more, then Anty will post a piece of flash fiction here on the blog.

For the rest of this entry, I am going to paw it, because it is one of those days. We are trying a different kind of cat treat this week, and by “we,” I mean me, because I have not seen the humans eat any of it. I think they know something. Probably that I am a kitty and they are not. Anty assures me that my regular treat will be back in a couple of days, and I can last that long. I will give you a secret: the different treat is not bad, and I am still eating it. Anty put a little bit of my regular treat into it, so that it would not be completely strange to me. I appreciate that.

This is not that different from writing. Even when a writer, like Anty, likes to try a few different things in their writing, there is usually something that is the same, so loyal readers will recognize that this is the same writer, and the experience is not completely strange. So far, Anty has written stories set in Colonial New York, turn of the twentieth century England and Italy, sixteenth century Cornwall, and both the Isle of Man and Charles II’s Court in Exile in the Netherlands at the end of the English Civil War. She has written a medieval novella, which is currently looking for a home, and Her Last First Kiss is set in Georgian England. The story she and Anty Melva are writing together is set in the modern day, but is historical romance adjacent, so Anty is not lost wandering in unfamiliar territory. (Anty is not all that comfortable writing completely in the modern age.)

When Anty and Anty Melva first began blowing up the Beach Ball, to use their term, they both wanted to make sure that each of them had one foot in familiar territory, as well as exploring new ground. Anty Melva is most comfortable writing contemporary, and Anty is fully aware she was hardwired for historical romance right out of the box. Anty loves a grand sweep within her historical romance, and Anty Melva likes a touch of suspense. Finding the right balance between the preferences and/or natural bents of two different writers sometimes takes a few tries to find the right ratio, but, so far, Anty and Anty Melva seem to be doing all right. That is the same as how putting a little of my regular treat into the new treat. It is nice to try something a little different once in a while (that is how I found out I like mushy beef cat food; now, I get that on special occasions, and my regular food every day.)

Finding new flavors to put into her writing is something Anty likes to do every so often. She doesn’t always know she is looking for a new flavor, but when she finds one that works for her, she likes to dive into it and experience as much as she can. She had a taste of that this past week, when she watched a lot of Outlander, and started in on a new-to-her Jo Beverley novel, in honor of Miss Jo’s passing. Miss Jo wrote mostly Georgian and Regency novels (Anty has read most, if not all of the Georgians, and some of the Regencies) but also wrote four medieval romances, and she loves Miss Jo’s work, but has never read any of Miss Jo’s medieval romances before, so that is something new, within something familiar. That is something Anty likes to keep in mind when she is writing, as well. It is a delicate balance, a challenge for sure, but also part of the fun.

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

Until next week…

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

Lush

May 23, 2016annabowling 2 Comments

Romance is not about happy people in Happy Land, but courageous people in We Love Each Other Land.

–Grace Burrowes

Another Monday, another new week. I have no idea what I want to say in today’s blog entry, but it rankles that I still owe Wednesday’s post from a week (or two?) ago, and the stubborn, schedule-loving part of part of me is not going to create any more of a backlog than I already have, because such things annoy the heck out of me. All of which means you’re getting the rawest of brain droppings today, and fingers crossed that it actually goes somewhere. Only way to find out is to plunge ahead and find out what happens.

Right now, I am ensconced in my comfy chair, next to an open window, Skye curled in a ball at my feet, sound asleep. Mary Chapin Carpenter’s “Something Tamed Something Wild” is playing on my earbuds, while I plan out how I’m going to tackle the day. I know the things I want to get done, and I know the time in which I have to do them, and I know that I do best when I give my eyes a break and switch between digital and analog throughout the day. This past weekend, I had the opportunity to recap season two, episode seven, of Outlander, “Faith,” for Heroes and Heartbreakers. It is here, and looks like this:

Skye will no doubt have something to say about this on Friday.

To say that this episode hit me like a brick is an understatement. If I could breathe this episode, I would, because there is so much in there of what I want to bring to the pages of my own work that, even though a good chunk of my brain had to be focused on taking notes so that I could capture the salient points for the recap, the rest of it skipped happily through the angst and the opulence (possible book title in there?) of the costumes, the setting, the soul-crushing loss and the love that pulled it all back from the brink of despair. Yes. This. Oh so very much this that, two days after viewing and recapping, parts of me are still back there. It’s not a nice story, not a pretty story, and yet it’s beautiful.

That kind of stuff makes my blood tingle. The books I love the very best, both to read and to write, have bad things happen to good people, sometimes very bad things, and yet…and yet the love is bigger. It’s stronger. It’s beaten sometimes, bruised sometimes, dragging itself along by broken fingernails sometimes, but it’s alive, and it’s not going away. That’s one of the requirements of a romance novel, and it’s going to be there, whatever other flavors the author tosses into the mix.

This week, when I whined to another writer friend about being at the “I hate this, I can’t write, I should give up” stage, I got a reality check. Friend laughed at me, and reminded me that writing super-super detailed is something I do, it’s part of my style, so quit fighting it and do what comes naturally. That’s not going to change. Write. Tell the story. Tell my characters’ story. Tell it my way. Put in the details. Describe stuff. Work the angst. I should note that this is advice I find incredibly easy to give, but, when it comes to taking it, I need a lot of repetition. One of these days, I’ll get it.

What I do know for sure is that, when I try to rein myself in, I’m miserable, and it shows in the writing, or the lack thereof, (usually that one) but when I slap the duct tape on the mouths of the Hypercritical Gremlins and dive headlong into the angst and the opulence, that’s when I feel like I’ve come home. Still learning to trust myself in this whole writing of fiction thing, but the best way out is through, and so I have pretty legal pads and fountain pens and colored ink and if my “black on white” is actually “purple on paisley,” that’s not a bad thing.

My very favorite moment from the Meat Loaf (the singer, not the food) biopic is when he and musical partner, songwriter Jim Steinman, pitched one of their early efforts to a record producer, the reaction is first, silence, then the explanation that most songs have a verse and a chorus, maybe a bridge. These guys’ songs have bridges and tunnels and aqueducts. I want to write aqueducts, and so, those are what I need to be taking in. Something I’ve known for a while now, but, as above, something that also needs repeating, as does the actual writing. The more I write, the more aqueducts I get to build, the more movies I get to play in my head. The more lives I get to lead. Not a bad thing to start a new week.

Grande Dame

May 19, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

To survive, you must tell stories.

–Umberto Eco

Third week in a row that Wednesday’s blog entry comes on another day. This may tell me something about time management in general. Hypercritical Gremlins have been chatty boogers as of late, but I have duct tape and pens and paper, and, when properly employed, the latter do a pretty good job of muffling the former. As my once-upon-a-time writing group facilitator used to say, the process begets the product. I’m learning that my process is eternally in flux, which I count as a good thing, because that means I’m growing.

For some writers (I can only speak about me, with absolute certainty) it’s a juggling act between stretching for the new and getting back in touch with what’s always been there, but may have been obscured by the flotsam and jetsam of life. Some bones, we need to unearth, and, in the digging, we find the seeds we need to water so that we can bloom. Today, two tasks on my to-do list combined, as my morning pages volunteered to be most of my blog entry, as well. I took them up on the offer.

19 May, 2016

Today, I want to run away. I want to drink tea and bake cookies and watch movies and make art. I want to write merely for the fun of it, without my Hypercritical Gremlins chiming in. I want to lose myself in the pages of the books I am reading and in the pages of the books I am writing.

I want to pick apart great historical romance novels with surgical precision, take painstaking notes and absorb it all into my writersoul. I want to do this with a group of my peers, at the hand of a master (mistress?) at rows of wooden desks in a medieval escritoire, where dust motes float in the natural light that streams in from floor-to-ceiling windows. I want to hear the footfalls of leather slippers on stone, the whisper and rustle of the Grande Dame’s skirts and petticoats as she walks the rows of desks, looks over our shoulders as we work. I want my pages to forever carry the imprint of her pointer finger in my red-black ink, to show where she put her finger down and said a decisive, “There.”

Not “there is where you went wrong.” I can do that on my own, and I do, all too often, all too much. “There,” I want her to say, “there is where you went right.” She does not smile often, this Grande Dame, and so these moments are all the more valued for their rarity. “There is power. There is truth. There is emotion. There, my blood tingles. Keep doing that.” Her hand, fingers bent from decades of excelling at the skill I now practice, cups my shoulder. Lingers there, in the silence, but for hushed murmurs and whispers and breath. One gentle, motherly, encouraging squeeze, and she moves on. I will find, later, her fingerprint on the cloth as well. I will not wash it away.

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morning pages, doing double duty

Not quite at the magic 700 yet, so I’ll keep on going. That’s how it happens, this getting back on the metaphorical horse. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Slap another layer of duct tape on the mouths of the Hypercritical Gremlins, and stay at that desk, pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, whatever works for the individual) and study the masters (mistresses?) and tell the stories. Fall down. Get back up. Try again. Crumple paper and throw it at the wall. Hit the backspace or delete keys as needed. Take out a fresh sheet. Re-ink the pen. Forget all the rules of writing. Tell the story. Take all the pictures needed to make the head-images turn into English (or into whichever language one writes, if it’s something else) and tryfailtryfailtryfail as many times as it takes to succeed.

That, I need to remind myself, is how the Grande Dame got to be the Grande Dame in the first place. It’s been said that the master has failed more times than the student has ever tried. So, too, I think, it works with this Grande Dame in my head. She, too, was once that awkward-aged student, shifting on the hard wooden bench, bottom sore from falling off that blasted metaphorical horse for the umpteenth time, black and blue beneath worn skirts. She, too, looked for hours at the work of those who came before her and attempted to interpret how they did what they did. She was a hack. She almost gave up hope. She kept on going. She wrote one…more…page. She did it again. So will I. So I do.

Playing Hooky (Well, Sort Of)

May 16, 2016annabowling 4 Comments

Today, I played hooky. Well, sort of played hooky. I’m writing this entry, after all, and after I’m done, I kind of sort of want to drop in on Hero and Heroine for a little bit. You know, to see how they’re doing, and all. Make sure they don’t feel too neglected after the weekend, that sort of thing. Touch base. Set up for tomorrow.

I didn’t start out intending to shirk responsibility. I got up early, had breakfast with Housemate, and tackled some email before lugging a load of laundry to the Laundromat, which is where the whole hooky thing started. There’s reading I should be doing (aha, there’s that sneaky should) for pending posts on other blogs, and there’s writing I owe, and good gravy, is there work to be done on both Her Last First Kiss and the Beach Ball, but I’m also feeling rather crispy crittered, as Real Life Romance Hero would put it. The bits of conference workshops on recovering the joy of reading and writing pounded at the inside of my skull, and so, with a reckless abandon, I called up one of the books on my phone. Not the eARC I should be reading, but Jezebel’s Blues, by Barbara Samuel, a classic contemporary romance I’ve been wanting to read for years, because A) it’s set in her Gideon, Texas world that I first discovered in The Sleeping Night, a twentieth-century historical romance/women’s fiction with a contemporary frame, and B) I am twirling-around-in-circles-in-fields-of-daisies in love with both her use of language and skill in finding the intimate emotion of the story. In short, I needed it. Needed to get out of my head and into my heart, because, you know, romance writing and all.

So, I started reading . The voice and the story washed over me like the river whose flood brings Eric and Celia together in Jezebel’s Blues. Oh, yes. This is why I love romance. This is why I write. This is what feels like the most natural thing in the world. This is what I want and need to be doing when I sit down to work. The dryer cycle ended before I even knew, and I closed the reading app with great reluctance. Still, the story simmered.

This was Real Life Romance Hero’s day off, and, crispy crittered as he was himself (both Mother’s Day weekend and graduation weekend are tough on the restaurant business) he asked if I’d like to have lunch at a local pub we’ve been meaning to get back to for long enough that, when we were seated, they had a whole new menu. We had this:

I had a Diet Coke, he had a Guinness, we spent some time focusing on each other. Talked about how we wanted to address the whole desktop situation, since the original plan fell through, and the laptop is feeling the strain. Plus, I miss my Sims, and we’d both like to take a shot at Fallout 4 and Skyrim. I throw out the idea that maybe we could just hang together after lunch, watch a little TV at home, and then I can come back fresh at this whole writing thing tomorrow. We debated taking a walk through the park, for baby waterfowl watching, but nixed that, due to the strong wind chill. It’s May, and we refuse to be cold in May. So, home, Kitchen Nightmares, and…here I am.

With permission to kick off and do nothing, I reached for the laptop to fill some pages, not because I had it on the schedule, not because I should, but because that’s what I want to do. No pressure, just the fun of putting my imaginary friends through the wringer, because I know it’s going to be worth it in the end. For them, and for me. I didn’t feel deprived. I didn’t feel distracted. I didn’t feel dry, or as though I had to drag individual words out of nowhere. I felt…relaxed. Natural. In touch with my story brain. This day of giving myself some space and taking in what I want to put out may not have been that wasteful after all. Maybe I need to do this more often.

Home Again, Home Again

May 2, 2016annabowling 4 Comments

Welp, NECRWA 2016 is now a memory, conference clothes have been (mostly) laundered, I still have to put swag away/distribute specific items to those who have called dibs, and follow up on contacts made over the course of the weekend. I have notes on Beach Ball to transcribe, as Melva and I outlined four scenes on the drive back, and a wealth of information from some excellent workshops to implement. Pictures taken during the conference are in my phone, but taking their time to actually show up in my email, so I may have to wing it for today’s entry, and show the pretties on Wednesday.

Which is fine, actually, because taking a good, hard look at how things actually work is part of my takeaway from the conference. One of several, really, some tangible objects, others not, but I want to get some impressions down here before the rest of the week intrudes. Sunday, I was a slug under my duck blankey, awake long enough only to consume food Real Life Romance Hero (himself also a slug, but a really handsome one) had delivered because neither of us was up to operating complicated machinery like stoves or toasters or microwaves. I had plans to read, because reading is something I need to make more time for, as reading is absolutely part of the writing process. Reading turned to napping under the blankey while half-listening to (watching would require open eyes) Bar Rescue on whatever channel plays that show. Food Network? I should know that, but I don’t. Real Life Romance Hero had control of the remote, which was fine, because :points to duck blankey reference.:

Today was Monday, which became a transition day. Laundry, following up on contacts, planning and organization, and going over the notes from the awesome workshops I attended on Saturday. It feels like I’m getting my house in order and doing homework at the same time. That all fits with the sense of entering a new season. I’m not talking about spring, even though of course, that’s happening at the same time, but life in general.

Susan Mallery gave a wonderful workshop on writing more, which is definitely one of my goals. Encouragingly, it would appear I’m doing some things right: writing at the same time each day; paying more attention to how I put a book together, rather than what works for anybody else; and paying special attention to what books I love and what books I hate. Which books were a joy to write, and which ones made me want to shove pencils in my eyes, because that would be less painful? Since I like lists and schedules, some of her tips in that department, which she warned might be “really scary” for some participants, actually got me pumped to put them into motion. Anything that gives me a reason to start a new notebook is okay by me. This workshop also helped me decide that today would be the transition/organization/planning day. I like to know what I’m doing, when I’m doing it, how it’s going to get done, and then let me at it.

Tanya Michaels’ workshop on surviving setbacks was the perfect chaser, because that is also pertinent to my interests. Every writer is going to have some setbacks, some disappointments, some detours. Every writer is going to get thrown from the metaphorical horse. The key is getting back up, and getting back on; basic, yes, but important to hear, and important to find out the steps to take to figure out which way “up” actually is for that particular circumstance. Again, the key seems to be finding out what works for the individual and sticking with that. I loved hearing that yes, it is okay to have a core story. Watching Tanya display book after book after book and happily announce that they were all about a cowboy and a single mom, a cowboy and a single mom, a cowboy and a single mom, etc, struck a note. I don’t write about cowboys or single parents, but it’s the principle of the thing. Have the core story, and find new ways to tell it. That, I can do.

Donna Alward gave a wonderful workshop on creating character cheat sheets, which sheet I need to request, as they were hot properties, and with good reason. Joanna Shupe, whose Magnate, the first in her Knickerbocker series of Gilded Age New York historicals, I am currently reading, spoke on writing the intricacies of writing physical intimacy. Since Melva and I needed to get on the road halfway through, we’re going to have to pester friends for details on what we missed by leaving early, but that’s one of the best takeaways from these conferences; friends.

This year, Melva and I wound up at a table full of super fun, talented women, with whom we instantly bonded. Some, we’d met before, at other dinners, from other conferences, and some were new-met, but we clicked at dinner and stuck together through the weekend, and, now, that we’re released back into the “real world,” ready to put theory into practice, we’re sticking with each other here, as well. A new chapter begins.

Call and Answer

April 27, 2016April 27, 2016annabowling 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

April 25, 2016annabowling 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.

In the Pen

April 18, 2016April 18, 2016annabowling 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.

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?

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

April 15, 2016annabowling 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.

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:

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