Inspiration

The Queen’s Lady, the Hipster Kitty, and Me: A Love Story

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Today does not feel like a Monday. My planner says it is, so we’ll go with that and get at least seven hundred words of blabber into this text box, within the next hour, because crossing a task off my to-do list is one of the very best ways to kick off a Monday (or any other day, come to think of it.) Maybe I’m still riding on weekend fumes, because this was a pretty good weekend, especially for my focus on reconnecting with historical romance and growing the blog.

Friday nights are BFF nights, which means Housemate and I grab some sort of dinner, then trawl craft stores for geeking out over art supplies. Watercolor pencils for her (though she has yet to actually use them as watercolors) and anything bujo/art journal related for me. This week, that included picking up a copy of Artful Blogging magazine. Articles on connecting with one’s creative side and particular bloggy “voice,” be that writing or photography, resonated. I actually started petting the magazine while still in the store, so that’s a sign that the issue had to come home. This has a few different levels to it; there’s the drooling over pictures level, the taking in advice I probably already know but have made excuses not to act upon, because acting on such knowledge would be scary level, and the actually applying what I’ve learned to my actual blog level.

Saturday meant sneaking in more craft store trawling in the midst of errands (Housemate has a life goal of owning all the watercolor pencils in the world. I support her in this, because A) I want my friend to be happy, and B) I have permission to use them when she is not using them.) Saturday also meant that I got to take out the magazine and lay it on the table between us at lunch, and natter endlessly over how gorgeous the pictures are, and how I want to get to that level with my own blog, or possibly blogs, as I’ve been thinking of starting a second blog, devoted to all things pen and paper, while this one would be reserved  for writing talk. We will see how things go.

Sunday found me, along with Real Life Romance Hero, and Housemate, at our friend, M.P. Barker‘s annual book swap party. The most important thing about these parties is that the bacon-wrapped figs are mine, mine, mine. Okay, maybe that is not the most important thing, but it is a strong contender for the number two spot. They are stuffed with goat cheese, and are delicious, and I would happily pay whoever makes them, to make me a small batch. A truckload or two would do. For starters. I would say I am digressing here, but these are extremely good bacon wrapped figs. Or maybe they’re dates. I get the two confused sometimes.

Enough of that. The really important thing about this party, every year, is that it gives me a chance to reconnect with my best writing self. M.P., my contemporary co-writer, Melva Michaelian, and I spent many years’ worth of Wednesday nights, gathered around the same dining room table where, yesterday, I scarfed bacon-wrapped figs (or dates) and gabbed with Mona, a reader friend, about our shared love of reading historical romance. What we like, what we don’t, how we had each finished reading (two different) Harlequin Historical romances within the last twenty-four hours, and needed to choose our next reads pretty darned quick. This is where my love of reading and my love of planning come together and make beautiful reading plan babies.

Before the start of the new year, I made a list of books to re-read, and books to finally read, all historical romance. First up from the TFR list is The Queen’s Lady, by Barbara Kyle:

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Tudor era, start of a family saga, plot that unfolds over years instead of months or weeks, and a heroine name to make me sigh with happiness. Honor Larke. Yep, I’m sold. I’m not sure why I haven’t read this before, and I’m intrigued that it was, IIRC, originally published as historical romance, though the spine on this edition classes it as historical fiction. We shall see how this goes.  After that, it’s back to the well, and a small detour from my TBRR list, as I plan to reread the entire O’Malley/Skye’s Legacy series, by Bertrice Small. That’s twelve books, with both series combined, so picking out historical romances to read is not going to be that difficult a task for me in the foreseeable future.

My heart is already going a little pitty-pat at the reading journey ahead of me, and what it’s going to do for my writing, this spring. (Can you believe it’s almost spring already? Has to be, though, as, in the next two weeks, I will be starting both a new morning pages book, and a new daily planner book.) That’s where the Hipster Kitty comes into play:

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See how perfectly he fits with the rest of my “me” stuff? I normally don’t seek out things that are yellow, or books with white pages, but this book has me completely heart-eyes over it. I already know I want to write with black pen, and use yellow highlighter, and, since I want to take notes o n my epic O’Malley re-read, well, this seems like perfect timing. There’s still a chance I might end up using a different book for that, but even if that’s what happens, this is for something special. Maybe it’s for notes on the proposed cyber-revival Melva, M.P. and I talked about, of the weekly critique/nag group meetings that got us all through multiple manuscripts.

The weekend just past was wonderful, filled with re-filling, and re-connection, bringing me to the start of a new week, with the challenge of putting all that good stuff into practice. That’s still a little scary, but scary in the good way. I did get an offer of beta-reading from my reader friend, so I have to give her something to read, don’t I? Thought so. time to make another cup of tea, and slip back in time a few centuries.

Typing With Wet Claws: The Big One-One Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Normally, Anty makes me talk about her writing before I am allowed to talk about anything else, but this is a special occasion, so she is relaxing the rules a little bit, for this post only. That is because the reason this is a special post is because Valentine’s Day, February fourteenth, which was not my day to post, was also my birthday. It was probably my birthday. I was born wild, so my first vet had to guess how old I was when I got rescued, and by that guess, I was probably born sometime around February fourteenth, so that is when the humans decided they would celebrate my birthday.

This year, I hit the big one-one. That means I am eleven years old. A Level Eleven Feline, if you count in terms of levels instead of years. I think Level Eleven Feline sounds powerful. I will go with that way of counting. Some people say being a Level Eleven Feline makes me an experienced kitty, but I do not feel that way. The humans say I am their perpetual baby, and that, I agree with. They know me best. I do not like big fusses, so my birthday was pretty quiet. I had cat food and treat (I love cat food and treat) and I got to play my mousie game (I am super good at the mousie game) Here is a picture of me playing my mousie game on Uncle’s phone. He is my favorite, and I love him the most.

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Happy (probably) birthday to me.

There has been some talk about a pet-safe laser pointer, but I will believe that when I am chasing it around the living room. Until then, that glowy box mousie better run when he sees me coming. I will catch him one day. I thought I did, once, but it was actually one of my own floofs. I think that still counts.

Now for the Anty part of this post. As usual, Anty was at Buried Under Romance on Saturday. This time, she talked about um, grown up fun times in books. I, personally, am fixed, so some of that stuff goes right over my head. Also, I am short, so most things go right over my head anyway. That post is here, and it looks like this:

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Now we come to the part of the post where I tell you about Anty’s reading progress. I am not sure I counted everything this week, with the tail end of Anty’s cold, and my (probably) birthday and all of that, but, at current count, Anty is ahead of the numbers game, with twelve books read out of ninety for the year. This week, the books that she read and reviewed were:

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If There’s No Tomorrow, by Jennifer L. Armentrout

 

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The Truth of Right Now, by Kara Lee Corthron

As you might have guessed, both of those books fit in the YA genre.  Anty has not forgotten our talk about reading more historical romance, and she actually has a plan in place to do exactly that.  Part of that plan will involve making a tracker, so that will combine two things Anty loves very much; historical romance and bullet journaling. She is reading some historical romance novels right now, and will have reviews on those, once she is finished reading them.  There will be much more time for reading, now that Anty is done watching a French TV show, called Les Revenants. That means “the returned,” or “the ghosts,” depending on how it’s translated (probably; I do not speak French. I speak kitty.) and it is scary but not bloody. Anty loves the dark aesthetic, both in subject matter and in the amount of light used in filming. There is an American remake, that only lasted one season. Anty is kind of watching that, too, but she likes the French version better, and will probably watch that again.

Anty is paying special attention, right now, to the kinds of stories she likes to read and watch, and making notes about what it is that she likes about them. Some of this will come into play when Anty teaches her workshop with Charter Oak Romance Writers next month. Anty thinks it is very important for writer type humans to take in the kinds of stories they want to write, and to be aware of what sorts of things make them excited about putting into their own stories. This all requires very close attention for a mews, which means I had better step up my game in reminding Anty how much I hate the office carpet, and want it gone, so that I can sit right next to her chair and send love beams from the shortest possible distance. Anty says she is concerned that she might roll over my tail, because I am a ninja kitty, and do not always let her know when I am right next to her. She may have a point there. My tail is very fluffy, but I do want to be as close to Anty as possible. I may have to think about this in more detail. (So that I do not get de-tailed, in the process.)

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

skyebye2018

 

Valentine’s Day Rambles (of the writing variety)

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So, it’s Valentine’s Day, which means built in blog topic for romance writers. Woo hoo.  On hour, seven hundred words, let’s go. Okay. No big plans for the day, as such. I’m writing, which is worthy of celebration, because my brain is returning from the fog of Martian Death Cold, and it’s time to write some of the rust out of the faucet, so to speak. This also means I get to spend some extra time tucked in a comfy chair (probably my office chair, which is plenty comfy and has great back support) and snuggle under a fuzzy blanket, with a cup of tea (pink skull and crossbones mug today) and the day’s soundtrack is a mixture of my Spotify daily mix and Real Life Romance Hero doing dishes on the other side of my office door. Heck yes, romance heroes wash dishes.

Okay, maybe not medieval knights or nineteenth century English noblemen. Probably not pirates, either, but, y’know, everybody does what they have to do on a pirate ship because there are only so many people to do a lot of different jobs, so maybe pirates, after all. Who can tell? Me, next time I write a pirate book? Maybe so. We will see. The point is, romance heroes do a whole lot of things. Heroines, too. That came out wrong, but I’ll let it stand, because I am in that sort of a mood.

Romance gets a lot of jabs this time of year, often from people who aren’t fans of the genre, often because they haven’t tried any recent romance fiction, or classic romance fiction, or fiction with romantic elements (though, let’s be real, that romance stuff is everywhere, and gets into many different genres, to varying degrees, but I digress.) Think pieces of this sort (of which there often does not seem to be a whole lot of thinking going on) have become commonplace enough that I can look at them, and, meh, another one of those? Okay. Whatever. What I’d really like to see is the excited discovery of a new romance reader – hey, look at all these great stories, where the focus is on the relationship and there’s history and suspense and sex and faith and it’s funny and it rips my heart out and puts it back together, and, seriously, anything can happen to these characters, as long as they end up happy and together, and, y’know what? They do. Every single time. How amazing is that?

Pretty darned, is all I’m saying. Yesterday was my weekly meeting with N, and we talked about reconnecting with what we want for our writing careers, about reconnecting with what makes a story, be it read or written, special. For me, this means a concentrated effort in reconnecting with what I love most about historical romance. If I’m going to go back to the source, the moment I fell in love with the genre, it would be when eleven-year-old me snuck a book from my mother’s nightstand, and cracked it open, by flashlight, under the brass bed in the guest bedroom. It also takes me back to countless used bookstores, where I would crawl around on the floor, inspecting the lower shelves for stories set in the sixteenth century, scanning for keywords that would catch my attention. Any mention of larger than life, or epic, or sprawling, or…:satisfied sigh:

Yeah, that. When I think of historical romance, that’s my happy place. I’m sure there’s something to be said about the role of the floor in all of this. The floor of the guest bedroom, under the big brass bed, the floors of countless bookstores, usually ending up in a tucked away corner, books spread out around me, so I could whittle down the selection to fit within the budget for that trip. To a lesser extent, there are the countless spins I made of the spinner racks in the fiction section of the library closest to my dad’s house when I was in high school, checking for fat paperbacks that meant historical romance, and the distinctive, slim spines that meant traditional Regencies, or gothics. As long as there was history, and there was romance, I was happy.

Am happy, because, decades after that first filched paperback, which now has a place of honor on the bookshelf behind me as I write, the same bookcase which once held the picture books of my preschool days, I still get that thrill. Give me two lovers who have to be together, but can’t, and I am there. If I am the one entrusted to making sure the lovers’ stars un-cross, that’s another level of fun. Frustration, sometimes, because story people can be tricky little badgers, making choices of their own, the second they hit the page. That only means they are real and alive in the sense that it becomes a collaboration between the writer and their imaginary friends. In that way, no romance writer is ever truly alone,  no matter what day it is.

Over the magic seven hundred now, and time to wrap this puppy, which can get tricky when I go on this sort of ramble. As N and I discussed, sometimes it takes a while to write the rust out of the faucet, and putting down anything is better than putting down nothing, especially when putting down anything runs smack into a wall of resistance. Even so, keep at it long enough, and the faucet runs out of rust. That’s a happy ending right there.

TheWriterIsOut

Tales of the Accidental Truck Driver

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This morning, I accidentally applied for a job as a truck driver. Real Life Romance Hero and I are both looking for side hustles, and I wanted to show him how a job=seeking app worked, and, thanks to slippery fingers and a sensitive touchscreen, I got two beeps, alerting me to the status of my applications. One of those ads was for a truck driver.

I am not a truck driver. I am not anything driver. I write romance novels, and I write about romance novels (romance in movies and TV is also right up my alley, if anybody needs web content.) I play with pen and paper, a lot, but, when the literal rubber meets the literal road, I am not in the literal driver’s seat. There is good reason for this. Two of them, actually. Left and right eyes. To be completely transparent, it is mostly Lefty’s fault, while Righty picks up most of Lefty’s slack, but gets tired sometimes. This understandably does things to ye olde depth perception, which is kind of important when aiming tons of metal down long stretches of highway at advanced speeds. For those curious about the other accidental job application, that was for a work at home gig, and if those people get in touch with me, I’ll hear them out, but that’s not pertinent to the topic at hand.

The whole truck driver thing is actually kind of funny, because, when I was but a wee little princess, long haul truck driver was on my long list of possible future occupations. My main reason was that I loved going on car trips, watching the scenery change, and imagining stories about all the other people, in all the other cars. Where were they coming from, where were they going, and what were they going to do when they got there? I may also have had a slightly romantic view of the whole concept of “truck stop,” and, as a young teen, I may or may not have had a few characters floating around my head, who spent a good chunk of their time in exactly that sort of vehicle. I may also, in high school, have expanded that into a three=act play, two acts of which got staged readings in English class. For those curious about my grade for that assignment, I got an A+.

Which brings us around to the topic of writing historical romance fiction. I fully accept that today is  domestic tsumani day (any day that starts with accidental job applications is pretty much doomed in that direction) On this kind of day, the whole concept of sitting high above the flow of traffic, music of choice playing as loud as I want it, caffeinated beverage at hand, and, let’s be real, a four-legged companion in the passenger seat -who wouldn’t want to get paid to take car rides with a dog?- is pretty darned appealing. Get in the truck, and just go. Watch the scenery change, imagine who’s going where, what they’ll do when they get there, who knows where they’re going, who’s hopelessly lost, and who is currently arguing with their passenger and/or GPS about whose directions are going to get them where they wanted to go, if that’s where they end up at all.

John DeWarre, the hero of my medieval novella, A Heart Most Errant, is probably the closest I am going to get to the image I had in my early pubescent head about the life of a nkight of the road. That’s because he is one, a knight-errant in fourteenth century England. He doesn’t have a truck, because it is fourteenth century England, and he doesn’t have a dog, but he does have a horse, creatively named Horse. That’s because John is not creative. Not even a little; he’s a soldier, even if he’s not at war, and  has no master. He’ll still carry out his duty anyway, grumbling his way around a post-plague wasteland.

No story if that’s all that happens, though, right? Which is where Aline comes in, talkative, optimistic, and willing to risk it all on a one in a million chance, because, hey, those odds are better than staying where she is when her and John’s worlds collide. The plague wiped out the life she’d known up until that point, so girlfriend seriously does not have anything to lose here.  Once she and John get on the road, they do not lack for adventure, and getting their story out to readers is not going to lack adventure, either.

TheWriterIsOut

Their story is my first road story, but probably not my last. Writing road stories does scratch the itch of mental wanderlust, and, let’s face it, has fewer chances of engine trouble, travel delays, or weigh stations. I have my music of choice playing right this minute, got the four-legged companion covered already, as Skye is my faithful mews, though she will abandon me in a not second, if Real Life Romance Hero becomes available. He is her favorite, and she loves him the most. As for caffeinated beverage, it’s probably about time to make another cup of tea. Spoiler alert: it is always time to make another cup of tea.

Getting Hygge With It

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Yesterday, I found a spot on my desk, where I can light a candle without burning down the house. I also, without fully knowing how, found a piano instrumental channel on Spotify, which fits nicely with the flickering light inside the small jar in the corner of my desk. This may or may not have had something to do with me finally finding out that the aesthetic I’m going for in my office actually has a name: hygge. Depending on which Danes (great or otherwise) one asks, it means “wellbeing,” or “to embrace,” or, possibly, “to think or consider.”  In modern parlance, “cozy” might be the most accessible term.

For my purposes, we’re going to translate it as “comfortable.” Physically comfortable, yes, because when a writer is not physically comfortable, that’s going to be an obstacle to getting any sort of work done, but it’s more than that. I’ve always felt more grounded with things I love around me, so it makes sense that I would focus better when I carry that over to my writing space. Especially on a day like today:

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Actual view from our balcony.

I love snow. Snow is my favorite weather. Snow turns the entire world into a gorgeous, magical playground. I have not, as yet, attempted to get any serious writing done outside, in the snow, but, when I was but a wee little princess, I would stay out in that stuff for literally hours, making up adventures in my head, to the point where my mother would make me come in to have a hot drink and switch to my other snowsuit, because the first one would be soaked through. Snow invigorates me. To quote The Gilmore Girls, it’s my Catnip. My first novel-length fan fiction was set on an arctic planet, solely so that I could have all the snow I ever wanted.

Snow has always meant stories and adventures for me, so maybe that’s part of the current hygge-fication (is that a word?) of my work space. This morning, I rearranged the notebooks on the top of my desk’s hutch, until they felt more harmonious, like they were ready for what I wanted to bring to the metaphorical table. The books I use only occasionally are no longer the closest at hand, but still where I can get to them when I need them. The peacock cup, filled with a hodgepodge of pens I don’t really use all that often, has been demoted to the B team, and now resides on a bookcase, with the rest of my peacock themed collection. Their time will come.

Right now, I want to ground myself in what I am actually doing, what will welcome me to the desk every day. It’s a process, and I’m not going to discount the value of the time spent taking everything out of each cubbyhole, examining it, and putting back in only what has some sort of benefit. I’ve become pen-snobbier (sorry, ballpoints) and more highlighter-savvy (pastel highlighters ftw) and the way I use notebooks has evolved. Behind me, right now, is the blank cardboard binder I set up for Her Last First Kiss use, several months ago, then promptly misplaced.

The system I used to set it up at the time made sense, logically, but it was all theory, and no practice, mainly because I never connected with the way I’d arranged things. It’s probably somebody else’s perfect notebook, but for me? Ehhh, not so much. I’m more of a cannonball off the end of the pier and then splash around until I figure out which way shore is, then plan the best way there sort of gal. Deciding that, because there are four colors of notebook paper, there must then be four sections, of an equal number of pages is not going to work here. If my space doesn’t work, neither will I. It’s like trying to go through the whole day with a hole in a sock, or shoes that don’t fit.

For me, it comes down to the “embracing” part of the equation. This is my writing space. This is me, on a desk. Lots of paper, lots of pens, lots of tiny compartments with hidden treasures. Flickering light that harkens to an earlier time. Lots of layer, lots of detail. Something for all the senses to do. A place to tuck in and spend some serious time. The place I want to go when I want to go home. This is who I am. This is what I do. Welcome.

Happily Ever After, Plus

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After inhaling several Christmas romance novellas over the holiday, I think I finally know what it is I like about Christmas romance. The first part is obvious. I like Christmas. I like romance fiction. Therefore, it stands to reason that I would like Christmas romance fiction, but it’s not as cut and dried as that.

In any work of romance fiction, we know we are going to get a happy ending (whether that is Happily Ever After or Happy For Now largely depends on author and subgenre, but we’ll focus on the “happy” part for now.) When we add Christmas to the occasion, everything gets cranked up to eleven. Romance gets HEA (or HFN,) so turn that dial in an upwards trajectory, and bam. Christmas romance brings HEA (or HFN) plus. HEA plus sparkly lights, plus presents with big floppy bows, plus friends and family gathered around the hearth, plus peace on earth and goodwill towards men (and women.) HEA plus grudges set aside, plus sparkling snowfall, plus the music of church bells, plus the biggest feast of the year, plus reunions and reconciliation, plus restoration and second chances, and coming home, in a literal or metaphorical sense.

My favorite minute of the year is 6:01 PM on December 24th. It has been, for years. Stores close. The shopping rush is over. Time to go home, to friends and family, and, for the next twenty-four hours plus, the grind of everyday life gets put on hold. Life hits the snooze button, in a manner of speaking. Christmas has always felt, to me, to be a time set apart. Normally, I refer to the week between Christmas and New Year’s as the tucked away week, because that’s how it feels. Expectations are relaxed, the rush of the holiday is over, and the next thing on the horizon is bidding farewell to the old year, and seeing in the new one.

This year, we have a few things to deal with, so I can’t vouch for how tucked away this particular week is going to feel, but the spirit is there, and is probably something I would want to carry over into a Christmas romance of my own. What could be more romantic than a whole week that fits into that unique slot of time out of time, with drifting snow, glowing candles, the warmth in the middle of winter, the air fragrant with scents of spices and evergreens (even though my historical romance fiction, at least to date, pre-dates Christmas trees, evergreen boughs still count0 and the whole holiday, at its core, based on love, hospitality, and reconciliation?

I think that’s a pretty good place to start.  For all romantic fiction that comes out of my noggin (or partly out of my noggin, as I could not write contemporaries without my writing partner, Melva Michaelian.) HEA-plus. This is not a term I intend to fling around at pitch sessions or in query letters (trust me, “historical-adjacent” gets some funny looks; I have learned my lesson) but it fits the sort of stories I gravitate to, both as a reader and as a writer. It fits, though. Adding history to my romance is already a plus, and I do like to have my historical romance, whether read or written, come with generous helpings of both romance and history, and for the history to shape or at least affect the romance.

This means that it’s not a matter of swapping out the togas of a couple from ancient Rome for an Empire waisted gown and a pair of polished Hessian boots, and presto change-o, now it’s a Regency. For me, that would not work. There’s a world of difference between ancient Rome and nineteenth-century England. Close to two millennia and coughty cough miles, a good deal of water, and an entirely different belief system, not to mention government and class structure, developments in literature, science, the arts, etc, etc, etc. The ancient Roman couple would probably not have a heck of a lot to do in a Christmas story, unless we’re talking the very first Christmas, which could fit nicely into an inspirational historical (or even a few decades after; that would also work) but they would still have a lot of that plus factor. Plus gladiators, for one thing. Maybe one of those flood the whole arena for a sea battle deals, complete with boats and octopi.

Every period has its own unique flavor, which can add to the romance, and I am grateful for that. The possibilities really are endless. Historical characters don’t know they’re in a historical. They think they’re in a contemporary. Those aren’t costumes they’re wearing; those are their clothes. The way things are done is the way everybody does them (apart from those who buck the rules, with varying degrees of effectiveness.)

This is veering away from the Christmas romance topic, but it does nail down what makes these stories special to me. The HEA-plus definitely does expand past only one day out of the year, and it’s more than merely the period in which the story is set. Give me a romance with two damaged people, each of whom has a driving passion that is independent of the developing love relationship, flavored by the world in which they live, and I am one happy camper, no matter what side of the story I might be on for this particular experience.  If there’s snow on the ground, and mistletoe in the doorway, then that’s even better.

 

Making a List and Checking it Twice

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Somewhere in our family photos, there is a picture of baby me, all of two months old, dressed in red velvet dress, with poofy white sleeves, under my very first Christmas tree. Since that album is in storage, I can’t include that picture here, but I do remember the look of utter befuddlement on my face, the baby version of “WTF is going on here?” Granted, two-month-olds have that reaction to a lot of things, because, at that age, basically everything rocks their worlds, because they are only two months old and literally everything is new.

It has been a while since then. The tree is not yet up in the living room of present-day me and family, but fingers crossed for tonight. We do have the white lights around the arches that connect living room to dining room and Real Life Romance Hero’s office, and Skye frequently has her hopeful/worried look, so, in that way, the circle is complete.

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This entry is my fifth attempt at blogging today, and, whatever it turns out to be, this is what I’m sticking with, because, otherwise, we edge into overthinking territory, and I am not willing to do that. Not one week before Christmas. Okay, not any other time, but I am going to hang onto the Christmas cause for right now, and trust that it’s going to take me in the right direction.

As of today, I am two stories and change into my first Christmas historical romance anthology of the season. Late start for me, but I did read one independent novella already, so maybe the start isn’t that late after all. I still have my annual viewings of Love Actualy and The Holiday to fit in somewhere, not to mention Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol (which was, incidentally, the first movie I ever saw.) RLRH is doing much better, back at work, and wrangling a few household things. My cold is on its way out, and we are now in the last week before my favorite holiday of the year.

This year is going to be an intimate holiday, with immediate family only, which is fine, because it’s been a stressful few months, and we’re all tired. Since past experience tells me there will be a point where the other humans will retreat to their neutral corners, (no telling who Skye will follow) odds are good that I will have some free time on Christmas day. Part of this, I have no doubt, will be spent watching a movie with a friend, over Skype, and there is every chance that I will, at some point, dress my Sims in ugly Christmas sweaters and make them have a more raucous celebration than there will be in what is commonly called “the real world.”

The other thing, that I know for sure is going to happen, is that I am going to drop in on some of my imaginary friends for their Christmas celebrations. I’ve always done that, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. Since one of my goals for 2018 is to write a Christmas story, the first step along that trail is to identify what kind of Christmas stories I like to read. That’s probably the sort of story I would like to write, as well.

So far, I’ve got “historical.” That’s a given, because I am me, and the time period will likely be sometime between the medieval era and the end of the eighteenth century. Out of that selection, I like the Tudor era the best, but not picking teams at this time. Too early in the game for that, but narrowing the scope down to a span of a few centuries is a good place to start.

Since star-crossed lovers who make it work is my all time favorite trope, that’s another likely suspect, and, when working with the shorter length of a novella, having the two lovers have a previous or existing relationship comes in handy. Second chance at love (with the same person?) could fit in nicely here. There are a few couples who have been bopping around inside my head for up to double digit years, who might appreciate a chance to come out and play in the snow, so that would also count as a bit of prep work done ahead of schedule. Which ones, though? That’s the question, and there is ample time to figure it out. This may or may not involve American Idol type auditions in my head (Christmas Romance Idol, anyone?) but I would not consider that a bad thing.

I do not currently own a red velvet anything, and outright refuse to wear puffy sleeves, and the only way I would fit under our current Christmas tree (once we set it up for this year) is if we put it on the window seat and I sit on the floor in front of the radiator (which is actually pretty cozy this time of year) I suspect that I may, on occasion, have the grown-up version of the WTF face from my first Christmas, as I embark upon the adventure of my first Christmas romance. I think that’s part of the process.

I should probably start writing this down somewhere, maybe even in one of the extra special notebooks I’ve been saving for exactly the right project. Newsflash: there may be no such thing as exactly the right project, but there are projects that become exactly what they should be, with time and attention, and, maybe a dash of the Christmas spirit.

 

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Anty Smells Like Vet Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is cold here, in New York’s Capitol Region, but that is okay. One, because I am fuzzy, and two, because I get to stay inside, where the heaters are. I also sometimes curl into a ball in the exact middle of the hallway floor, because that is directly under the ceiling light, and exactly halfway between the heat from Uncle and Anty’s bedroom, and the heat from the bathroom. The heat from the kitchen and dining room reach me there, too.  I am a very smart (and warm) kitty,  The humans are not as impressed with my choice of resting spot. Not my fault I got there first.

It is also not my fault Anty started out the week smelling like vet. People vet, that is, not vet-vet. I did not have to go anywhere. Anty, however, had to get a shot, but on the bright side, she did not have to wear the cone of shame, and she did get to spend some time in the waiting room, reading. She also got to read for a while in the pharmacy, and she got home early enough that my treat schedule was not at all interrupted. She does not smell like vet now, which is also a plus. Now, she smells like laundromat. I do not go to the laundromat, either, unless you want to count shed fur on pretty much all of the clothing Anty washes.

Before I am allowed to talk about anything else, I have to talk about where people can read Anty’s writing on the interwebs. Besides here, that is. First, as always, Anty was at Buried Under Romance on Saturday. This time, she talked about road romances, which are not actually about roads. They are about humans who travel together. This is also the entry where Anty accidentally wrote two introductory paragraphs and did not notice until today. Oops. That post is here, and it looks like this:

BURontheroadagain

Now is the part of the post where I bring you up to date on Anty’s Goodreads challenge. Anty is currently kicking um, behind, and taking names on this one, because, as of today, she is four books ahead of schedule, with eighty-one books read out of ninety, which puts her at ninety percent done, and it is not yet the middle of November. I am impressed.

This week’s reading balances last week, when Anty read a lot of YA books. This week, she reviewed one historical romance novel, but it was by Bertrice Small, the author who got Anty into historical romance (both reading and writing) in the first place, and it is a standalone book, and set in Roman Britain. Those are all things that make Anty want to pay close attention and take her time reading. That review is here, and it looks like this:

GRsmalltoloveagain

Amty will probably re-read more books by Lady Small, as many of her readers call her, especially those that did not get as much publicity as some of her better-known works, and Anty has read only once before. Anty likes to study this kind of thing, and see what she can glean from it, to bring into her own work. Anty actually does that with a lot of things, but when it comes to historical romance novels, she takes that to a higher level.

Many things about writing, and the historical romance genre, have changed since Lady Small was a new author, and some things have stayed the same. Anty says publishing is always in flux (that means changing) and so it pays to keep an eye out for what is going on in the current market. That is true, and wise advice. Anty also likes to keep in touch with things that remind her why she started writing, and started writing historical romance, also. She likes to keep a balance between the past and present, so she will have the best resources, going forward.

Now that days are shorter and colder, that means Anty can have more reading time (especially since the site that lets her play computer games is giving her guff) and also more writing itme. Anty is very glad both of those things can be done in a comfy chair, with a blanket in her lap and a cup of tea at hand. She forgot to mention a kitty at her feet, so I will put that part in, for her. I help by slow blinking at her and sending her love beams. I am also close by, in case she wants to take a break from reading and writing and feed a cat instead. Lucky for her, I am one. I am also there to remind her that she needs to step up her historical romance reading game, because the end of the year is approaching, and she would like that total to be at least fifty percent.

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

 

skyebyenew

see you next week

Gray Day Rambles

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As of last night, I have officially read all of Adam Silvera’s novels. On the one hand, this means I’m current. On the other hand, this also means that now I want more, and the next one isn’t out yet. Though Mr. Silvera’s books are contemporary YA, they have a lot of what I look for in historical romance. The focus on character and relationship, the vivid use of setting, distinct character voice, which melds with an author voice that fits the story world and subject matter. I want more of that. Since his next book doesn’t come out until next year, this means I need to read something else.

Thankfully, this is not a problem. I am only half joking when I say I could build a small house out of my TBR books and read my way out. Right now, I am also reading (re-reading) To Love Again, by Bertrice Small. Historical romance instead of contemporary YA this time, and the setting is Roman Britain, not modern NYC, but, here again, there is that full immersion in the story world, the clear author voice, and the knowledge that, when I pick up a novel by this author, I know what I am getting. Ms. Small is the author who got me into reading and writing historical romance in the first place, so re-reading one of her books is, in a way, like coming home. That’s a good place to come from, when one’s focus is on creating one’s own fiction.

Right now, I am at my desk, my Starbucks mug all but empty of my second cup of tea for the day. The weather is grey and intermittently rainy, which made for excellent foliage peeping as I walked through the park on my way to and from a doctor appointment this morning. My office assistant is on duty, currently catloafed on the small sliver of hardwood between my office door and the start of the carpet she refuses to cross.

061117SkyeOMalleyCat

My “A Working Day” playlist is playing through my earphones, and the blinds in my window are open enough to let me peer outside and get a glimpse of the beautiful greyness that awaits on the other side of the window. The Canada Geese and their mallard buddies are still in the lake in the park. The weather has been mild enough, this autumn, that they are sticking around, patrolling their waters, and giving some waterfowl-y side-eye to humans who interrupt their routine.

061117CanadaGeese

These are the autumn days I love the very, very best. Now that the days get darker, earlier, there’s an extra pep in my step. Apple cider (cold or hot, along with donuts made from/with same) and pumpkin pie are always welcome, as are steaming mugs of tea, hot apple pie and the requisite melty scoop of vanilla ice cream. This weather is perfect for walks around the lake, stories swirling in my head. Sometimes, these stories are the books that I’ve been reading, and, sometimes, they are my own.

Okay, always, they are my own. Even when reading someone else’s work, the repertory company in my head peers over my shoulder. This one wouldn’t have done that, this other one can’t wait to see a certain character’s choice bite them in the posterior a few chapters down the road, and, more often than not, my own imaginary friends work out some of their drama while I’m caught in the drama of others. Call it subliminal, or back-burner, or free-floating, all I know is that it works. If the worst thing is not knowing what comes next, then the best thing is immersing myself in the things that I love, and knowing that something is going to come out of that.

This morning, it was two walks through the park, with waterfowl, and a stranger’s Husky that had to give me a hand kiss before he would continue with his walk. It was the promise of Lapsang Souchong tea when I reached my destination, vivid word pictures swirling in my head. It was a few isolated drops of drizzle, the true deluge likely held at bay by the fact that I brought my vintage wood-handled umbrella with me, in case the sky did open. The sky did not open, apart from aforementioned drizzle, so the umbrella also remained closed. Better to have an umbrella and not need it, than need it and not have it. There’s also the fact that I like this umbrella. It’s kind of dapper. It’s plain black, but it has a presence, and it has a history, both things I like to have in my fiction.

If we had a fireplace in our apartment, I would stuff some firewood in there, maybe even toss in a pinecone or two, and scootch the antique rocking chair that I have loved as far back as I can remember, up to said fire, blanket in my lap, and pen and notebook in hand. Days like this are meant for stories, both the reading and the writing of them. For those of us who write for publication, that doesn’t mean we only write when the atmosphere is right; we wouldn’t have any books whatsoever if our favorite authors did that. Still, when these days come, they are all the more special for their rarity, a time to open the metaphorical windows of the writer brain and let the room fill, then put all of that on the page.

 

Middle of the Week, End of the Day

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Middle of the week, and, once again, I am making this blog entry at the end of the day instead of the beginning of it. This bothers me, but, if I’m staying with the common threads theme, so the later posting time gets reframed as in keeping with the theme.

Yesterday was critique meeting day, with N, who also attended the workshop where we had to find common threads in our favorite viewing matter. Naturally, we had to compare lists. They were different, no choices in common, though we were more or less familiar with each other’s choices, or could fill in the blanks enough to get the gist of what appealed to the individual.

What we both agreed on, though, was that we would have liked to have made longer lists. The more examples, the easier it is to spot a pattern, but five was a good number when discussing in small groups. We also discussed the criteria for giving something favorite status. Does it have to be something watched multiple times, or can we count the moment when, during a first viewing, that we know a moment on the screen (or page) has crossed the border from something we watch or read, to something that is a part of us. Sometimes, a moment is all it takes.

Two characters who wouldn’t appear to be potential romantic partners at first lock eyes in the right circumstances, maybe brush hands in the briefest of touches, and that’s it. Boom. Never saw it coming, but, now, we will go down with this ship. A car drives around a bend in the road, we see the first view of the stately manor house, and now a part of our heart will always live there, no matter what else happens, in the story, or in life. Scenes stick in our mind. Sometimes, they hang out there for a long time, waiting for other pieces of the puzzle, to join them and become something new.

Both N and I discussed keeping longer lists of these films and TV that catch our interest on that level, and how I expand the concept in my Play In Your Own Sandbox, Keep All the Toys workshop, to include not only visual media, but books, music, and other miscellaneous media – computer games, graphic novels, etc. On the surface, they may not seem like they have much in common, but get them all in one place, and start looking for the common threads, and, surprise, there they are. Later that same day, I chatted with another friend, H, who mentioned a new option in a favorite game. It now has an arctic survival factor. Sold. I don’t need to hear any more than that. The first novel-length fanfic I ever wrote was set on an arctic world, for the mere reason that I love snow. If I have to create an alien world, there is going to be snow on it. Everywhere on it.

I love the idea of core story, not that it’s a formula, or one author doing the same thing time and again, but that readers know what they’re getting from a particular author. Hopefully, it’s the stuff that the author loves, and, ideally, at the spin-around-in-a-field-of-daisies level. Readers can tell. Trust me on that. For me, that basically breaks down to include (but not limited to) the following:

  • full immersion historical atmosphere – this is far past long dresses on the female characters. I’m talking the era as almost a character in itself, where characters think and act like people of their time. I want to be steeped in the period, feel it in my blood, and, for the space of the story, live in that world instead of our own. I have my favorite eras, but as long as we get full immersion, I can go pretty much anywhere/when.
  • star-crossed lovers who make it work – this is my catnip. If I could only write one kind of story for the rest of my life, this would be it. Give me two lovers who belong together, but have the entire world against them (or so it seems) only to find out that the world is no match for true love. I am perfectly fine if this takes years, or, in the case of sagas, decades. Hard-earned happily ever afters are my favorites.
  • house as character – do not get me started on this one. Usually a stately English home, but there are a few on the other side of the Atlantic as well. Double points if this is in a generational saga, and we get to see the house change with the different generations of occupants. Triple points if house falls out of family’s possession, and then back in after some time away. If I ever (who are we kidding, when) I get to write a family saga, there is going to be at least one of these in there.
  • survivor characters – I like my people to go through some stuff. Their emotional baggage, more times than not, comes in coordinated ensembles and may, in fact, need a luggage cart, or small pack animal, to carry it through the whole book. Hauling around all that baggage does develop some emotional muscles.

This isn’t a comprehensive list, though that may be something to consider as I study the idea of core story. Always good to know what tools are in one’s toolbox. What’s in yours?