Inspiration

Reconnections

annabowling Leave a comment

It’s Monday. The conference is over. Easter is past. There are buds on the trees, and a good chance that I may witness some sweet sweet waterfowl loving on my walk through the park tomorrow, en route to or returning from my critique session with N.  My back no longer hurts, and the weather, at least for today, is not trying to kill me. Sometime this week, or possibly next, Landlord will install our new stove and refrigerator. Melva and I have two requests to see partials of Chasing Prints Charming, and are ready for prewriting on Drama King. Today, after this blog entry (presuming we do not get surprise appliance installation) I go back to work on Her Last First Kiss. There are some Heroes and Heartbreakers posts waiting as patiently as they can in my brain,  and, with the scent of soon-coming season finales in the air, there will be more to join them soon.  It’s definitely spring, and definitely time to make sure I have a solid plan on how to get all of this done.

The fact that this new week means I am now ten books behind in my Goodreads challenge does not sit well with me, nor does the fact that I realized, well into the weekend, why I’ve had such a hard time making my way through a historical Christmas anthology, which I’d picked up specifically to take a chunk out of that reading debt. I love Christmas anthologies, and, usually, I can suck those down like ice-cold tea on a hot summer day. (Seriously, I can read Christmas stories any time of year, so writing one would be an interesting new experience, but that’s a someday project, not for today.) This time? Not so much. What started out fun turned into a slog, and I didn’t know why.

 

Annaselfiewhatamidoing.jpg

Portrait of the blogger as a confused reader.

 

It wasn’t because the writing was bad, because it wasn’t. I liked what I was reading, found at least one new to me author whose work I would like to explore further, and bounced in my seat several times, because a new book by one of the authors I already follow is only a few months away. After a weekend where I carved out time to reconnect with my art journal stuff (and found, in the process, that some of my most-loved resources had expired of old age while I was away; there’s probably a whole other blog in that, so I’ll save that for later) and a heart to heart with a writer friend, over an entirely unrelated topic, the answer came to me. Nineteenth century overload. My last read, Judith Ivory’s Untie My Heart, was Victorian. The anthology is (I have one story left to read before I can call it read) all Regency. The book I’d read before that? Regency. Before that? Edwardian. Okay, that’s slightly over the line into the twentieth century, but still, I’m seeing a pattern, so, when I move this anthology into the “read” category, I need to read something else.

Maybe I’ll read a YA next, to cleanse my palate, but, after that, I need to follow my heart, preferably to the eighteenth century, as that’s where Hero and Heroine live, and the commute would be short. Right about now, I could use a short commute. The good thing about going to a conference is that I return all pumped full of I Can Do This. The scary thing about coming back from a conference is that I need to turn that I Can Do This into I Am Doing This. That can be a daunting prospect, because this is the part that nobody else can do for me. When Melva and I work on our joint projects, the work divides itself according to who’s better at what; for us, that works. When I’m working on a solo manuscript, then it’s all me.

I am the way Hero and Heroine get out of my head and onto the page. N is my first reader for Her Last First Kiss, the first chance I get to know if I have put the right words in the right order so that other people can watch the movie that’s playing in my head. To make sure I have what I need to do that, I need to make sure my creative well is filled. Which is where things like playing with paint and ink and paper come into play; I can’t write an artist Hero if I’m not making art myself. Which is one of the reasons I’ve been peeping this undated art journal planner, ever since I saw an ad for it in my favorite art magazine. I do have a planner already, and I use it and I love it, but I want to play with this one, so it may yet happen.

top2historicalromances

my two favorite historical romance novels

In the meantime, there is work and there is well-filling. Last week, I asked Facebook readers/writers who love historical romance to tell me what books made them fall in love with the genre. Some of the titles given were books I have known and read and loved, myself, and some were new adventures yet to be read. All of the answers were filled with what I was looking for when I asked that question. The connection, the spark, the recognition of “yes, that’s mine,” the seed that burrows deep into the soil of the writerbrain (or readerbrain, for that matter,) sprouts and blooms and explodes all over like cherry blossom season on steroids. That stuff goes a long way.

Post-Conference Recap, Part Two

annabowling 2 Comments

Conference hangover is a thing, and it comes in stages. Today’s stage, after an involuntary two-hour nap, is the second half of the recap, which brings us to Saturday, when things actually happened.  Not breakfast, however, as we were on our own for that meal, usually my favorite of the conference, and Melva and I, despite our best attempts, found nothing around the hotel, so settled for Starbucks. There’s a picture of that, but my computer won’t let me post it, so we will move on to the big stuff, like my first conference workshop as a co-presenter.

We’re in the program!
Me and Rhonda Lane

I did not manage to get a photo of this workshop’s mastermind, Corrina Lawson, because she is a ninja, but I am sure there was a photo of the three of us taken at some time.  For now, moiself and the fabulous Rhonda Lane. I think this was the most picture-filled conference yet, which I take as a challenge for next year. Speaking of which, I take you now to the room where it happened:

View from the podium
View from the back of the room

 

Actually, the room where two things happened, because my first and last workshops of the day both took place in the same room. Corrina, Rhonda and I had a decent turnout, alert and attentive women (no dudes in this workshop, at least not this time) who had specific questions about blogging, and made the whole experience fun for presenters and attendees alike. Fingers crossed that the pitch to NJRWA is successful, because I would love to do this again. The fifty-minute hour was over all too soon, and we capped it by giving away an analog blogging starter kit. Here’s what one lucky person took home:

GivawayLoot

If you missed out on the workshop, or are curious about what actually went down in that magical hour, we have a PDF of the PowerPoint presentation, which you can download here: BloggingIsntDeadHandout

The other thing that happened in that room was that Damon Suede presented a compressed version of his workshop on character building. This was a surprise addition, as the presenter who had been scheduled to be in that room for the last workshop, had a flight delay, and Damon graciously stepped in. Despite back pain, I made tracks the second the previous workshop, across the hall finished, because there was no way I was missing this one. No regrets. The room was packed to capacity, and well worth it. If you ever get a chance to hear Damon talk about anything writing related, grab it.  We learned the difference between activity and action, and I love the idea of a defining verb for each lead character, preferably verbs in opposition to each other, because friction is what makes, ah, things, feel good.

In between our workshop and Damon’s , there was a lot of learning -from neurophysics to the art of the novella, to the ins and outs of writing with a partner…which I had to leave early (still salty about that, too) because it was pitch time. The newly-named Chasing Prints Charming had three pitch sessions, one from me, and two from co-author, Melva Michaelian. Swing and a miss from me (hint: when pitching your romance novel, do not choke and make the hero a footnote) but two hits from Melva; both of her pitches resulted in requests to see more.

While I did have the obligatory “what’s wrong with meeeeeeeeee?” whinge, the answer is: nothing. Though this pitch got a pass, the person to whom I’d pitched said they’d totally read it for pleasure (I have heard this before, on another pitch, but that’s another story, both literally and figuratively) and the no was based on that particular person placing that particular book. Discussion of how my pitch session went had to wait until after lunch, as the person who had passed on the pitch ended up sitting directly behing me for that meal. Not every work fits with every editor or agent, but two others nibbled, so Melva and I are still calling it good. Time to get the requested material in shape and send it on its way.

As for that lunch, Zoe York, our luncheon speaker, put the text of her speech on her website, so those who want to relive the magic, or those who weren’t able to attend, can get a small taste. Zoe talked about some of the cold, hard facts of the publishing business, and the importance of writing the books we want to read, and how this is not a business for the faint of heart. Like, you know, people who had their pitches turned down and then sat in front of the person who did the turning down. By now, I’m more amused by this particular turn, and, who knows, Melva and I might put it in a future book. As Chasing Prints Charming was born at a prior incarnation of this conference, we also began our pre-writing on Drama King, our next collaboration.

The big event, for me, besides our workshop, and Damon Suede’s workshop, was being in the same room with Joanna Bourne. Not only being in the same room, but hearing her keynote dinner speech, which would cap off the whole experience. Though there were still some breakout sessions after dinner, Melva and I had miles to go before we slept, so this was our grand finale. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, Joanna Bourne writes amazing historical romance, set in the French Revolution, with all the deep emotion and dark places of the heart, and all that other stuff I absolutely love to find in a historical romance. Did she talk about writing outside of the drawing room? Finding the emotional center? How she encapsulated the entire French Revolution, from both sides, with two people surveying a trashed greenhouse? Nope. Squashed hamster, a vet’s waiting room full of falcons (no worries, hamster was fine) and the difference between greatest adventure and “being well traveled in Concord.” For those, like me, who still wanted to hunt down some words on writing from one of the grand mistresses, there is this tidbit, found on her website’s blog.

After dinner, it was pictures and hugs and cheek kisses and promises to email, gathering tote bags and turning in neck wallets, and stepping back into the ordinary world. As much as conference hangover is a real thing, so is the inspiration that travels home with us and spurs us on as we sit back at our desks, open a notebook and boot the computer. This week, it’s back to work on Charming Prints Charming, back to work on Her Last First Kiss, back to whittling down my Goodreads challenge debt, and all the rest that comes with the time in between conferences. I had a great weekend with my tribe; now time to do the work once again.

If Not Now, When?

annabowling Leave a comment

In two more days, I will be at the Let Your Imagination Take Flight conference.  Between now and then is laundry, packing, about elebenty bajillion emails, and some furious keyboard pounding, as the Beach Ball reaches endgame. This year, I’m pitching again, after a couple years’ break, and I am co-presenting for the first time ever. There’s no time to be nervous. There’s only time for doing what has to be done, and figuring out the time in which I can do it. This entry is getting pounded out in one go, because I have pages to fill, and there is the aforementioned laundry to be done, with the help of Housemate, because I have, according to Housemate and Real Life Romance Hero alike, sustained the most Anna-y injury ever. I hiccupped too hard, and now my back thinks it’s digging-Housemate’s-car-out-of-the-snowbank all over again. Good thing my work involves sitting in a comfy chair.

Every three months, a new issue of Art Journaling magazine comes out, and I pounce on it as soon as I possibly can. Every time, I scan it quickly, then take a longer look later, with beverage of choice, possibly a nibble or two, and drink in all the inspiration. I wish I could make pages like that. I wish I could layer colors and make backgrounds and figure out where to put stamps, and knew the best kind of white pen to write on paint or magazine images, and not look like a third grader on the first day of art class (even though pretty much every artist ever has been a third grader on the first day of art class, at some point in their creative journey.) I look through, and I want to make those pages, and I make some pages, and some of them are kind of okay, but nothing more than that.  At some point, I throw my hands in the air and wander off, leaving scraps of waxed paper and blobs of gesso in my wake.

This past weekend, while doing my regular grocery shopping, I made my ritual pass through the notebook aisle and found something I’d never seen before. Cahier style notebooks, with multicolored bright pages, plain black cardstock covers, but -BAM- color explosion inside. I am pretty sure that the package of three notebooks jumped into my cart of its own accord. This is not a bad thing. I hate blank white pages. Hate them. They’re…blank. They’re…white.  They’re…:gestures vaguely: there. Daunting. Where the heck does a person start on a plain, blank page? This is exactly why my morning pages have to be done in a pretty book, or one I make pretty with my own embellishments. I knew as soon as I saw these, I had to take a crack at using them to make those pages.

Yesterday, I needed to get out of the house, so I threw a few long-neglected supplies into a bag, grabbed my new toy and headed for the coffee house I hadn’t seen in over two weeks. No overthinkings, only making marks on the page. I’d started at home, with an ink test on the last page of one of the books, and then…I printed. I doodled. I squiggled. I made notes on things I had bought but never tried, or tried once and wandered off because it didn’t work perfectly the first time. I put in my earbuds, put on some Netflix, and I put stuff on the hot pink page.

artjournalHRCH

Here’s a better look at the supplies I used:

artjournalstuff

I didn’t use the glue stick, because I didn’t bring anything I could glue onto the page, but it’s in the bag, so it’s there when I need it. When it was time to go home, I had a couple other techniques I wanted to try. I slapped some gesso on the next spread of pages (okay, first, I slapped some matte gel medium on the inside cover first, because I didn’t read the label before I opened the jar) and then, when that dried, thought I’d have a go at another thing I’d always wanted to try, and always looks foolproof. It is not foolproof. I am referring to the green blobs in the corners.  Those green blobs were meant to be gentle washes of different shades of green. Maybe next time.

artjournalbackground

Even so, I think I did okay. This is only two layers on one substrate. I still have stamps I’ve been too nervous to try, because they are special stamps, from a favorite creator, and I don’t know, or have forgotten what I did once know, about inking those images and getting them to do what I want. Still, the way I see it, I have two options here. I can leave the special stamps safe in their packaging, or I can rip off the cellophane, slap some ink on those suckers and see what they can do.

In that respect, it’s not all that different from writing. When I sat down with the contents of my travel pouch, and a pristine, hot pink page, with its subtle contrast of lines, I wasn’t going for perfect. Nobody ever had to see this. Nobody would ever judge this (that only applies when one does not slap it on the interwebs, btw) and my only goal was to explore and have fun doing it. I knew I would create imperfect pages, and that took all the pressure away. What did this tool do? What kind of mark does this pen make? Let’s find out. Let the movie play and slap things down on the page and drink tea, censors off.

As the first draft of the Beach Ball bounces its way to the finish line, I’m keeping that in mind, and that’s also the plan for draft two of Her Last First Kiss. Create imperfect pages, on purpose. Let the movie play.

AnnaSelfieComment

 

Fair Day, and Another Blog Begun

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Right now, I have a deep, burning, urgent need to read Fair Day and Another Step Begun, and I Would Go Barefoot All Summer For You, two long-out-of-print YA novels by Katie Letcher Lyle. This is not want. This is need, like these books are a part of my writer self that I did not know were missing, until something, likely falling down a YA rabbit hole on Goodreads, jogged my memory. I’d read Fair Day when I was in junior high, and fell wildly in love with the exquisite use of language, how a story set in then-contemporary 1970s America could have the feel of a time and place long ago and faraway. I did not read Barefoot, and I think I may, at the time, have scoffed at the title, but that only means I was not ready for that book then. I am, now.

Both books have their roots in medieval ballads, Fair Day a direct contemporary (for 1970s) retelling of the centuries-old ballad, Child Waters. I don’t know how these books came back to my attention, but, right now, it hurts that I don’t have them, which is a clear signal that there is something in them that I need. Neither book is in the library system, though two nonfiction books on plants by the same author are. Not quite the same, so the search continues. Ebay or Amazon it is, unless I strike gold at the local UBS, which is probably a longshot, but still going to try.

My memories of Fair Day are hazy, but I remember, while reading that book in the second floor study hall (if I remember physically where I was at the time I read something, it’s a sure sign it has become part of my idea soup) how it felt both modern and ancient at the same time, in a sort of world set apart. I love that kind of thing. Give me a pop singer backed by a symphony orchestra, or modern music played as though it were from centuries before, and I am going to play it until somebody’s ears bleed. This is one reason why my family knows that it is a good idea to keep me well supplied with backup earbuds at all times. There is no such thing as playing a song on repeat too many times if it has something to say to my storybrain.

It’s the same with books. If there is something about a book that gives me that “Yes. That.” feeling, then I have to have it, hold it, touch it, smell it, stare at the covers, flip through the pages, until it becomes a part of me. Once it’s in, it doesn’t come out. Well, it does, as something from it will find its way into a story or character or idea, and it will be reproduced, but the original inspiration stays put, ready for me to draw from it again, as needed, in near or far future.

GRfairday

Why this/these book(s) now? I don’t know, but I have learned not to question it. Sure, the cover does have a vague sort of historical romancey feel, if one looks in the right light. I don’t remember if Ellen and her child’s father end up together, and I don’t want to know until I (re)read, so I don’t know if this a romance. I don’t want to know. The heroine in the foreground, the man on horseback in the distance, the dirt road between them, her long, loose hair, her oversized coat, the bare trees reaching to the cloudy sky, the lyrical title, the memory of how the school library was often my sanctuary when life got rough. I remember the bite of cold air on my skin. I remember falling down and getting  up and going onward, onward, onward, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

I did not read Barefoot, but, when I read “Toby Bright is coming,” said Aunt Rose, my storybrain quickened. Yes. That. Shut up and take my money. I need this book. Don’t need to know another thing about it, and, in fact, don’t want to know. Given that the heroine is thirteen, I don’t think this is a romance. I think it’s what those old-timey people in centuries past would call “calf love,” and I am fine with that.

Maybe I’m entering the magpie stage for whatever comes next, acquiring bricks for a house I have yet to design, much less build. As of this week, I am six chapters and change into the second draft of Her Last First Kiss, and there’s a new Melva chapter from the Beach Ball sitting in my in-box, which means I need to send her one back. There needs to be a What Next putting itself together on the back burner, because I am going to come to The End on both of these projects, and I do not want to blink into the abyss.

So, yes, medieval ballads. Check. Soak in the exquisite marriage of language and emotion until I am drunk on it. Check. Emotional afterglow that is still with me I’m not going to say how many decades later. Yes. This. This is what I want to take in. This is what I want to put out. Titles that feel like music. Lyrical prose. Characters who let me feel each beat of their heart as though it were my own. I want to read that. I want to write that.

For now, I can stare at the covers and pick apart the design elements, maybe mess around with paint and ink on paper of my own, to see what comes about, either to come up with something similar, or figure out how the original artist did it. Note what music feels the rightest while I do, and see what imaginary friends poke through the fog in the process. The journey of a thousand miles, they say, begins with a single step. Maybe this is one of those. Only one way to find out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: This Is the New Year Edition

annabowling 1 Comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. I did not want my picture taken today, so I tried to hide under my mama’s bed, but Anty was too smart for me and caught me before I could. That is why I look grumpy in this picture.  My revenge, though, besides looking grumpy, was that the lighting was very very dim, so Anty had to use all of her photo editing skills (she does not have a lot of them yet, but enough to be dangerous) to make sure the photo showed an actual kitty, and not only the black square that showed in the preview on her phone. Then she had to send the photo from her phone to the computer, which took some time. By the time it arrived, I was in the living room, sitting very nicely in a sunbeam in the middle of the floor. I believe this means I have successfully catted today, and deserve treats for my trouble.

Speaking of trouble, there is more of that, but I am not allowed to talk about it until I have talked about what Anty has written so far this week. So be it. Anty started off the new year (actually, ended the old one, because her posts on this site run on Saturdays, and this Saturday was New Year’s Eve, so not the new year yet) at Buried Under Romance by talking about reading resolutions. My resolution is to make Anty get rid of the carpet in her office, so that I can come inside and sit right next to her while she is writing or reading. Humans, especially those who do not live in our apartment, probably have different ones. That post is here, and it looks like this:

bur060117

Anty also put a review on Goodreads, for the historical romance anthology, Christmas in America. That review is here, and it looks like this:

christmasinamericareview

This book had some surprises for Anty, besides finding new authors whose other works she would like to read. One of those surprises was a funny one. After Anty wrote her review, Goodreads asked her if she would like to recommend the book to any of her friends. Since Anty liked the book very much, she did want to recommend it, and the site made some suggestions. Here is one of them:

christmasinamericarecommendsskyeedit

Anty thought that was funny, because Miss Piper wrote part of that book, so I think it is safe to say she already knows about it. (Anty checked; Miss Piper does.) I did not have permission from the other readers to post their names, so I blacked those out. I hope that is okay. Anty is now reading another book of Miss Piper’s, The Lawyer’s Luck, because she liked the story anthology so much, that she had to check and see where the stories in that world started. Anty already has a lot of books on her to be read list, but she does not mind adding more. Reading really, really good books is one way for writers to keep their wells filled and stay excited about the genre in which they write.

So far this year, Anty has been doing well on the writing front. She is using her planner to keep to a schedule. If she sees the tasks she has for the day, and for the week, written down, she is more likely to make sure that she accomplishes them. That is very helpful when life gets changey. It is getting changey over here because the building where our apartment is will be changing owners soon. That means that, because Anty works from home, she is there during the day, and can let in the realtor humans and their clients. It also means that I do a lot of hiding under the beds, because I do not like strangers coming into my home. I kind of know Landlady, though (the human who owns the building now) and, sometimes, I will come out if she is there. She tells me I am a good kitty. I think Landlady is very observant.

One other thing Anty is doing to keep her creative well filled is to listen to a lot of musical theatre, because musical theater songs tell stories. When she finds a composer/lyricist she especially likes, then she tracks down as much of their work as she can find and watches different performances of it. Her most recent find is Drew Gasparini, who wrote a song, “Disaster,” that Anty has been listening to, a lot. I mean so much that I think I know all the words to it. She recently found a video where Mr. Gasparini gives some advice to songwriters, and Anty thinks it applies to other kinds of writers, too. She was going to put a quote in her blog, but did not know where to cut it, so she asked if I could show everybody the whole thing. If there are gentle readers, or human kittens in the room, the actual song has some language that is only for grownups, but the talking, which comes first, does not.

Sometimes, it can be scary for a writer to throw everything on the page and let it bleed, but it can also be tiring to hold back. It is an interesting process to learn how to push past that scariness, but if that is what the story demands, then that is what Anty wants to do. That is what Anty wants to put into her stories. Critique partners can help keep Anty on track with that. At least that is the plan. Tomorrow, Anty will talk with Miss Eryka, to focus on some ways she can make sure that is exactly what she does.

The stranger humans came while I was in the middle of writing this entry, so I hid under Anty and Uncle’s bed. Anty had to lure me out with treat, which was not really extra, because it was my treat time anyway. I am not sure if this means I need yet more treat to make up for that. Anyway, that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Reading Rambles Edition

annabowling 4 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is now almost exactly two weeks until Christmas. Anty has hopes the tree will be up before then (so do I; I do not climb it, like some kitties do, or sit underneath it like my predecessor, Olivia, did, but I like to look at it, because it has sparkly lights and shiny balls and I can imagine what I would do if I could get to it.) but Anty and Mama put the white lights around the doorways to the dining room and Uncle’s office, so it is starting to look festive around here.

It is also starting to sound very clicky around here. By clicky, I mean the sound the computer keys make when Anty pounds on them. With her fingers, that is, not a baseball bat. She only does that in her imagination when she is frustrated. That happens sometimes. The end of the year is coming (one week after Christmas, so that is soon) and that makes Anty want to clear her desk of writing obligations for 2016. She is already working on goals, especially regarding fiction. She would like to be both reading and writing more of it, which means I will have more to report on my days to blog. I like to be useful, so this is a good thing.

Before I go any farther (or is it further? Ha, ha, fur-ther. That is funny, because I have a lot of fur. Maybe that joke is funnier for kitties than for humans. Oh, well. Can’t win them all.) I need to tell you where you can read Anty’s writing this week. Her latest Buried Under Romance post is all about reading rituals. Do you have any reading rituals you observe? I highly recommend having a super fluffy kitty sleeping peacefully nearby, preferably with a full tummy from food and treats. That always makes the reading experience better. Especially for the kitty. If you would like to read Anty’s take on the matter, the post is here: http://www.buriedunderromance.com/2016/12/saturday-discussion-reading-rituals.html#comment-9267  and it looks like this:

 

burritual

What are your reading rituals?

 

 

Anty’s binge on Matthew Quick novels continues, as you can see in her review of The Silver Linings Playbook (only of the book; she has not seen the movie, and now is not sure if she wants to, because she researched the differences and she knows what they changed. Word of warning, do not get her started on the movie version of Paper Towns cutting out her two favorite parts, because she is never going to be over that. Trust me on this one.) here:

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1832682800?utm_medium=email&utm_source=rating  and it looks like this:

grsilverlinings

Anty is now over halfway done with Love May Fail, which is told in four different parts, in four different viewpoints, all combining to make one story. Anty likes that kind of thing, and she very much likes the author’s voice (that is his writing voice, not his speaking voice, which she has never heard, so she cannot talk about that) and the kinds of stories that he tells. She would like to be reading more historical romance, and that will come, because that is still her favorite, but when she gets one of these urges to gobble everything by a new to her author, then she will follow that. Mr. Quick often has love stories in his novels, but because they are not genre romances, those love stories do not always have to end happily (but they can, and some of them do; the point is that they do not have to) nor are they always the focus.

In a genre romance, the love story does  have to be the main focus, and it does have to have a happy ending. That does not mean that the humans who fall in love never have anything bad happen to them ever again (that is a pretty naïve outlook, if you ask me; I have seen things) or that their story is over-over, and nothing interesting ever happens to them again (Anty and Uncle have been in love a long time, and interesting things happen to them all the time. For instance, they have a cat who can blog. I think that is pretty interesting.) What it does mean is that, no matter what happens in the future, the humans who are in love will have each other. They are together and happy to be that way. Believe it or not, that is the only requirement for a romance novel. The only one, seriously. That is why it puzzles me (and Anty) when people who do not read romance think that all romance novels are the same. That is not even close to being true.

Since Anty has been reading and writing romance for a long time now (three cats’ worth, including me; five, if we count Michelangelo and Francesca, who did not live with Anty, but whom she cat-sat on a regular basis) she is pretty familiar with how a romance novel goes. This year, she has been reading a lot of Young Adult fiction and general fiction by authors who also write Young Adult, because she likes getting some fresh voices in her head, and because she likes the edge many of these stories have. She would like to harness some of that and put it into her historical romances. (Note: I have been right there while she wrote the initial daft of Her Last First Kiss, and I think she is on the right tack for that particular goal.)

Suffice it to say (that is fancy human talk for Anty wants the computer back) that things are going to get very interesting, story-wise, around here, as Anty analyzes the books she is reading and takes from them things she would like to put into her own books. As a dedicated Mews, I will be sure to stay on top of this (figuratively, that is. I am a floor girl.) and let you know what is going on. I think there may be some surprises in store.

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

skyebye

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

Does That Mean There Is Quietermilk?

annabowling 2 Comments

Days become weeks
Weeks become months
Months become way back when

      -Kait Kerrigan and Brian Lowdermilk, “Holding On”

During the weekend, I had an idea for this blog entry. Do not ask me what that idea was, because I do not know anymore. I am not even going to try and take a wild guess. Not even a stab in its general direction. That ship has sailed, so what you get instead is blabber, because “blog entry” is the next thing on my to-do list, and sleep was not that great this weekend, which means my mind is a muddle. Which means it is time to impose some order on chaos. Which means making lists and prioritizing.

Today’s quote is from the musical, Tales From the Bad Years. No, I’ve never seen it, but I have been listening to many of the songs from it repeatedly over the last couple of weeks. I haven’t played any Christmas music yet, which is unusual for me. I mean nothing. Seriously. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada. I’m not not-in the Christmas spirit, but it hasn’t kicked in yet. Maybe that’s because the decorations are still not up. Fingers crossed for tomorrow. Maybe then it will feel real. We’ve had sickies in our house for the last…three weeks? Four? Maybe that has something to do with it. I have Christmas books at hand, and have not cracked the covers on any of them, either.

No, wait, that’s not right. I am reading For Christmas, Forever, by Barbara Samuel, originally published under her Ruth Wind pseudonym, on my phone. I don’t read a lot of category romance, but I would read Barbara Samuel’s grocery list in a heartbeat. Pounce on that sucker like a starving hyena, I would, and that might be underselling my theoretical behavior. We need to make that clear at the outset. Still, I don’t read a lot of category, and the combination of intrigue and Christmas has me in uncharted territory, but the voice is still there, and that’s what I wanted (besides the whole Christmas angle) so that balances things out. Combine that with my devouring of Matthew Quick novels (be forewarned, I may get whiny when I finish the ones I have on hand, because then I will have read all currently published ones; why do I keep doing this to myself, again?) and rationing Dark Champion, the second of Jo Beverley’s medieval historical romances (I do sorely wish she had written more medieval, but there are loads of her Regencies and some of her Georgians I have not yet read. She is, sadly, another one who has left us, so when I am done, I will be done. At least with reading new to me titles for the first time.)

But back to the music. I wish I could say how it was I stumbled across the Kerrigan-Lowdermilk team, but I am going to say it was either Spotify or YouTube. I like to follow bunny trails, of things I might like, based on things I already like, and I’ve been using both of the above frequently as of late, so it’s probably one of the two. When an authorial voice catches my attention like that, I like to hunt down as much of it as I can. When that voice belongs to a songwriting team, and said songs are in the realm of musical theater, that makes my blood do a skippity skip, because that means that there are, somewhere out there, a plethora of different interpretations of the same songs, by different performers.

I love that kind of thing. I can find Actor A’s performance of Song X, take that in, find what I like about it and what I would direct them to do differently, then take in different takes on the material by Actor B, Actor C, Actor D, etc. Gender flipped, with or without changes in pronouns, solos divided into duets or multiple singers, and vice versa. Stage performances, cabaret, concert, professional, student, etc, etc. Bring all of that stuff right on over here, because it goes straight into ye olde creative well.

On the official page for Tales From The Bad Years, (find it here: http://kerrigan-lowdermilk.com/shows/tales-from-the-bad-years) the blurb about the show concludes with “There’s no doubt that the bad years make the best stories.” That resonated with me, and reminds me that it was the very title, Tales From The Bad Years, that told me this was something I had to investigate. I’m glad I did. Though I haven’t seen the show, or read the script, I’ve listened to the available songs, so, if I had to shelve it in a genre, I would put it in New Adult. Again, not a genre, in the contemporary fiction sense, with which I have any degree of familiarity, apart from the Going The Distance series by Lark O’Neal (http://www.larkoneal.com/) -who is also Barbara Samuel, go figure- but I very clearly got the “Yes. That.” reaction, so I’m listening. A lot. Rolling it around in my head, and letting it seep into my heart. We’ll see what sticks, what combines with all the other things that are in there already, and what else is going into the tank at the same time.

Writers are, by nature, omnivores. If it waves a tentacle at us, and if we grab onto that tentacle, it’s going into us. Becoming part of us. Coming out again in some other form that is our version of that. Calling us to come to a higher level. Making us want to be that good. Work that hard. Make something that has the same effect on somebody else, we would hope. We don’t always know what it’s going to do to us when we recognize it, but that moment when we know that yes, that new thing we like, it’s ours now, that’s something we need to hold onto and see where it takes us

The lines at the top of this entry are one of those things that stick. The inevitable passage of time, the reminder that my track record for getting through stuff has been 100% so far, so odds are that’s probably going to continue. Not smooth sailing all the way, because how boring would a story like that be, seriously? The knowledge that a current stressor will one day be a story to tell, of something that happened “way back when,” that’s encouraging. I can work with that.

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Successfully Extended Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. I think that I would probably be blogging today, even if it were not Friday, because Anty is in a mood. Anty did not sleep that great last night, and she had to make two trips to the Laundromat this morning. It was almost three. When she came home from the second trip, she noticed right away that there was a particular aroma. That aroma was my um, stuff. A big stuff, actually, right near the apartment door, and exactly where Anty’s foot went when she took her first step inside. Anty leaves her outside shoes on the landing, so she took that step in her stocking foot, and her step turned into a skid. Uncle says he cannot describe the sound Anty made, but he knew it had to be something interesting. He was right.  Anty had to do some creative walking to get to the bathroom so she could put her dirty socks in the next laundry bin, and get my scoop so she could get rid of my stuff. Then she fed me, so it all worked out okay in the end.

Before I talk about anything else, I need to talk about Anty’s writing first. Her most recent post at Buried Under Romance is here:
http://www.buriedunderromance.com/2016/11/saturday-discussion-making-a-reading-list-and-checking-it-twice.html

and it looks like this:

bur

Anty also posted a review of a book that had a big effect on her, Every Exquisite Thing, by Matthew Quick, on Goodreads. If I ever get a turtle brother (I do not think that is likey, but one never knows) Anty says his name will be Unproductive Ted, because of a turtle that is a book that is in this book. I did not mistype that (even though I have special paws) – there is a book inside this book that is special to the main character and her friends. Anty had to hug this book after she finished reading it, and she went right back to the library, to get two more books by the same author. Those had a similar effect on her, and she will probably talk about that more, later. For now, her review is here:

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1823317233

and it looks like this:

goodreadseet

 

Anty is going to find more books by this author, so she can figure out what she likes about his work this much, and how she can incorporate it in her historical romance writing. One of his books, Silver Linings Playbook, was made into a movie, and it won an Oscar, which is the award for really good movie things. Anty is going to watch that movie, too, but she does not know when. She has a lot going on these days, especially now that she and Mama got the wifi booster. The booster worked, and now Anty can talk to the interwebs from her office. When she goes into her office to work, I either wait outside the door, if it is only a little time she is in there. If she is in there a longer time, I will go sleep by her recliner, because I know she will go there eventually. Yesterday, she wrote a chapter for her book with Anty Melva, and got it all done in one go, because she was able to concentrate. Anty said that felt super good. I still think she might want to consider getting rid of that carpet, because then I would spend more time in there with her.

Christmas decorations are slated to go up tomorrow, but it is not out of the question for things to get bumped back a little further if something unexpected comes up; Anty loves to get her decorations up as soon as possible, but she is also a realist. Sometimes, things happen. The decorations will get put up in plenty of time for Christmas, so there is no use getting all concerned about it. In the same way, the books are going to get written, and they are going to find their ways into the hands of readers, so there is no use in getting worried about that, either.

As long as Anty keeps moving forward with both books (and with her posts for other sites) then she will, probably before she knows it, find herself at The End. Then it will be time to write more books. She has to remind herself to focus on this book now (actually these books now, because she is working on two) but that does not mean she cannot make notes and file them away for later. That is actually a good thing, because Anty does best when her tank is filled, and she knows what she is doing. The more she knows before it is time to start writing the story, the easier the writing goes. Anty says the view is pretty good from up there, back in the saddle.

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

skyebye

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

 

 

 

I am a Weeble

annabowling 2 Comments

First things first: I do not have high hopes for this blog entry. My cold has officially entered week two. I am currently wrestling with in-store pickup for a purchased item that told me I would have it by the 23rd. It is now the 28th. I very strongly want to show up on the item’s one-weeki-versary with a cupcake and balloons, perhaps party hats, and insist on taking a selfie with the worker who “guaranteed” it would be available on Saturday. Item is in store, but being “processed.” Um, long process, dudes. There will be feedback on this one, oh yes there will.

Today, I have made myself get dressed, put on makeup and head to my favorite coffee house, because the need to do normal things is overwhelming. Note that I did not list “do my hair” in the preparations to leave the house, because I have honestly forgotten what  one does with face framing layers, and it’s only one day post wash. Yep. Been in the house too long. I forgot to ask the barista for my customary splash of skim milk, which means my tea now has a splash of the community half and half. Cookie is less because I am getting down to Serious Novel Writing, and more because I have not had lunch and did not want to cook. One look at refrigerator full of delicious Thansgiving leftovers, and nothing but nope. I am dealing with my laptop’s touchpad, because I was too tired to pack the mouse, and wrangling with the mouse cord is not worth the aggravation.

Yesterday, I inhaled Every Exquisite Thing, by Matthew Quick (Skye will provide the link to my rambling review on Friday) and am now emotionally eviscerated. Also mourning a fictional character, and would compare the events of that character needing to be mourned with events of a similar nature in another book whose title and author escape me, but I think I can take a reasonably good stab at the author. At any rate, there’s a similarity in the circumstances, and I’d like to see if I could work that into a historical romance at some point in the future. EET was YA fiction, and the other book, hmmm, I’m going to say horror. Maybe. With YA elements.

This all makes me want to spend more time on historical romance, and I have high hopes for my next few historical romance reads, as well as a clearer focus on returning to the next scene in Her Last First Kiss, so that’s all good.  I also owe half a scene from the Beach Ball, which I hope to get done in the next couple of days, because a) my collaborator, Melva, deserves a reward for her legendary patience, and b) I want this story to progress, because there is more yet to come.

Earlier this week, I’d braved the elements (and Black Friday crowds) because certain things had to be done, even if what I wanted to do was watch Netflix from my blanket fort. As part of that outing, I had lunch at a favorite establishment with Housemate, and talk turned to work. Specifically mine. I asked her how she’d describe my author brand to someone who had never read me before. Since this is a fairly large people group, this question is extremely relevant to my interests. Her answer involved the phrase, “getting back on the horse” and moving forward (even with setbacks) in the face of adversity, in fiction as well as nonfiction.

“So, basically,” I said to her, when she was done, “I’m a Weeble?”

The gist of her response can be whittled down to, “Pretty  much.”

Okay. I can live with that. Seriously, what’s the alternative? Not getting back up after life knocks one down? Not going on, even if it means dancing on phantom limbs or heading off in a slightly or completely different direction? Yeah, no. Not going to do that. That’s not in me. I tried. It didn’t work. It’s not in my characters, either; not in my heroes and heroines, no matter when or where they lived. Apple trees can only grow apples. I want to grow as many apples as I possibly can, and make them into a whole smorgasbord of dishes.

So that’s where I am on this fine Monday morning, now firmly in the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Decorations at Stately Bowling Manor would have been going up directly after Thanksgiving dinner, but sick me, so tomorrow is the next projected date. As much as it’s irritating to have to wait for things like that, they payoff is worth it. That moment when Real Life Romance Hero and I tell Housemate to turn off all the lights, and we get that first glimpse of the living room lit by nothing but Christmas lights, that’s where the magic is. Every year, we call it the best tree ever, and, every year, it is.

That’s what I’m shooting for when I type (or co-type) the end on HLFK and the Beach Ball. Best books ever. Well, mine (and semi-mine) at least. That’s all any of us writer types can aim for, with each new endeavor. Make this the best one. Fall down? Yep, going to happen. If it hasn’t, then it only hasn’t happened yet. Fall down? Get up. Get back on the horse. Keep going. I guess it’s my inherent Weeble-ness that keeps things going at times, and I am okay with that.

 

 

 

 

Post-Birthday Post

annabowling 2 Comments
French Onion burger
Real Life Romance Hero

 

Sometimes, it’s the smallest changes that make the biggest difference.  Monday’s post is on Tuesday this week, because this particular Monday can best be summed up thusly:

 

I love my birthday. Like really, really love my birthday. Birthdays in general, but October 24th is all about me. Thankfully, I have progressed past the announcing of said date to random strangers (okay, I think I grew out of that when I was about five, maybe six) I do not sleep in a tiara, as the risk of poking Real Life Romance Hero in the eye is too strong, but the sentiment is basically the same. The time leading up to the actual day had some ups and downs, because the number attached to this birthday has a zero in it. We will not dwell on that, because the time machine is broken, and I can only move forward from where I am at present, the anniversary of being a one-day-old.

While I am not a medical or psychological professional, I did study early childhood education (the fact that I now make up stories and tell people who kissed on TV may let you know how good of a match that turned out to be) and I think it is safe to say that a large part of a one-day-old’s thought process is devoted to (pardon my language, gentle readers) “WTF?” There they were, minding their own business the way they’d always done, then the walls closed in and oh so much pressure, and then light and sound and touching and hey it’s cold out here and what are you doing with my cord, doctor person? Okay, there’s milk, and blankets are nice, and these other beings generally seem pleased that the new person exists, but there is a bit of a learning curve going on here. Little patience with the new kid, okay?

Today is a little like that. Since Real Life Romance Hero had to work on the 24th, we celebrated together on the 22nd, which was cold, rainy and grey. In short, my favorite weather besides snow, so bonus points for that. We had lunch together, hung out for the afternoon, and I could not have asked for a better day. Cold day, hot date, hot lunch. Perfect combination, left me feeling very loved.

Real Life Romance Hero
French Onion burger

 

This left the actual day free for celebrating with Housemate, who knew me well enough to suggest trips to two separate libraries. This is why we are friends. That, and neither of us can afford the blackmail. She also gave me the lovely lap desk in today’s picture, or, for a better shot of it without the laptop and friends in the way, this:

 

lapdesk241016

I’d had my eye on this one for a while, though the old lap desk still technically worked. It was a flat surface. It fit in my lap. Okay, the not-very-convincing woodgrain contact paper type of covering had begun to split and peel, the cushion had deflated, and the loop that was intended to let me carry the desk from place to place was now more of a tab. In short, long enough. Time for something new. Time for getting down to business. This one has two wrist rests. The wooden bar between them keeps pens from rolling off, and there are not one, but two places I can park my phone while making with the tappity tap.

How big a difference did this make? Pretty darned, actually. Last night, while I chatted with H, I worked on a scene.  Things were going all right, though this was not coming as smoothly as I had hoped, but okay,  moving forward. Typing with wrist support is a whole other experience, everything in the correct place, no need to be part Cirque de Soleil performer while keeping everything in reach. Until, that is, my jump drive blinked at me. I knew what that blinking jump drive meant. Bad stuff.

Sure enough, a couple of seconds later, the computer let me know the jump drive was corrupted. Click this handy button to fix things. That always worked before, so I did. Computer said drive was okay now. Great. Go back to document. My scene is gone. Closing in on two thousand words, gone. Not there. Big ol’ zero. I calmly inform H of this. H joins me in expression of shock and dismay. Was I sure? I was sure. Blank page, right there. Maybe being actually comfortable had something to do with it, or newfound maturity, or both, but I checked my backup, to see if I had saved an earlier version.  I had.

Okay.  Call up earlier version. Discover earlier version is half the size of scene I lost. Half. Inform H of this. H agrees it stinks that I lost half, but, maybe, this is for the best, and I can write it even better this time. I agreed that was probably true, but I was done for the night. I took out a new jump drive, obtained for the distinct purpose of taking over for the other one, and transferred the file in question. Then it was bedtime, because entire scenes vanishing can do a thing to a gal, especially on the first day of a year ending in zero.

So. Far over the  magic seven hundred, comfy in my chair, with my lap desk, wrists fully supported, handwritten “everything I can remember about this scene” pages in place, and forward I go, a one-day-old once more. Only, this time, I have cupcakes.

cupcakecravingsbyrachel

apple spice, brown sugar frosting