my books

Typing With Wet Claws: Hello Summer Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is not technically summer yet, because the calendar says the official start date is a little while from now, but Anty says that it is close enough, because it is now June, we are past Memorial Day, and, well, it feels like summer. Hopefully without the heat sickness this year, because Anty has Stuff To Do this summer. There is petting me, feeding me, paying attention to me, and also that writing thing. Purr-sonally (even though I do not actually purr) I think she would have a much better time of that writing thing if she got rid of her office carpet so that her mews could be closer at all times. When I say writing times, I mean snack time, feeding time, petting time, okay, and story time, too.

Since the deal is that I can talk about whatever I want after I tell readers where they can find Anty’s writing on the interwebs (besides here) this week, I had better get to that. First, as always, Anty was at Buried Under Romance this week. This time, she talked about the different ways book lovers can organize their treasure troves (by which I mean books.) That post is here, and its link on the main page looks like this:

BURdoityourshelfie

Anty also had a post on Heroes and Heartbreakers this week, and this time, it was about tracking the relationship of New Girl‘s Nick and Jess, one of her favorite sitcom couples. That post is here, and it looks like this:

HHNickAndJess

She also participated in the H&H Bloggers’  best reads of May.  If you would like to know what Anty’s favorite read of the month was (and have not already guessed from reading her blog, or Goodreads) or are curious about what the other H&H bloggers liked best, you can read about that here.

Now, speaking of reading, and because it is the first Friday of the month, we get to check in on not one, but two reading challenges Anty is doing. First, let’s look at the regular Goodreads challenge. Right now, Anty’s challenge looks like this:

GR2ndJune

Anty remains on track this week, which makes me very proud of her. Keep it up, Anty. I believe in you.  Now we will check in on the historical romance reading challenge.

hr-challenge-2016-badge

Anty read one historical romance novel this week, A Lady’s Code of Misconduct, by Meredith Duran. Her review of that book is here. If that seems a little light for her goal of reading more historical romances, we need to look at the big picture. Since the beginning of the year, Anty has read thirty-seven books. Nineteen of those are historical romances, which puts her over the fifty percent mark, so I am going to give her a passing grade on this, but she can still make more of an effort to read more historicals. Keep going, Anty. You are getting there.

Now it is time to talk about the writing that Anty is currently doing. Anty took this picture by accident one day, while taking her deskscape image, and kind of liked it, so she made it into a banner, but did not know what to use it for, so I will use it to mark where I talk about her everyday writing. I am not sure if it needs words on it or not, but I think it is a decent banner, anyway.

topofdesk

Cat-ption coming soon…maybe.

This week sees Anty entering the double-digit numbered chapters of her second draft for Her Last First Kiss.  She is still learning new things about this book as she goes, mostly how to get more inside the characters’ heads, because that is where the interesting stuff happens. Some of that interesting stuff has involved old-timey underwear, because that is going to come into play in that chapter.

Not only does this mean that Anty has to look for pictures and descriptions of old-timey underwear, but explain it to both Miss N and Critique Partner Vicki, who are not familiar with the underwear of this era, how said old-timey underwear works. This resulted in some interesting discussions, usually including a reminder that people in 1783 would think the underwear people wear in 2017 is as weird as 2017 people find the underwear of 1783. My underwear is built-in fluff, because I am a Maine Coon, and that means I have a double coat. It is a little different for Anty’s imaginary friends.

The chapter Anty is working on right now is one where Hero and Heroine cross one of the points of no return, where they cannot go back to the way things were before, and that is going to make things awkward, because they still have to live under the same roof. I know what you are thinking because of the underwear mention, and you are wrong. It is not that. It is also the point where Anty said some very interesting words when scenes move themselves around. She can’t keep a scene with Hero and Character X in this chapter, because A) it already happened in a previous chapter and B) Character X left in the previous chapter, so now it’s Hero and Heroine thrust alone together when they would really like to go in opposite directions, but then there would be no story.

Some of Anty’s critique partners have said that Anty likes the rewriting that happens in a second draft more than she likes the initial writing in a first draft, and they may not be wrong on this one. By the second draft, Anty knows the characters better, and, sometimes, they have a few things to tell her, that she did not know the first time. That happened with Anty’s writing on Her Last First Kiss this week, and she kind of likes that. She says it means that the story is real and alive. I think being a live is pretty good, so go, Anty. Keep moving in that direction. Also the direction of my food bowl.

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

skyebanner01

skyebyefancy

Until next week…

Accidental (Story) Babies

annabowling Leave a comment

This wasn’t the deskscape I intended to post today. The deskscape I intended to post was the usual sort. Desktop wallpaper, cup of tea, couple items in front of the screen. Pink notebook, because I’m going to be making use of that for this session, and Happy Bunny, because, well, Happy Bunny.  It looked, without editing, (except for size) like this:

Deskscape053117a

Meh…

I didn’t want to change out the Union Jack desktop, same as I didn’t want to change out Ichabod and Abbie (refresher below, for new readers)

WritersDeskAug012016

Hey, guys.

but A) it bugs me when all my deskscapes look too much the same, and B) look at that nifty shelfie background, that reminds me of some of my favorite authors, and the sort of books I want to get on to other peoples’ shelves. It was an okay picture, and I fiddled with it some, in editing, but it wasn’t the right picture, because it didn’t tell the whole story.  It didn’t talk about Monday night all-nighters, when it’s me and my imaginary friends, because the rest of the world is asleep, and we slip back into 1784 together.

This header picture comes from me pushing back my chair to either refill my water bottle (not pictured) or feed Skye (probably both) and thinking that the desk I’d been working at for hours looked pretty cool. I took the picture. I didn’t intend to share it.  I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. It was too messy. People would see. There’s a character reference picture on the screen. People will think I “cast” my stories, and I don’t.  They’ll be able to read the text on the screen. They’ll be able to read the text on the pages, both printed and handwritten. They’ll hate it. (My dad’s voice, in the back of my head, whispers, “they’ll steal your ideas.” Thanks, Dad, but that’s not how it works.) They’ll hate me. I’m doing it wrong. Dooooooooooooom.

Uh, no. No to all of that. This is the picture that had to go with today’s blog, because this is the real picture. This is what my working desk looks like. Her Last First Kiss is not the book I intended to write, but it’s the right one. It’s not nice. It’s not comfortable.  It’s late nights and marked-up pages, and more surprises than I had expected as I embark on chapter ten of the second draft, which is what I’m doing today. It scares me.

But, Anna, another, more rational, voice in my head reminds me, you already wrote the book. Thanks, Past Me, but this is different. Now that I have written the first draft, I know Hero and Heroine better, and I know not only what they’ve already been through, but where they still need to go, and it’s…sticky. It’s messy. It has scribbled notes in two different pencils and green Marvy Le Pen ink, sticky notes both Post-It and PaPaYa! Art, and, somehow, “Accidental Babies,” by Damien Rice, became one of this story’s theme songs. I did not plan it that way, but, the first time I heard it, boom, there it was.

The lyrics are very much grownups-only, and may not be a gentle reader’s cup of tea, but, as soon as the opening notes found their way through my earbuds, I-don’t-remember-how-long-ago, the connection was instantaneous. Yes. That. It’s raw. It’s honest. It’s imperfect. It hurts. It’s right. It’s right for the story, and right for the characters, and, as I get myself ready to take that irreversible step into the next part of the book, it’s a big moment for all of us.

The scene I’m tackling now is one I’d always wanted to write, before Hero or Heroine ever showed up in my head, before the idea for Her Last First Kiss ever existed. It was one of those “hm, wouldn’t it be fun to do X, but flip the genders?” Yeah, you’re cute, Past Me. Past Me did not know Hero and Heroine when she came up with that scene idea, and she certainly didn’t know that the nameless jeweler in the last couple of chapters was going to get elbowed out of the way by an actual character, who knows other characters. She didn’t take into account that said characters will be talking to other characters, which means that Hero and Heroine are not exactly as alone as she thought they were going to be. Keeping all of that in mind goes a long, long way towards banishing the characters blinking at me from a blank white background.

Kicking Character X out of the previous scene did, in fact, turn out to be exactly what the scene needed to come alive, and now has me awash in a sea of eighteenth century underwear,  lots of virtual old-timey window shopping, fully aware now, that the walls do have ears. I get a shiver when I remember that, and it reminds me that this kind of thing can’t be manufactured. It will, however, show up if I do, and so, I’m here. Well, there. Back to 1784 I go.

 

 

Processing

annabowling Leave a comment

 Use the process.
-Lin-Manuel Miranda

Today is Memorial Day. It’s also May 29th, the birthday of Erma Pesci Carrasco, and Princess Marlena of Carousel. That would be my mom, and one of the two German Shepherds my dad and I got the year I started college. Marlena decided pretty early on that she wanted to be my dog, even though it was my dad’s name on the official paperwork. The other dog, CJ, who came a few months later, while I was in school, followed her lead. I have no idea how that worked, other than that CJ absolutely adored Marlena, and if I was Marlena’s choice, well, then, that settled the matter. No further questions needed; it merely was.

I’ve been thinking about that “merely was” part lately, and not specifically about the dogs, though they were the illustration that came most readily to mind. They could both jump higher than the six foot fence of their enclosure, but both chose not to; they were fine where they were. The UPS guy did not understand this last part. To this day, I have a vivid memory of the blast of the delivery van horn that summoned me from the shower. As soon as I stuck my towel-turbaned head out of the guest room window, the driver shouted, “UPS,” threw the package onto the front lawn, and sped out of the driveway.

This puzzled me at first, until I went to my dad’s room and looked out of his window, that looked over the enclosure. Two purebred German Shepherds, jumping higher than (but not over, never over) the six foot fence, barking their fool heads off, tails wagging in doggy excitement; okay, I can see where that might be a concern for a UPS driver who did not know these were two gigantic marshmallow puppies, who had a whole  call and response routine perfected before they could have breakfast or dinner. It went like this:

Human:  :holds food bowl at human chest level:  What’s in the bowl?
Dog: :jumps up to see contents of bowl:
Human: Where do you want it?
Dog:  :runs into doghouse, pokes head out:
Human: Are you sure?
Dog: :repeats above:
Human: Are you really sure?
Dog:  :repeats above:
Human: Are you black dog sure?
Dog: :repeats above:
Human: Okay, then. :gives food:

Annnd scene. :takes bow:  The routine always went the same way: Marlena first, because she was the dominant dog, then CJ. The human in almost every case was me, as my dad did not take part in this particular routine. Maybe it was Real Life Romance Hero a time or two, as he came into all of our lives around this time. Possibly BFF in an extenuating circumstance, but the important thing is, no matter how many times I went away, every time I came back, they knew the whole routine. I’m pretty sure that CJ was, at least in part, merely emulating Marlena, because CJ was, how shall we put this, not the sharpest knife in the drawer. She came to our family because, although an utterly gorgeous pure black German Shepherd, she failed the puppy IQ test that would have allowed her to go pro. I’m serious. She once failed to notice a cooked chicken breast that had landed on her foot, until Marlena clued her in on that one. Marlena, on the other hand, was some kind of dog genius, so they balanced.

So, that’s where my brain is on this Memorial Day. I could say it’s gone to the dogs, and that wouldn’t be too far off the mark. Not that I’m thinking about dogs, specifically, but the fact that it’s Monday. The fact that Marlena and my Mom, who never met, have the same birthday. The fact that I have adopted the same pen as the author, and family friend, who got me into historical romance in the first place, always favored. Last week, at this time, when I sat down at my desk, dreading, as I would be now, shoving a whole week’s worth of work into one Monday (working on fixing that) I uncapped that green Marvy Le Pen, and wrote out what I thought she would tell me, if I could blabber to her over a cup of tea, about exactly that issue. I’d like to think I got it right.

There’s a purple ballpoint I’ve been eyeing , that reminds me of exchanges with a once upon a time friend. I don’t know that I’m ready for that imaginary conversation right now. Where once there were up to fifty page snail mail letters, eagerly anticipated,  now there is silence, paths diverged. I’m not spending a lot of time staring at the fork in the road, because it is Monday, and I do have several days of writing to cram into one, because tomorrow is Tuesday and N, and I am going to have pages, because I am black dog sure.

N does not have a pen assigned to her, or our weekly sessions yet, but they taste like tea (iced from May to September, hot from September to May, weather permitting) and French toast bagels, and I always come away from the sessions energized, because I’ve connected my characters and a reader/writer. It’s not just me and a page or screen anymore; now it’s a group of us. That’s part of the process, and it keeps me moving forward, so, once this blog is posted, it’s a short break, more tea, and then rework some of last week’s pages, before I catch the rhythm and forge on ahead.

Maybe I’ll end up awake into the wee hours again this week, and stumble home from my meeting with N like some over-caffeinated zombie, but even if the pages I bring her are a muddle, they’ll be my muddle, and they’ll make more sense after our talk. My brain generally needs to circle the airport a time or two before it lands, and rushing things doesn’t make the whole process any easier; quite the opposite. Better to trust that I’ve done this before, so of course I can do it again. This is how it works; relax and enjoy the scenery along the way. I’ll still get there. Left foot, right foot, that sort of thing. If, along the way, Hero’s hip happens to bump against Heroine’s as they take a totally platonic walk, and she happens to get a whiff of soap that does not smell like that on Other Guy, well, I’ll take that, too.

Typing With Wet Claws: Need a Bigger Teapot Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty did not want to chase me around the apartment this morning, to get my blog picture, so, instead, she edited one of my greatest hits from Instagram this week. Personally, I question her dedication if she switches to Plan B that easily, but I did not make it easy for her, either. She has a bunch of pictures of my blurry turned head, so I kind of see her point, but still…

Anyway, I know the rules around here. That means I need to tell you where you can read Anty’s writing on the interwebs this week, besides here. First, as always, Anty was at Buried Under Romance this past Saturday. This week, she talked about when e-books travel in packs, aka box sets. Are they the electronic equivalent of paperback anthologies? Do you read them? Do you like them? Her post is here, and its link on the main page looks like this:

BURboxset

Those of you who have been following Anty’s Goodreads challenge will be happy to know that she is now officially back on track. Anty did a very good job on reading this week, and I am proud of her. Now to work on the historical romance side of things, because time for reporting her progress on that is coming soon, on the first week of the month. Tick tock, Anty. This week, Anty read:

Gentlehands, by M. E. Kerr (YA)

Stormswept, by Sabrina Jeffries (historical romance)

Just One Night, by Gayle Forman (YA romance)

 

Together, they all look like this:

 

This is a very interesting mix. There is a character in Gentlehands, who is named Skye.  I appreciated that.  She is not a kitty, though. (Also, a bad thing happens to a doggie, and a human who did very bad things is a big part of the book.)  Gentlehands is not exactly a historical book, and it is not exactly a romance, but it was written in the 1970s, which was a long time ago (especially in kitty years) and things that happened in the 1940s, which was even longer-ago (also especially in kitty years,) are very important to the story, and it has romantic elements.

Both Stormswept and Just One Night have strong Shakespearean connections. The male human in Just One Night is a Shakespearean actor, which is to say he is a modern day actor who performs the plays Shakespeare wrote many centuries ago. The story in Stormswept was inspired by what could have happened in Romeo and Juliet, if some things had gone differently, and it is set in the eighteenth century, which is Anty’s focus right now, so she gets points for that.

Anty also says I have to apologize for the fact that comments were submitted, but not posted. Miss Rhonda, and Miss Angelina, I am very sorry. I honestly thought the contact form was an easier way to leave comments. Apparently, it is actually an easier way to send emails. That is now a new thing that I know. Miss Angelina, I will answer your email, because Anty helped me find it again. Miss Rhonda, Anty does not know how I managed to delete your email entirely, but she said it might help if I reminded you that posting can be tricky when one has paws instead of hands. Also, that I am cute. Being cute goes a really long way around here.

Notebook coordination

 

It has been almost a whole week since Anty got her not-a-bullet-journal notebook cover, and things are going pretty well with that. She still pets the cover, but not as much as she pets me, so I am okay with that. She actually does have a list of lists to make in the gridded notebook that is for lists and tracking, but that does not surprise anybody around here. So far, she is making good use of all the different sections, and has managed to color-coordinate her notebook, notepad, pen, and folder, for Her Last First Kiss critique pages.

This week, Anty had a headache that made it not great for writing in time to meet Miss N on Tuesday, so they moved their meeting to Thursday. Anty told Miss N that this was a hard week to write, because of the headache and domestic tornadoes, but that she was not worried, because Miss N is a very good critique partner, and they would figure out what Anty needed to do, to make the scene work. Thankfully, that is what happened, and Anty spent a lot of time yesterday, writing in one of the notebooks inside the pink cover, to dig deeper into Heroine’s head and turn the emotional thumbscrews. Anty loves turning emotional thumbscrews. On fictional characters, that is. She does not do that in real life, at least not intentionally.

Anyway, about this week’s pages, Miss N pointed out to Anty that Hero and Heroine have basically twenty minutes, tops, to go from being people who both know the same other person, to having a relationship of their own. I was not there, because this happened away from home, but I have been home when Anty has had similar reactions, and she usually makes a very interesting sound, and then requires more tea. This challenge made her think she might need a bigger teapot, because she is going to need a lot of tea.

Even so, she is looking forward to taking a metaphorical scalpel to the pages she has already written, and getting in there, deeper, to work the pulse of this scene. It is not going to be an easy one for Hero or Heroine, because they have to come to a place of trusting each other, and neither of them are very good with trusting other people. I cannot say I blame them. When I was a kitten, and mama brought me home from the shelter, I stayed in my carrier for four whole hours until I finally got hungry and figured it was safe to come out. Mama and Anty say my legs were on backorder, because I stayed super close to the ground for a couple of weeks. Then I figured out they were my humans, and it was probably okay to show them how tall I really was. It is like that for Hero and Heroine, but with feelings.

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

skyebanner01

skyebyefancy

Until next week…

 

Sticky Scenes

annabowling 1 Comment

Last night, I stayed up until 3AM, working on a scene for Her Last First Kiss. This is a second draft, not a first draft, but it’s still discovery, and I think I’m still discovering, especially with one particular scene. This is the same scene where the nameless clerk apparently didn’t come back from break, and sent an actual character in his stead. I am fine with that. What I’m not fine with is when I get into the middle of a scene, where I (think I) know what’s happening, who says what, to whom, who does what, when and where, coasting along, and then…nothing.

All the pertinent players suddenly stand on a blank stage and blink at me. Uh, guys, what’s going on here? They only blink more. They were hoping I knew. I’m the writer, after all. Well, yes, I am, but it’s their story. Especially those two. Hero and Heroine. You know who you are. I ordered sexual tension. Who has the sexual tension? Why are you just standing there? In case you haven’t guessed, I really, really, really hate when this happens. Like super hate. I know this story. I love this story. I have already written this story, which is why we call this a second draft, so why, for the love of pregnant hamsters on roller skates, are we doing the blinking on a blank stage thing?

Not that blank stages are inherently evil. I love A Chorus Line. The stage show, that is, not the movie. The movie breaks the conceit of the show, and, if they’re going to do that, why not tell a completely different story, because that’s basically what we’ve got. For A Chorus Line, that is, not Her Last First Kiss. Even the most lavishly designed set starts as a blank stage, and I do know what the jeweler’s shop looks like, who my people are, and what they need to be doing there.

This time, though, it felt…crowded. Heroine has a lot going on in her head. She’s still mad at Hero, but there he is, alongside Character X, whom she also does not really want to see right now, but she doesn’t get a choice on that. She’s also faced with the fact that, even though Hero is annoying the crap out of her, he does clean up rather well (she’ll want to put a sticky note on that for later) and she wants to get her errands done, go the heck home, and put her feet up with a book of Russian fairy tales and a cup of tea (I would not mind that, myself, actually) but nooooo. We are only a smidge past the 25% mark, so of course it is time to turn the thumbscrews.

Which is why flat and lukewarm is not what we’re going for here. I slapped it on the page anyway. I’ll show it to N tomorrow (Tuesday got pushed to Thursday this week, due to a sinus headache and accompanying drainage; mine, not N’s) and she will help me sift for nuggets. When I can’t write the actual scene, a thing I’ve been teaching myself to do is to write about it. That’s the pen and paper version of talking things out. I can do the talking things out version with N tomorrow, so I know the solution is on its way, and I can start looking at the next scene, which is when the tension that gets planted in this scene (or should be planted in this scene) bursts into full bloom, Hero and Heroine are alone together but for servants who don’t count in this context (and who are more into each other, anyway, so not much of a help at the moment. Thanks, guys. :slow clap:)

I employed my BFF, caffeine, kept butt in chair, and booted Character X out of the scene, in an incredibly unsubtle “I’m going to leave now, bye” exit, that is not quite “pursued by a bear,” but I’m starting to think the bear wouldn’t hurt. Also, Character X would scream like a little girl at the sight of a bear, but we’re in eighteenth century London, so bears are not exactly plentiful, especially not in a fancy rich person jewelry store. This will not go down on record as my smoothest transition ever, and I am counting on N to have suggestions on how to de-obvious Character X’s departure, but, once I got Character X out of the way, Hero and Heroine at least started talking to each other, and we did get incidental physical contact, so I am going to count that as  a mark in the positive column.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Recalibration Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Even if this were not Friday, you would have been hearing from me anyway, because Anty is still recalibrating from the last couple of days. For those of you who are new here (first of all, hello) hot weather makes Anty sick, and we had two very hot days in a row. Those were yesterday and the day before. Those days were not fun. Then we had a big storm last night, and now the weather is better, but Anty still needs some time to get back into fighting trim. That is an old-timey nautical word that means ready for battle. Or, in Anty’s case, writing, because she kind of needs her brain for that.

In case you were wondering, I do not like hot weather either, since I have a built-in, full -length fur coat, but it is okay. I know where to go to be cool. The hallway floor outside Anty and Uncle’s bedroom is the best for this, because there is linoleum on the floor and there are no windows, so it is cooler and darker than anywhere else. This is what got me the nickname, Speedbump.  It is not my fault that the humans who built this house in 1890 put the hallway where the humans would have to go through it to get to the good bedroom, the bathroom and the kitchen. It is also where the china cabinet and linen cabinet are (actually, they are the same cabinet, china on top and linen on bottom; if you need dishes or towels/sheets, that is where they all are.) As you can imagine, the humans want to be there rather a lot, but I was there first.

Speaking of first, before I talk about anything else, I have to talk about where you can find Anty’s writing on the interwebs, apart from here, which you already know, because you are reading this now. As always, Anty was at Buried Under Romance on Saturday, and this time, she talked about a conversation she had with my Mama (Anty gave Mama a lot of books for Mama’s birthday; Mama had a very happy birthday) about things that make readers not want to read about characters anymore. That post is here, and its link on the main page looks like this:

BURbreakingfictionalcharacters

Even though it is hard for Anty to get enough brain, on very hot days, to write, she can still read (especially when parked in front of a fan, with an ice pack) and, this week, she made some progress. Her Goodreads challenge is here, and, this week, it looks like this:

GRreadingchallenge051917

This week, Anty read:

Road to Riverdale, by Mark Waid, Chip Zdarsky, Adam Hughes, Marguerite Bennett, Fiona Staples (Illustrations) (graphic novel, YA)

and

Follow the Heart, by Anita Mills (historical romance)

This puts Anty only two books behind her schedule, and now it is the weekend, and temperate weather, so signs point to yes for Anty getting back on track. Anty likes books by Anita Mills very, very much, and there are several that Anty has not yet read, as well as many books by Miss Anita that Anty has already read and would like to read again. Not all of them came with us during the Big Move (by accident) so she still needs to fill in some blanks in her collection. Go for it, Anty. I believe in you. Anty is sad that Miss Anita does not appear to be writing at present, but there has been talk that Miss Anita is now involved in animal rescue, so we cannot be angry at her for that. Rescue is how my family and I found each other, so putting pets and families together is still happily ever after in my book. Pun intended.

Okay, I think that is it for Anty on the interweb this week. This week, she mostly wrote on Her Last First Kiss, and a funny thing happened. Not funny ha-ha, because this is not that kind of a book. Funny as in interesting. Anty’s friend, Critique Partner Vicki, asked Anty if Anty’s secondary characters ever changed on her and did something she did not intend for them to do, which made them a different person than she planned. Anty’s answer to that was yes, because that is what happened this week for her.

Without giving too much away (Anty has talked to me about that) Anty wrote a scene that took place in an old-timey jewelry store (Her Last First Kiss is an old-timey story, so everything in it is old-timey.) The clerk was meant to be only a clerk. All he had to do was take out the thing the humans had come to buy, get the human paying for it to sign for it (handing over actual money on the spot would be too lower-class; this is the old-timey equivalent of running the credit card) and then he could go away because the story did not need him anymore. That is not what happened.

Instead, Mr. Solomon showed up. Anty did not plan him; he came in all on his own. Anty says he is a closer, and a master of the upsell. Miss N says he is also a bit of a philosopher, really smart, and she kind of loves him.  Anty kind of does, too. I think he sounds like a cat person. Unless Anty specifically says he does not, I am going to imagine he has cats.

While the nameless clerk who only had to complete the transaction could fill the role, having Mr. Solomon be an actual person cranks up the stakes. Hero’s best friend has to buy something in this scene, that will get him in big trouble later in the story. Hero’s best friend is also rather easily influenced. Put him in with a really good salesman, from Hero’s POV, and we can see the future train wreck (metaphorical train wreck; this story takes place before trains were invented) play out in Hero’s imagination.

Anty says enough of that from me, so I guess that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

skyebanner01

skyebyefancy

Until next week…

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Mapping the Wilderness

annabowling 4 Comments

Technically, I am dressed. Technically, I am wearing makeup. Technically, I have a new daily pages notebook, but I think this one is actually for some other purpose. My brain works like that, so I am not surprised.

Last night, I finished reading Follow the Heart, by Anita Mills, a historical romance set in England, New York, and Canada, during the French and Indian War. Technically, I have my third book hangover in the last few weeks. This is not entirely a bad thing, but it does leave me with the “crap, what do I read now?” part of the book hangover, that makes finding a new book, which I may very well love as much or even more than the book that haunts my storybrain, all that much harder. This is where making a reading list can come in handy, and, knowing me, I really should have one of those. At present, I do not.

This surprises me. I do extremely well with lists, and, since I do have a goal of reading more historical romance, especially eighteenth century historical romance, and specifically the kind of historical romance that does give me a book hangover, from characterization, author voice, etc, having a list would be a huge help, but I don’t have one right now. Part of me still wants to go on instinct/intuition on this one, or maybe I haven’t found the right organizational system yet. I don’t know if I can say that’s anything like falling in love with a gorgeous notebook, deciding it will be the perfect thing to succeed my current morning pages book, getting it home at last, and then my brain won’t quit going back to the two other notebooks I also looked at on that same trip.

The other notebooks had alternating designs on their page spreads, whether two or four variations, and this one (pictured above) has the same pages throughout. Gorgeous, but I’m exactly two weeks away from finishing the notebook I’ve been decorating myself, as it came with plain lined pages. I’ve found I do like the process of customizing the pages, but, if I put decorative tape on the same part of every page, then that adds bulk to that part of the page only, and the middles of the pages sort of cave in. That feels weird when I handle the book, and I don’t need that in my morning pages. Good experiment, glad I did it, but it doesn’t provide the same experience I want in this practice.

What I want in a morning pages book, is a book I can open, see the images already there, and pour out whatever has bubbled to the surface of my brain between waking and caffeine. Such books are out there, even though they may be buried in a sea of books with plain lined pages, and, thankfully, the hunt is part of the fun. It’s sort of like that when I have a focus for my reading, as I do now. That focus for reading is very similar to the focus for writing. Where there is focus, there is organization, and where there is organization, there is, oddly enough, liberty. When I know where the boundaries lie, I can go nuts within those boundaries.

This is one of the reasons I’m excited to greet a new week of writing historical romance. All I have to do is set my story before living memory (anybody here born before 1784? Anybody? Anybody? Bueller? No? Nobody? Going once, going twice…okay, cool. Before living memory, I’ve got.) and ensure that it has an optimistic and emotionally satisfying ending (aka Happily Ever After, or HEA, which, :consults outline and double checks against first draft: Yep, got that, too.) and I am good. I can do anything. An-y-thing.

Pretty exciting, that, and it definitely applies to Her Last First Kiss. This is one of those books that found me, while I was wandering about the metaphorical woods at night, oven mitts on my hands and buckets on my feet, in search of something that could be quickly written and marketable. Yeah, that’s not how things turned out. I wanted Hero to be somebody else entirely, but, thankfully, he didn’t listen to me, and now I have Hero. Heroine, too, looked at my plans for her, snort-laughed, and marched off in her own direction. The two of them found their own way to meet, and, by this time, I have learned that when the characters start mapping their own way through the wilderness, the most logical thing for me to do is to follow them.

Which leads me to today. The scene I’ll be writing was not in the original outline, and it was not in the original draft, but it roared to the surface during last week’s critique session, and has been poking me all through the weekend, when my brain was required for other things. Silly brain. don’t you know by now that the characters are going to make themselves known when and where they will? Today, instead of mucking my way through my imaginary friends sitting around a table and talking, I get to feel Hero’s throat go dry when Heroine shows up at the worst possible place, at the worst possible time, feel the mad flutter of her pulse, because this isn’t any easier for her than it is for him. At this point, it’s nononononononono, they do not want to be around each other, because if they felt the things they might be feeling, this is going to cause big trouble, not only for them, but for a mutual friend caught in the middle, who has no idea they are in the middle, and…:happy sigh: Yeah, I live for this stuff.

Reading the sort of historical romance that I like to write is helpful, even if not always easy, but story in, story out, is usually a good way to go. At some point, after I have my pages for the day written (or on a break in the middle) I’ll pet the spines of my TBR shelf and the still-boxed books from my friend’s visit, and something will come to the fore. If I show up, the books will, too. That’s my story. Pun intended.

 

In The Wee, Small Hours of the Morning

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This past weekend, we saw the removal of old light fixtures and refrigerator, the installment of new versions, other maintenance on our family abode, and welcomed friends-who-are-family from out of state (with juvenile canine, which was a huge plus) so this, again, was not the most writerly weekend, in terms of productivity. Since the only way to get these books written and on their way to readers, is to actually write/revise/submit/publish them, that means butt in chair and fingers on keyboard.

Normally, I like to write in the morning. I am a morning person. Eyes open, feet on floor, caffeine, breakfast, personal maintenance, and let’s go. This doesn’t always work out, in practice. Our family includes two other adults, and one feline, all who come complete with their own needs, schedules, preferences, and habits. All of us have to occupy the same space, often at the same time, so, often, there needs to be a plan B.

This Monday, I shot N a quick email, asking if we could look at some alternative schedules for the week. We’d agreed, last week, to up our goals to two scenes each for critique, and I was having issues with getting one up to snuff. Could we meet later in the week, maybe? Possibly meet twice, so we’d both have time to get the second scene ready? As it turned out, that was not viable, so we agreed on one scene, regular meeting time.

Ulp. This meant burning some midnight oil. In the critique group I’d attended for double digit years, back in the old country, I was known as the only person who had something to read every single time, no matter what. It wasn’t always on the same WIP, and it wasn’t always top of the line, but it always was. My current critique partnership is smaller, only myself and N, but I want to hold on to that title, so there would be pages, by any means necessary.

In this case, any means necessary meant that my butt remained in the chair until three in the morning. The scene wasn’t complete-complete, but I did get it to the point where I could blend it with the one that came after, and, I hoped, eliminate the need for a filler scene I didn’t want to bumble my way through. This is what happens on a second draft for me; dialogue from Scene C really belongs in Scene B, and it should come from Character Y instead of Character X, so that means Scene D is not going to work anymore, and we, instead, get Scene D.2. The jeweler who didn’t even have a name in the original draft of the scene is nowhere to be found, but that’s because Character Z showed up, doing the nameless jeweler’s job, and I kind of want to see him again.

There’s something different about writing in the wee small hours, when the rest of the two-legs in the house are sound asleep. Skye seems to approve of me burning the midnight oil. No choices needed over which human she wants to shadow, as the others are abed, and I am the only one doing interesting things. If I’m listening to quieter music as I work, I can take out my earbud (desktop earbuds are now singular earbud; will fix that soon) and we can listen together, without waking the house.

When I gave N this week’s pages, I told her most of them were written in the middle of the night. She said I should keep it up, as it seems to be working. Huh wuh? I’d worked on last week’s pages in the wee, small hours as well, which I had forgotten, or at least pushed away from conscious thought. N may be on to something. If the middle of the night is where I can get more writing time, then I want to take it. This may be one of the things I find out while doing the left foot, right foot thing through this whole writing process journey.

Like my mother used to tell me, “the more you do, the more you’ll want to do.” Since I was a kid when she told me that, of course I thought she was full of, um, stuff, and merely wanted a few minutes of peace (which, to be fair, she probably did,) but, as an adult, I am more inclined to believe she is right. The creative muscle, like any other muscle, gets stronger with exercise. The more times I can write, the more I can write, and then I get to jabber about fun things like book releases and cover reveals and all that good stuff.

First, though, comes the less glamorous part. First comes the late nights of squinting at the screen, refilling my travel mug full of ice water, and using the walk to the cat food dish as my chance to figure out what would happen if I moved this dialogue from one scene to another, and turned one of the extras into a supporting player.

Missed (Fictional) Connections

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I am a planner. I need to know where I am going, and how to get there, or I will spend an inordinate amount of time circling the metaphorical roundabout, looking for the on-ramp, until I run out of gas and abandon the car entirely and head off on foot. From there, I will probably wander the moors, my lantern held aloft in the whipping wind. In the distance, a wolf howls. In short, this never leads to anything good.

Especially not in the whole area of a sustainable writing career. Which means time to plan. Conventional wisdom, right now, at least as it applies to historical romance, is that the best chances of success (as in financial/sales/building reader loyalty) are with connected books; at least three books in the same story world, preferably five. The most marketable setting right now seems to be Regency England (not my cup of tea) followed by Victorian England (same; I suspect I was born without the nineteenth century gene) and :drumroll please: Georgian England. Georgian England, I can do.  Since I’ve already set my focus, for the time being, on eighteenth century romance, this gives me a place to start, and a foundation on which I can build.

My natural bent, and still my preference, after all these years, is still my first love, the standalone romance. One pair of lovers, one story, one HEA, wave them off into the sunset and then on to something else entirely. Basically, “Well, medieval France was nice :dust palms: I’m thinking…:drums fingers: Gilded Age New York next, and maybe pirates after that. Who’s with me?” That last bit might be best read in David Tennant’s Tenth Doctor voice. Go back and read it in that voice if you’d like. I’ll wait.

I also have a strong preference for selling books over not selling books, so this means it is an opportunity to learn new skills. Last night, I sat in my uncharacteristically quiet office, the window open, no music playing, only the sound of the rain on the street outside, and looked over some options. While I browsed blog archives by other, more successful, historical romance writers, I also poked around my private Pinterest boards regarding projects currently on the back burner. I opened the board I’d kept for my Regency crash-and-burn, and de-Regencied the whole thing in one go. Wiped out every single pin that pegged this story as taking place in that particular era, no exceptions, and, immediately, I felt…relief. Now, what about reimagining this story as a Georgian? Possibilities there. I think it could work. I’d have to move some things around, but the hero and heroine wouldn’t have too drastic changes, and their love story stays the same.

Which got me to thinking about other orphaned manuscripts, set aside at various stages. Would it be possible to take the most viable of those orphans and stick them in the same story world? Now that I’ve accidentally found out how to include pictures in Scapple, I can throw my various people on the same page, along with a bunch of things that inspire me in a more general sense, and start making connections.

This is new for me. Melva Michaelean and I have planned out two more books in the same world as Chasing Prints Charming, but this is the first time I’ll have taken on something like this on my own. It’s an adjustment, and a challenge. Can I make things work together? How are the characters going to fit together, when they’ve been in their own corners up until now? The only answer I have at present is that I will soon find out, and that I will likely surprise myself on more than one level. Thinking in terms of “and,” not “or” is a big help here. I can still write my standalone stories, and I am fully aware that those may be a tougher sell, or present a smaller return than linked books. I am fine with that. It’s a good balance.

The next step here is creating that world. Part of me thinks this could be fun and the other part already has a headache.  To bring this back full circle, I am a planner. I want to know what I’m doing while I figure out what I’m doing, and, at the same time, I want some of the connections to make themselves. That’s probably part of the whole flinging everybody on the same electronic whiteboard process. I already know I’m going to have more than one artistically inclined character, and probably more than one of the gents will wear or have worn regimentals at one time, but those are places where connections can start to form. Where they go from there, remains to be seen.

Last night, while poking around my desk, I found the bunch of index cards, pictured above, with chapter headings written on the top line of each card. I have no idea what project these were meant for, but rather fortuitous that they surfaced when they did. Maybe it’s a sign. What do you think?

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Want vs Need

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I had wanted, no, needed, this past weekend to be one of relaxing and well-filling. That was not what happened. Right now, my mind is scrambled, I have one eye on the clock, because, maybe, if I can get all my morning stuff done by noon (it is almost eleven-thirty now) then maybe I have a shot of getting this day back on track, even though what I want to do most at the moment is unplug from everything, go eat an entire pizza and dig into my towering historical romance TBR pile. Also maybe go to the park and look for baby waterfowl, because we are getting to that time of year. Baby waterfowl make pretty much anything more manageable. Do not ask me how; they probably don’t know, either.

Today, I am in the chair out of sheer stubbornness, and the fact that routine is a big help when things get domestic tornado-y. Butt in chair, check daily task list, put in earphones, select “Go To Work” playlist, and forward we go. Real Life Romance Hero is now chasing down Option C for our lunch date, as Options A and B fell through. There will be food and there will be RLRH, but that, at this point, is all I know.

After that, and after any more work needed on this blog post, if I’m not done by then, it is Her Last First Kiss time, which means rereading the chapter I brought to last critique session, which turned out to be me stuffing a ten pound cat into a two pound bag (that never ends well for anybody) and really needs to be two different scenes, one taking place before the last couple of scenes…arrgh. I’d planned to use the weekend to immerse myself in historical romance, but this weekend turned out to be one of those areas where theory and practice turned out to be two different things. I don’t like when things like that happen, but I dislike not-writing even more, and I dislike postponing critique session, so  my only option is to get the danged pages written. Which means I have to get in the mood. I’m not sure I’m going to get the chance to tuck in with a seasonally appropriate beverage and a few chapters of historical romance, because it’s Monday now, and Monday is back to work.

Last night, I gave Melva the thumbs up on our partial manuscript for Chasing Prints Charming, so today or tomorrow, she will send that on out. That will mean we have our first co-written story under consideration with two distinct entities. That’s a little scary.  It’s been a while. If I were listening to another writer tell me this same thing, I would make a game show buzzer sort of noise and tell them the fact that it’s been a while means it’s high time, and yay, them. That’s not the way I always talk to myself, though that may be a useful skill to acquire.

Only two hundred-ish words to get through this entry, and then I can talk to RLRH about lunch. After that, ready or not, it’s back to 1784, and splashing about in the shallows of a scene that is not in the first draft, but clearly needs to be (this is what second drafts are for, after all.) It’s not going to be perfect. This bothers me, but imperfect pages are a necessary evil. Comparing draft pages to pages in a published book, that has been through multiple editors, packaged, promoted, etc, is an exercise in futility. They can’t be the same, and they shouldn’t be. Where’s the fun in that?

Today, I am tackling this scene because I need to tackle this scene. Heroine needs me. She’s going to be ticked if I don’t spend the time with her today, and she’s not going to move forward if we don’t have this scene, which would mean a lot of her getting all grumbly and glaring at me and nobody is going to have any fun with any of that. I could put things off, but I think that would only make both of us grumblier. Time to put on our big girl panties and wade on into this sucker.

Lately, I’ve been making a concentrated effort to connect with what it is I love most about historical romance, and the historical romance authors who helped me fall in love with the genre. Those are the books and the authors who got my pulse pumping, and had me, on more occasions than I could count, sitting on the floor of a bookstore, either new or used, with a pile of books that I absolutely had to have, but could only take home a limited number. That meant I had to make some decisions. More often than not, those decisions weren’t based on which book was next in whatever series (as most of them were standalones, still my favorite format, and that is a whole other subject) but a gut reaction. Which ones did I need?

Sure, I wanted all of them, but which ones did I need? Which ones would hurt if I put them back on the shelves? Which stories could I not live without until the next time I could come back and comb through the treasure trove on the shelves? In a used bookstore, which books did I not want to take a chance on not being there the next time? Those were (and are) the ones that came home.

On days like this, that’s where I want to get back to; that need. What does Heroine’s scene need to be? What is she going to come out of the book and punch me if I leave out? For those who have not seen the gorgeous image by Sandra Schwab, this is Heroine:

rubyrenderschwabplain

image by Sandra Schwab

She’d do it, too. I love Heroine (Ruby; her name is Ruby, but I still want to call her Heroine when I write about her here) more than I thought I could ever love another heroine again, so I owe it to her to make sure she gets everything she needs. Which means, today, this scene. If I blow off this scene because I’m tired or cranky, I’m going to regret it, and it’s going to follow me into the supposed relaxing I’d be doing instead, which would only make me crankier and less restful. Time to bust open Scapple, throw down the essentials, and start making connections.