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The Gift of January

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Second week of the new year. We’ve had some arctic cold, a bunch of snow, a few domestic tornadoes, but, hopefully, they will soon be winding down.  I’m starting thus entry far later in the day than I had planned, as we have a full house today. Real Life Romance Hero is eager to get back to work, and Housemate is down with a winter bug. Skye is ensconced in her favorite spot in front of the living room radiator, possibly dreaming of how she will finally catch the mousies that live in my phone, the next time I load one of her cat games. Light snow is falling outside, and, by Friday, the subzero temperatures will be replaced by the near-tropical forecast around the fifty degree mark.

Welcome to January. When I went to set up my planner pages for the coming week, I didn’t want to stick with the same color palette that had seen me through fall and this much of the winter. I’d wanted to use a more Christmassy color scheme for December, but, as December was pretty much a poop show, I never got around to that, but it’s January now. There’s a new calendar in the kitchen, RLRH is on the mend, and my schedule is filling with things like critique and writing dates, scheduling a Skype session with Melva, a thirty day writing challenge, and, generally, a return to a focus on the writing life.

JamuaryColorScheme

The sugar skull does not actually appear in my planner. It’s a sticker I slapped over some notes that are of no interest to anybody but me. I’ll fill in the actual events and appointments for the week later; the blog entries due (one, still, from last week) and times when, as per instructed in the workshop, I need to shut the door and do nothing but write.  Last night wasn’t about the planning, or the writing. Last night was about the January-ness of the next three weeks.

I hadn’t thought about January-ness much before. Last night, though, it was all about rifling through my stash of markers, to find the perfect mix of colors that would ground my brain in this particular part of the year. “Icy” colors weren’t right. I didn’t want to feel oold when I looked at my week, or at each individual day. I want to feel present and want to look at the page, want to do the things I have written on it. For some, this isn’t important, but, for me, it is. The right colors help me feel grounded. I am here. I am doing this. Marking off the sections for each day, each heading, stenciling in the letters (my days of the week are in Dutch) and numbers is part ritual, part recreation.

What it is, mostly, is foundation. While I’m normally a December kind of gal, this year, it’s all about January. Kind of cold, but I like cold weather. Kind of gray, but gray is one of my favorite color. This time of year is for new beginnings, and resolutions, and getting (back) in gear, and I can very much identify with all of that. Maybe it doesn’t come with as many sparkly lights as the Christmas season, but I do have a string of white fairy lights that will, at some point, be going up around my desk area. January does, however, come with calendars and planners, of which I highly approve.

Right now, the only writing tracker I have going is titled Did You Write? One box for each day. If yes, it gets filled. If no, it gets an x. So far, it’s all solid colors. I’m calling that good. Said colors started out in an icier palette, which put me too much in mind of Disney’s Frozen, which I have not seen, but the colors from my planner; those feel right. Those bring the January-ness to the fore, and make me want to fill in those boxes.

The start of a new year has a lot in common with getting back to normal life after a crisis. Some of the dust takes a while to settle, but the whole start as you mean to go on thing has a lot going for it. Even if I’m not feeling it on a particular day, that hour (at least) with the door closed, when I cannot do anything but write, that’s as important as the rest of the things on my schedule.

That’s the gift of January; the barrier of a closed door, the open page, the invitation for imaginary friends to come and do their things, no matter how crazy “real” life has been. How crazy it still is, for that matter. For me, this January comes wrapped in warm greys, soft blues, and muted greens, in pages and possibilities, and the invitation to, for at least that hour each day, leave the “real” world on the other side of the door. January sticks a stake in the ground, to mark the importance of story time, and my dedication to it. I think January may become one of my favorite months.

TheWriterIsOut

Typing With Wet Claws: Uncle Smells Like Vet Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for the first Feline Friday of 2018. It is very cold here, in New York’s capitol region. Yesterday, we got a lot of snow, so much that Anty and the writer friend she was supposed to meet for lunch had to move that meeting for next week, because the humans had to stay home and stay safe. Tomorrow will be very, very cold, so Anty and Mama plan on staying put (Uncle will probably have to go to work) with blankets and hot drinks, and, hopefully, some books, but that is not the most important thing I want to talk about this week.

Normally, I have to talk about Anty’s writing first, but this week is an exception. This week, Uncle got very sick, and Anty had to call special humans to come and help him get to the Right Now People Vet. Anty put me in Mama’s room, with two bowls of water, before they came, so that I would not get in anybody’s way, or get too scared. I could still hear things, though, and Uncle smelled very sick. It took seven humans and a special chair to get Uncle into the carrier, and then to the Right Now People Vet. They kept Uncle there for two nights, to make sure that he was really okay. They did a good job, because, yesterday, Uncle came home. He did not smell sick anymore, but he did smell like vet.

I do not like the smell of vet, and that includes people vet, but I do like the smell of Uncle. He came home yesterday morning, in the middle of all the snow. I had been curled up in front of Heater, and then I heard a human at the door. Then the door opened, and it was Uncle. I ran to him, at top speed. He is my favorite, and I love him the most. I was not happy while he was gone. Today, I went to Anty and cried, when Uncle stepped outside for a minute. Then he came back and fed me, and I was happy again. I let him know I do not like closed doors, because I need to be sure that he is okay and that he is still here. I even let Anty know that I do not like her and Uncle being at different ends of the apartment, because I want to see both of them at the same time. I will calm down pretty soon, but, right now, I want to keep making sure.

It is kind of like that with Anty and writing. I am going to save the real start of the year post for next week, because Anty’s attentions have been mostly elsewhere this week. She did post at Buried Under Romance on Saturday, taking a look back and a look forward, at the same time. That post is here, and it looks like this:

BURhappynewyear

Normally, this is the place where I bring you up to date on Anty’s Goodreads reading challenge, but this has been a special week, so I will stat off the 2018 reports next week. Anty only got a little bit of reading time this week, and she ended up DNF-ing two different books. DNF, in the reading world, means did not finish. Anty does not like to do this to book, but, this week, that was the right thing to do. Anty does not want to say which books they were, but both of them were anthologies. One was historical romance, and the other was YA. Maybe Anty will try them again, later. Right now, she is reading the new version of a favorite classic historical romance, and that will probably be her first review of the new year.

All told, Anty read ninety-nine books in 2017. Because of all the commotion this week, I did not get an exact percentage of historical romances in Anty’s reading this year, but if Anty did not make her goal of fifty percent, she came close. If I count the historical fiction with strong romantic elements, I think she probably did, but it was close. Part of that is because Anty found a lot of new authors in YA fiction this year.

For this coming year, she will still be reading a lot of YA, but she also wants to tighten her focus on historical romance, and, specifically, the kinds of historical romance that remind her why she is in this writing business in the first place. Because Anty’s second love, after writing, is planning and organizing, she came up with the perfect tool:

bujpreadomggpa;s2018

 

The TBRR stands for To Be Re-Read, and that means reading books that she has already read, that made a special impact on Anty, with an eye to taking note of what, exactly, made that impression, and how it did that. The TFR should probably be TBFR, which stands for To Be Finally Read (or To Finally Read, either way.) Those are books Anty has always meant to read, but never got around to reading before now. There are twelve in each list, one for each month in the new year. The plan is that, when Anty hits a lull, or she does not k now what she wants to read, she can pick one book from these lists, and, by the end of the year, have them all completed. Since that would be twenty-four books, that would also make a nice dent in her goal of ninety books (she is keeping the same goal for this coming year) in 2018.

Mrandmrsgothyclaus2017

Happy Holidays, from Mr. and Mrs. Gothy Claus.

Now, back to writing, because that is the bigger focus. When Anty and Mama came home from the people vet, where Uncle had to stay, Anty immediately put on some special gloves and took a trash bag and collected things that the Right Now People Vet Helpers had left behind. There were wrappers from things they had to unwrap, to help Uncle, and some other things that do not make good kitty toys. Getting those things out of the way was part of getting everything back to normal, so that we could all do what we needed. It is kind of the same thing with writing. Once a crisis is past, it is time to pick up the debris, and get back to business. I think that is a good way to start the new year.

That is about it for this week, but there is a whole year of Feline Fridays ahead. Let’s make it a good one. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

skyebyenew

see you next week

 

Seven

annabowling 3 Comments

If, for any reason, anybody needs to know how many paramedics can fit into the hallway and one very small room of our apartment, the answer is seven. One guess as to how I know. Thanks to aforementioned first responders and the hospital staff, Real Life Romance Hero will be fine, but that was not the way anybody wanted to start off the new year. Though I am posting this entry on Wednesday, it is technically Monday’s post. I will figure out where the Wednesday post goes, later.

Right now, there is laundry to do, and a long-awaited e-book on my Kindle, to read while said laundry is doing its thing. After that, it is time to check on RLRH at the hospital, and, most likely, convey him home. As Housemate often says, at least we are not bored. She is right: we most certainly are not even remotely close to bored. Tired, yes, but not bored.

This may not, objectively, seem like the best time in the world to participate in a month-long writing challenge, but, almost predictably, that is exactly what I am doing. I highly suspect I may be a unicorn in this particular group, as other participants seem to have a wide array of writing goals that do not involve commercial fiction (or fiction at all) but that’s fine. This isn’t that kind of challenge, at least not at this point. We will see how things go, but, so far, two assignments given out, two completed, so I will consider myself off to a decent start. Begin as one means to go on, and all that stuff.

Usually, for me, the big winter holiday is Christmas, and that’s still my favorite. I have every plan of having a more traditional celebration next year. This year, though, it’s the new year that has me excited. A friend and I stayed up, over Skype, on New Year’s Eve, to watch 2017 die. It’s been that kind of year. With a new year come new possibilities. Foremost among those is reclaiming my writer identity.

It’s easy for the writing self to get lost along the way, especially when domestic tornado chains rip through one’s family and debris takes its time in settling. Don’t ask me what it is about this particular year that makes it different, but this year, there was a firm, quiet, “no,” when it came to that getting lost thing, and that is probably why I clicked the button to join this challenge. Okay, that and the fact that I know the woman who’s running it, personally, and I may or may not have started writing one of my novels in her kitchen, once upon a time. Spoiler alert: I totally did.

Today’s lesson was on morning pages, which I’ve been doing for a couple of years now. If I dug into my archive of completed notebooks, I could tell you the exact day. Since there is rather a lot of laundry that needs immediate attention, I am not going to do that (at least not today) but I am going to take a moment to highly recommend the practice of morning pages, and the related practice of a brain dump, which can be done at any time. I will be bringing my traveler’s notebook/bullet journal/should probably give it its own name so that I don’t have to figure out how to refer to this thing with me, so there probably will be a brain dump at the laundromat as well.

There is also an equal chance I will flick my Kindle on as soon as I have deposited the last quarter in the washing machine, and spend the entire time with my attention fully focused on Pirate In My Arms, by Danelle Harmon.  There are a few reasons for this. I stayed up until midnight on January first, so that I could make sure, as the calendar flipped to January second, the date the e-book version of this historical romance, first published in 1992, would be available. I didn’t know that, only a few hours later, I would be reading it while crammed into a corner of a tiny room in the Emergency Department, while RLRH let the medication do its work. When Housemate came to join us, she looked at my Kindle, and asked, “Pirate In My Arms?” I told her she knew me well, and then went back to eighteenth century Cape Cod, to watch a proper colonial maiden and a fabled English pirate find that their ragged edges fit together into one unbreakable whole.

I did gobble this book when it first came out, in what seems like another lifetime, so it’s both an old favorite and a new adventure at the same time. That’s what writing fiction feels like, as I look at 2018. I’ve been here before, but it’s still new. Not sure exactly what to take from that, but to keep going straight on through it, eyes fixed on the ultimate goal. By the end of 2018, I want to have at least one new book out there, in the hands of readers, or at least on its way. It’s been said the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and there’s truth to that. It’s a thousand single steps, one after the other, aimed toward the ultimate destination.

Not So Tucked-Away Week

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Normally, in our family, the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day is referred to as the tucked-away week. This year, not so much. This year, we have some domestic stuff to wrangle, and our annual gathering with friends, that usually marks the new year, will be happening a bit later; this year, it will be in the middle of February, shortly after Valentine’s Day. For me, that caps the winter holiday season, so that’s ending things in grand style. Until then, it’s a bit of an adventure.

My Christmas historical romance binge continues apace, and my planner now has two full pages, listing historical romance novels to re-read, and to finally read, in the year to come. Writing-wise, big goal is to get at least one book out there in 2018. Finding more freelance blogging work would be fabulous, too, and, once the dust settles, that’s definitely on the agenda. None of that can happen, though, without regular work on the works in progress.

That’s easier said than done sometimes, especially when there are hoops to jump through and processes to follow, and getting a stretch of time when one is both conscious and uninterrupted feels like the true holiday miracle. Note that there was no mention of “inspired” or “in the mood.” Sometimes, the anxiety beast has to run itself into exhaustion, and, when that happens, there isn’t a lot of energy left to get excited about much of anything. Thankfully, though, there is a sort of creative muscle memory, and, if I get a pen in my hand, and some paper in front of me, sooner or later, the two are going to connect. I would say butt in chair and fingers on keyboard, but A) Facebook, B) blinking cursors are easy to stare at for hours on end.

I would be remiss here, if I did not mention the irritation of logging into Netflix for my much-needed Being Human fix, only to find that, sometime in the night, a door had apparently appeared and the whole show walked through it.  Pause here for an audible “humph.” Cue fingers drumming on desktop, and half-hearted watching of a British period comedy that should have caught my interest, but, over halfway in, has not. I may need to brew yet another cup of tea and retreat under a fuzzy blanket with yet another Christmas novella, and, maybe, a new notebook.

Those who know me, know that pens and paper are my natural environment, and, given the same, I will produce something. At the moment, I’m not entirely recalling what the official stance is on the writing of commercial fiction during the tucked-away week. My best educated guess is that it permissible, and possibly encouraged, which I will take as a sign that moving in that direction (possibly after a suitable interval of reading, cat in close proximity, is a good idea, and a likely eventuality.

So far, this year, I have watched precisely one Christmas movie. It was an older Hallmark movie, decently cast, but I have several questions about some of the writing choices. Both my Christmas mainstays, The Holiday, and Love Actually, are readily available, on DVD, as well as streaming. Three, if I count About a Boy, which I do, though, again, I have not watched this year. Okay, four, with the Jude Law version of Alfie. Not technically a Christmas movie as such, but it does have a pivotal plot point at Christmas, so that counts for me. Okay, five, with Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol, which very much is a Christmas movie, as well as the first movie I ever saw, so double nostalgia points.

This year,  the tucked-away week does not feel all that tucked away, but I still like to think that the spirit of it remains, even if concentrated in small doses, instead of evenly spread out across a long, lazy week. There are still plenty of Christmas cookies, and holiday leftovers, which are an essential part of the week, and the new month, and new year, start on a Monday, which is an absolute delight for migrating to my new bullet journal/planner. Maybe that’s the best part of the tucked-away week (even when it’s not so much tucked away)  the looking forward and looking back, at the same time. The putting to bed of one year and the fresh start of the next.

At this point, some bloggers would stop writing, pick up their cat, and sing “The Circle of Life,” but I am not one of those bloggers, Skye is not one of those cats (she is a floor girl) and I was kicked out of robe choir in high school, for having a bad voice (teacher’s own words) in front of the whole class (I did not mind terribly, as I got to read -you guessed it, historical romance novels- instead of singing, while everybody else proceeded with business as usual.) Instead, I will put the kettle on the stove, plop a fresh teabag in my cup, and rest in the knowledge that a librarian will have series three of Being Human ready for me in a matter of days, and I can work my way down my movie list, with Christmas movies nudged to the top. Probably.

The tucked-away week probably started as a way to extend my favorite holiday, Christmas, but turned into its own thing, at some point I can’t and don’t want to pinpoint. More than anything else, it’s a time to pause from all the rest of life and focus inward, on family and friends, imaginary friends included, and gear up to start the new year with a fresh perspective. This year, I am more than okay with that.

TheWriterIsOut

Heroinecentric

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The image in the desktop wallpaper I am currently using is not me, nor is it mine. (It isfrom Pinterest, and it is here.) The notebook, with the Eiffel Tower and the woman with the red umbrella is, again, not me, not my picture, but it is my notebook, because I bonded with it, sitting there in a travel themed display in Barnes and noble. The notebook was sitting there in the display, I should mention. I was standing on the floor, like a normal person. Like a  normal person. Writers are not normal people. Some of us bond with notebooks in bookstore displays, for one thing. That should be an indicator right there, forming bonds with inanimate objects.

Not that it’s the objects themselves (not all the time, anyway) but what the objects represent, and, if they have one (or more) of the writer’s favorite motifs, then chances for bonding are higher. In this case, both images show a lone female figure, facing away from the viewer, and there is some sort of inclement weather situation. There is also outerwear. Throw those all together, maybe toss in a dreamy sort of filter, and it is a perfect storm. That sucker will draw me like an industrial strength magnet.

I don’t know when I first noticed that I liked this sort of image, but it does fit with my preference for stories, especially historical romance, that are heroine-centric. Not that I’m not into the dudes. Real Life Romance Hero is a dude. In fact, he is my favorite dude, and that includes all dudes who ever duded, hence his status as Real Life Romance Hero. Most of the romances I’m into include a dude, and so do the romances I write. I, however, am not myself a dude (RLRH can attest to this) which may be part of the reason I gravitate to heroines first, most of the time.

Not that I don’t love the heroes in my (and others’) books. That’s kind of mandatory when writing romance. These are 100% the heroine’s guys, but I have to be in author-love with them, or it’s going to be difficult to get said dudes to their HEA in believable fashion. I need to fall in love with them through the heroine’s eyes, because, let’s face it, she’s really the one who’s in love with them, and it’s her HEA as much as his. Theirs. This is not my day for pronouns, at least not until I have had more caffeine.

As far back as I can remember, it’s been the heroines that are my anchors to stories, whether read or written. The heroine’s skin is the first one I tend to climb into when I write, though there are exceptions. The hero and heroine of Her Last First Kiss came to me at the same time (convenient when they’re considerate like that, and, with these two, I would like to say that they walked into my office, already holding hands, though they don’t even know each other for the first couple of chapters. Time works differently for this sort of thing, but that’s another story.) and there is one back-burnered story, another Georgian historical romance, where the hero crashed what was supposed to be a regularly scheduled writing session for A Heart Most Errant, a medieval, turned the chair opposite me around, straddled it, and informed me I’d be writing about him that day, instead. Can’t argue with a hero like that, though, and, since I write romance, I knew that a heroine befitting him would not be far behind. (Spoiler alert: she wasn’t, and I look forward to getting back to their story soon.)

One of these days, I am going to track down the blog post (and do not ask me on what blog, because, at this point, I am starting to think it was probably a guest post) where Ilona Andrews wrote about teacup romances (books where characters, especially the heroine, could carry a cup of tea throughout the entire book and never spill a drop) and slapping kings (self-explanatory) and probably print it out and post it where I can see it every day, because yes. This. (Well, That.) As much as I love tea, and, generally being British, and generally living in periods when tea was known to and available in the British Isles (and other parts of the empire) they do drink tea, which therefore means that they are likely to carry teacups at some point, if I have a choice between carrying teacups and slapping kings, it’s king slapping, every time. Full disclosure: I have not read any of Ilona Andrews’ novels, as SF/F can be a hard sell for me, but never say never. I suspect I might like the kind of heroine she writes. (They write, as Ilona-the-writer is really Ilona and Gordon.)

There’s one more thing that draws me to these sorts of images, and, perhaps, to these sorts of stories. I love the heroine’s journey. Life was not always as easy for women in previous eras (not that it’s a cakewalk now, by any means) and finding out how the heroine is going to get what she wants, within the strictures of her time and society has always caught my interest. Figures, then, that when I need to figure out things in a story of my own, getting outside and taking a good long wander usually gets things going. So far, I have not been able to convince any photographers to follow me, but, again, never say never. For romance heroines, (and, one would hope, their writers) anything is possible.

Making a List and Checking it Twice

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

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

RLRHoffice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Ten Days to Christmas Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for our regularly scheduled Feline Friday. It has been a quiet week here, as Uncle continues to get better, Anty continues to battle the cold, and Mama gives both of them a wide berth, because somebody has to be healthy in this family. With the lack of human supervision, I have found the winter and holiday frames for pictures, so I will play with those for a while. Nobody here is going to stop me.

Even though I am not supposed to talk about anything else before I tell readers where they can find Anty’s writing on the interwebs (besides here, though even this is mostly me, this week) I do not think she will mind me taking a minute to wish Happy Hannukah to all of our Jewish and Messianic friends. Hannukah is a wonderful time of year, filled with the richness of history, the importance of faith, and, best of all, dreidels, which are the perfect size and shape for kitties to bat around the floor, especially when the humans are all in bed. Our family is not Jewish, so I have not had the pleasure myself, but that is what I have heard from kitties whose families are. Happy Hannucat, and bop one under the couch for me, okay?

This week, as always, Anty was at Buried Under Romance on Saturday. This week, she talked about the gift of romance, in more ways than one. What ways you ask? Pop on over to Anty’s post, and see. That post is here, and it looks like this:

BURthegiftofromance

Now it is time to talk about Anty’s progress on Goodreads. Since she has already read past her goal of ninety books for the year, we can count that a success and start looking ahead to next year. Anty did not get a lot of reading done this week, understandably (although she did make good use of Netflix, and has been taking some good naps) but she did read her ninety-second book of the year, and wrote a review. That review is here, and it looks like this:

GRthedisenchantments

Anty has been eyeing a few historical romances as she battles this cold, so I am sure that she will have more to say on that front by this time next week. Writing should be better this week, as well, as Anty gets her brain back, Uncle returns to work, and the Christmas season kicks into gear. Normally, by this time, Anty is in full Christmas mode, but it has been an unusual week. There are, as of yet, no decorations up, but Anty plans to get things more festive looking by the start of the new week. She had better, because that is the last week before Christmas. She has pulled off better in less time, so I have no doubts. A couple showings of Love Actually and The Holiday, and she should be good to go.

One encouraging sign in that direction is that, today, Anty finished writing in her overflow notebook. Every morning, Anty writes morning pages, and when she is done with those morning pages, she has to stop. Sometimes, though, she does not want to stop, or she wants to do a brain dump at a time that is not morning. That is where the overflow book comes into play. Anty first started writing in this book in 2010.

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I do not mean that it took Anty seven years to fill one notebook. She was not sure at first what she wanted to use this notebook for, so she had several false starts. She would write a few pages, feel it was not right, stop, put it away, sometimes for years, and then take it out, to try again. At first, it was lists of things Anty likes, then some other things, and, in time, it became the overflow book. Today, when she saw she had only a couple of pages, she used those pages to set some writing goals for the year to come.

I will let Anty tell you about those in a future blog entry, but she likes that she was able to write down some concrete goals on the last page of a book she started a long time ago, not knowing what the book’s purpose would be. Now, she gets to look through her notebook stash and pick another. I do not think it will take her seven years to fill this next book, especially since she now knows what an overflow book is.

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

skyebyenew

see you next week

 

Sixty-Two

annabowling Leave a comment

This time, I am not bothering to move the tissues out of the picture. They are part of my life now. Many thanks to Skye for filling in for me on Tuesday. I am somewhat more vertical today (somewhat) and Real Life Romance Hero is doing quite well. Today, mostly, I have been forgetting where I leave my tea mug (Real Life Romance Hero says he always knows) which results in me wandering the length of the apartment, wondering where I left the darned thing, hoping I can find it before it gets cold and I have to make more tea. So far, I have found my mug on top of the dresser outside of Housemate’s room, on the edge of the bathroom sink, and on the shelf in front of the doors on the china cabinet in the hallway. That’s only today.

Needless to say, if I can’t keep track of a mug of tea (anybody who knows my love of tea can attest to this) keeping track of fictional characters is a stretch, so this is not my best novel-writing day. Which means, of course, that I turn to my next big love, planning. Back in June, I stuck my foot in the bullet journal waters, and now, as we approach the end of the year, I am also approaching the end of the first notebook I set aside to track various aspects of life, and of the writing life.

So far, I have not found a writing tracker that works, which is okay. That means I am ruling out trackers that do not work, and my right one is out there somewhere. Not all of my trackers are going to make it to the 2018 book, but all have served a purpose. When I sat down to decide what would carry over and what would not, it felt natural to divide things into categories. That way, all the health pages could be together, all the writing pages could be together, all the reading pages, etc, etc, etc. After figuring out which sorts of pages I wanted to make for the new notebook, I had to figure out how many pages I’d need to set aside for each one. This involved counting and math.

I do not trust my counting, and I am not great at math. Prevailing theory is that I opted out of the math unit, and had extra stories take up that brain space instead. At least that’s the explanation that makes the most sense. I would mention how many times I went over these numbers, but, again, math and counting, and, when I finally noticed that the edge of overthinking loomed perilously close, I came up with a good enough number, sixty-two. Really? Was I sure? Eh, not entirely, but again, good enough.

So. Sixty-two pages, to keep track of goals and essential information. Some of that is personal, so, instead, we are going to skip right to the important stuff. Writing and reading. My reading tracker, for pages read and books read, are carrying over, because I hit the right ones the first time. The writing trackers, ehhh, I found two this year, that don’t work. I’m disappointed at that. Somewhere in those sixty-two pages, there should be something to track what I love to do the most, and what I am fully intending to make my life’s work. I have six pages allotted for that, though exactly what is going to be on those six pages, I have no idea.

This both bothers and excites me. Bothers, because I like to know what’s going to happen before it happens, and excites me because it means there are unlimited possibilities (except for the two trackers I tried already; sorry, guys) ahead. That’s kind of like my writing process in general. Right now, I know that, in 2018, I want to get the second draft of Her Last First Kiss finished and off on submission, or figure out an indie publishing plan. I want to get A Heart Most Errant to good enough status and off to its very patient beta readers. I want Melva and I to complete a first draft of Drama King, and, hopefully, find a home for Chasing Prince Charming. I would like to write a historical romance Christmas story, and find that a home. Finding a new freelance blogging gig would be pretty sweet, too, so we’ll put that on the list.

That’s good enough for now. If those are the goals, then the way to get there is clear. Take one step at a time, in that direction, and try not to over think it. There is a Yoda voice in the back of my head, that says “do or do not, there is no try,” but I’m not listening to Yoda right now. Part of that is due to a stuffy head from this cold, and part of it is due to stubbornness from being me.  I don’t know what 2018 is going to hold, and I do know that it probably won’t fit neatly into sixty-two pages, but that’s okay. The discovery is part of the journey.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Special Snow Day Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for a special Tuesday edition of Typing With Wet Claws. This entry is already special, because it is Tuesday instead of Monday, and it is special because I am blogging for Anty. It is also special because today is a snow day. Anty loves snow days. My picture today was taken when Anty informed me I would be blogging today, instead of her. There are a couple of reasons I am writing her blog today.

Yesterday, we took Uncle to the Right Now Human Vet. He did come home, and was not wearing a cone of shame, so I gather they helped him feel better. He is napping right now, but he people vets are very good at making humans feel better. Anty is not napping, even though she is tired, because she has a cold.  It is the kind of cold that makes her forget where she put things (including important things like her water bottle and box of tissues) and she is not sure if she wants to wash the mountain of laundry or stick a flag in it and claim it for Mars. Claim them for Mars, really, because there are two laundry baskets, but only one is overflowing. I think they smell fine, but the humans have other ideas. I do not understand humans.

Even though Anty took a picture of me waking up from a nap, she would not let me take a picture of her in return. At least I think that is Anty under the pile of blankets. Every once in a while, a hand comes out from the blanket pile, to grab a tissue or book, so it is probably her. She may drag herself to her desk and make some attempts at writing. Her desk currently looks like this.

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Anty insisted on removing the tissue box before taking this picture.

When Anty first dragged herself out of bed this morning, the outside looked like this:

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This is the view from our balcony. I am not allowed on our balcony.

Anty loves snow, and she especially loves snow days, when plans get canceled because there is so much of the white stuff on the ground that humans (I should say most humans) prefer to stay inside rather than go out in all of that. Since I was rescued when I was six months old, I have never been outside in winter, so this is all hearsay, but I have been told that white stuff is cold, and makes snowballs on the fur of us fuzzy kitties who do go outside. No, thank you. I will stay inside, sit in front of space heater, and ask Anty to turn it on for me. Not for the humans (okay, maybe Uncle, because he is my favorite and I love him the most.) For me. We cats put the “creature” in “creature comforts.”

Normally, Anty would be out in all that white stuff, probably taking pictures, and, in the best of all possible worlds, she would somehow manage to time things so she could walk through all the holiday lights in the park, at sundown, with a takeout cup of hot cocoa from her favorite coffee house, to fuel her. That is not happening today. What is happening today, instead, is that she will stay inside and drink a lot of liquids, stay under her blanket pile, and read books. I, as her dedicated mews, will stick close by, in case she needs comfort, inspiration, or love beams. Unless Uncle gets up, that is, because he is my favorite and I love him the most.

Anty can still have the hot chocolate, because we have some in the pantry, and there is an outside chance (pun intended) that she may pile on the outerwear and head to the laundromat anyway, because 1) Anty does not appreciate the fragrance of a good laundry pile, and 2) she actually finds laundry relaxing, and uses the wash and dry times to read and write. Both of those things are things that she can do here, with me nearby, so I do not see the need for venturing out.

What I do see the need for, and I think Anty would agree, is taking advantage of what might seem like downtime. We cats know that naps are important. We did put the “cat” in “catnap,” after all, and it is often in those quiet moments, where a person is not really awake and not really asleep, maybe even a little fuzzy-headed, (by this, I mean inside their brain, not fuzzy like kitty fur) that the internal critics are also taking the day off, wrapped in their own blankets, feet in fuzzy slippers, sipping cocoa, and criticizing each other instead of the writer humans. When this happens, the writer’s imaginary friends are free to play, without the governing eye of those critics. Since Anty is feeling out ideas for maybe writing a Christmas story next year, this could be the start of something.

Personally, I think she should start space heater and then open another pouch of cat food, but that is only a suggestion.

I think that is all for today, so, until Friday, I remain very truly yours,

skyebyenew

see you Friday

 

 

Taking The Long Way Home

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According to Goodreads, I am ninety-eight percent of the way to my goal of reading ninety books in 2017. Since it is the fourth of December, with a bunch more days left in the month, and only two more books needed to reach my goal, I think it’s safe to say I am probably going to make it.

What interests me about tracking my reading this year is that I have been reading a lot more YA than I had expected. The last historical romance novel I read was To Love Again, by Bertrice Small, a reread, and it most certainly did hold up from my first reading. I’ve read seven books since then, all YA, Between that reread and the last historical romance prior, Tyburn, by Jessica Cale, I read nine books, again all YA. This past weekend, though I have two historical romances in my currently reading shelf, and am eager to read two more historicals, written by a writer friend, and had happily scooped four historical romances (three novels, one Christmas anthology) from the shelves on my last library run, Friday saw me without any YA reads, which meant another trip to the library for another armload. I’ve read two of those books since then.

This definitely bears some examination, especially since my secondary reading goal for this calendar year was to have at least fifty percent of my reading consist of historical romance novels. Am I going to make that one? Maybe. If not, I’ll be close. Does almost count in reading goals, like it does in horseshoes and hand grenades? We’ll find out at the end of the year, I imagine.

The first question that springs to mind is whether I still want to read historical romance, period. The answer to that is easy, and immediate. Yes. Absolutely yes. Oh so very much, yes. The fire that lit in my gut, oh so many years ago, under the brass bed in the guest bedroom, with a paperback pilfered from my mom’s nightstand is an eternal flame. Historical romance is what I love to write the most, and it’s what I love to read the most, so why this big shift in reading this year?

When I look at the assortment of books that I have read over the course of the year, what stands out to me are the common themes. Let’s take genre out of the picture. Several of the YA novels I’ve read and loved have romance in them, even if it’s not the central issue, and/or does not have an optimistic and emotionally satisfying ending. That doesn’t mean they haven’t had the right ending for their individual stories. Some of the stories that resonated the most with me have been unambiguous tragedies. What is common, across the board, though, is what I am going to call grit.

Life in these books isn’t always pretty. In fact, it’s pretty darned rough. The body count is high; siblings, parents, first loves, and yet, our heroes and/or heroines keep going. I like that about a viewpoint character. They’re Weebles. They wobble, but they don’t fall down. If they do, they get back up again and keep going.

To Love Again is set in the age of Roman Britain, and our heroine does some traveling. Not only that, but she has to make the difficult choice between the life she once led, and the new normal, and there are convincing reasons for both choices. Even though I’d read the book before, I didn’t remember what her choice actually was, and I kept turning pages to find out what path she would actually choose. In Tyburn,  set in Restoration England, our heroine is a sex worker. Not the fake kind. The hero moonlights as a highwayman, because he’s not getting paid in his regular job as a tutor, which he took when funding fell through for his continued medical education. There’s one scene, early on, where both are doing their jobs on opposite sides of a shared wall, before they’ve met each other, and knowing who they were, knowing that they were that close gave me physical chills.

That’s what I want in my historical romances,. I want those chills. I want the chance to visit multiple times and places, where life isn’t always fair and relationships are, if not everything, a pretty darned big slice of the pie. I want the chance to read one story, complete in itself, focused on the protagonists of this particular story. All of those things can happen in historical romance.  This may be a signal that I want to look back to the times when I could find those things, in historical romance, on a regular basis. I’m a big believer of story in, story out. Taking in the kind of story I want to put out is usually a good idea.

Does this mean I want to write YA as well as historical romance? I don’t know. Maybe, if the right characters and story make themselves known, it could be fun. Half the time I read YA, my brain starts a side trail about how the story would play out if it were in a historical romance, what could be translated, what could carry over. I can’t turn this stuff off, and I don’t want to, if that were a possibility. I won’t lie; sometimes, it does make me feel a little unicorn-y. When the market says one thing, and my brain pulls, strongly, in a different direction, there can be some frustration there.

The best thing I find, when that frustration hits, is to focus on the love. Not only the romantic relationships in stories of any genre, but the reasons I love historical romance as much as I do. Forget anybody and anything else. Remember the magic that happened when history and romance collided. In the end, it’s all about the love.