personal

Grouse

annabowling Leave a comment

The fact that today’s picture is an off-center banner image should say pretty much everything. The calendar says today is Wednesday, though it was also Tuesday, as N and I moved our meeting this week, to accommodate both our schedules. My brain also says it is Tuesday extension, as, thanks to a sinus headache (thanks, barometric pressure,) I did not sleep last night. This may be one of the reasons I am considering going to bed at slightly after 3PM. I thought about moving today’s blog to tomorrow, but my internal calendar is muddled enough already, and tomorrow is Buried Under Romance post writing day, as well as fiction writing, and I know myself well enough to know when I’ve reached my limit in the stuff-on-my-metaphorical plate situation.

Today, when I walked through the park, on my way to meet N, I noticed a green haze of buds on the willow tree near the lake, and, on the lake, ducks swam. The mallards are back. It’s March first. Even a winter person like me has to admit that all looks pretty spring-like. Had to happen sometime. I could do without the sinus headache, though, but I could not do without my weekly critique session.

Quote from my morning pages, on the pages I brought for N to read:

I have nine pages today, and they are not my favorites, but they are a second draft, and I will make them better on the third pass.

Part of  me wanted to tell N straight out that I wasn’t sure about these pages. That I wanted to take them back and do better. Was sending Heroine to a different part of the house to completely lose her, um, stuff, then take another whack at the whole rational adult thing stupid, ineffective, or insert own personal pet fear here? There are few units of time longer than the time between one’s critique partner putting down the pages and their mechanical pencil, saying “well,” and then completing the sentence with “this is the best chapter so far,” or words to that effect. The parts I was most nervous about were the ones that seemed to work the best for her, which means this may be something I want to do more of in the future, because I love that squidgy butterfly stomach feeling. Hopefully, next time, I can manage something more cool and sophisticated than the squeak of “really?” that actually came out of my mouth. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s the appropriate response, and I should roll with it.

What stands out to me most about the difference from this chapter and the previous ones of this draft, is that I didn’t write it, as much as write it down. I don’t mean that I wrote it in longhand, though I did, in mechanical pencil, in my Big Daddy Precious notebook, but that following Heroine was all I needed to do. I handed her the metaphorical reins, and off she went. She did not mind her language. She got mad. She threw things. She dug up old (metaphorical) bones and wanted something she couldn’t have, and got mad about it. She got loud. She got petty, and she knew she got petty, and she didn’t care, because she’d had one of those days, and y’know what, no regrets. Well, not in that scene. There’s still a lot more story to go, but, for right then…yeah. It felt right. For both of us.

Next chapter is Hero’s POV, and he has no idea any of this has happened, though he has his own issues. It’s going to be an interesting contrast, and, hopefully, some time with a mechanical pencil and Big Daddy Precious (along with some extra research into bathtubs of the eighteenth century) I can take what’s already there and make it better. If it weren’t for the headache, I’d probably be doing that right now, but will retreat to the bedroom with caffeine and Ibuprofen and wait for the weather to break.

Maybe I’ll read, or maybe I’ll lie there with eyes closed and a light blanket. It’s in the sixties, so I don’t need the warmth, but  I like the weight of the blanket. As with writing, go with what works.

 

 

 

 

Breathing Room

annabowling 1 Comment

Yesterday, I played Sims 4. All day. That was it. No regrets. I’m playing this current (game) world rotationally, or, more accurately, pinging back and forth between households, to  ensure that each of my families makes it to the next generation. We will not mention the one Sim I forgot about since he was a teen, and stumbled across, living by himself, as an elder, with none of my created or born in game female Sims of childbearing age unattached. I had him adopt a child, then married a widowed elder female Sim, merely because I want to see how many husbands she can go through before her own time runs out. This dude is her third. I played long enough that a teen aged up to young adult, solving the dilemma of my second adult aged bachelor. The third one is still on his own, but he has two older sisters who have descendants, so I’m not worried about him. He can meet a nice townie, or adopt.

bottleofink

Saturday, I picked up my first bottle of fountain pen ink. I’ve had samples before, and cartridges, but having a whole bottle feels different. It’s a commitment. I am a Fountain Pen Person now. I was before, because I wouldn’t have had a need for the ink if I didn’t already have fountain pens in need of the same, but I have a bottle now, and a box that’s probably going to find itself, at least in part, stuck in an art journal, because it’s beautiful in its wornness. This also means I am going to have to buy some converters, and possibly a syringe (to refill the technically disposable Pilot Varsity pens I hoard like a dragon hoards treasure) but that is for another day.

Today is time to get pages of Her Last First Kiss ready for N’s critique. Tuesday is Wednesday this week, which does not help  my disorientation regarding what day it is but I am glad to have the extra breathing room, to make sure I turn out the best pages that I can. Breaking the habit of holding back can be difficult, though I am up for the challenge. Hero and Heroine have to live out their story the way that it goes, and that means I have to write what happens in the movie in my head. If this means putting stuff on top of stuff, then I need to make sure that’s what I’m doing.

morningpagesaltered

This weekend also brought a trip to the craft store, which meant Tim Holtz stuff is probably going to come home. This time, it was a canister with several rolls of decorative tape inside it. That’s two different tapes used in the frame on the pages above. This particular book had several false starts before I figured out what its true purpose was (my daily task list.) The original pages were too plain, even with the grid lines. Meh. Nothing to see here. Add some interesting borders, though, pattern on pattern, color on color, and now we’re talking. With two weeks left in my current morning pages book, I’m thinking I might consider taking an existing book with ruled pages and adding the interest myself, with tape and a few other mediums.

Which is basically what I’m doing with this draft of HLFK. The basic pages are there already. What they need are the extra touches that make this story unique. Time to climb inside Hero’s and Heroine’s skins and look at the world through their eyes. Sub out any other character for either of them, and we would not be having this story, because those different people would do different things. Those richly textured historical romances, dripping with atmosphere, are the things I love to read the very most, so they need to be what I put out there in the world.

I don’t like veering from schedule very much, but there are times, like this one, where even a smidge of breathing room comes in handy. That gives room to stretch, to observe, to pick out patterns, layer together things that might be two great tastes that taste great together, or they could be a colossal mistake. Thing is, with that breathing room, there is time and space for course corrections when needed. Time to move things around and make sure all is well with the fictional world. It’s not an excuse to slack off, but a chance to make sure things are done as well as they possibly can be done. At least that’s the theory. We’ll see how practice goes.

Typing With Wet Claws: A Writer’s Mind is a Terrible Place Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty  had to check to make sure it is Friday, because it has been one of those weeks. Anty already talked about that here, so I will not go over it again. Suffice it to say that she has been using her calendars more than usual this week, because it has been more than a little confusing. Part of today is still part of yesterday , part of tonight may get moved to Sunday, because Saturday night is the new Sunday morning, and Anty still has not had that nap. She also has not been to her favorite coffee house in two weeks, by her best guess, and that makes her crabby. Nobody likes it when Anty is crabby. That is when she needs an extra dose of mews therapy, which is where I come in. Well, actually, I will come in anywhere as long as the door is open. Yes, that includes the bathroom. If the door is closed, I will sit outside it and wait. I can do that for hours.

One thing that has not changed is that I have to talk about where you can read Anty’s writing from this week, other than here. As always, Anty posted at Buried Under Romance on Saturday. This week, she wrote about the escapist nature of romance fiction. Anty does not like that term, escapist, because she does not find it accurate, but you can read more about that in her post. That post is here, and it looks like this:

bur240217

Anty did not put any new reviews on Goodreads this week, because it was a crazy week, and she mostly wrote before bed instead of read. She hopes to do better on that this coming week, but if you are interested to see what Anty is reading, and you do not already follow her on Goodreads, you can find that out on her Currently Reading page. That page is here, and it looks like this:

grcurrentlyreading

Hmph. Okay, it looks similar to this. There is a reason cats are not widely known as graphic designers. There is not a picture of me on the page. I put it over reviews by other people, because I do not have permission to put their reviews on this post. That is because I did not ask, and, anyway, there can never be enough pictures of me. Some of these books, Anty started reading a while ago, and then life exploded, but that does not mean she is not interested in finishing them, if that is all right with the universe. Anty sometimes yells that part, even if I am the only one around. I know she is not yelling at me, so do not worry about that.

This week has been an interesting one for Anty, which means it has been an interesting week for me. For one thing, Uncle was home a lot more than he usually is. I liked that, because he is my favorite. I do not care that much what he is doing; being around him is enough for me.  Anty likes having him around, too, and he is pretty good about understanding that a closed office door means only knock if there is an emergency or food. Uncle starts his new job this afternoon, so it will be me and Anty again, which is kind of normal. Anty thinks she will probably go to the coffee house so that they know she did not fall into a sinkhole, but she will probably take a notebook instead of her laptop. Sometimes, Anty has to unplug.

When Anty feels all rushed and crowded, then she knows it is time to unplug. Turn off the computer (unless she is playing Sims or chatting with friends) and open a notebook, book or make some art. That is not wasting time; that is filling her well. When she identifies a picture of otters on the computer as “puppies,” then she knows it is time to shut the whole day down and go to sleep. She is still not sure if she has to, at some point, identify  actual puppies as “otters,” to reset the balance, but that is the kind of thing that goes through the mind of a writer when she is stressed.

There is a good side to that, too, though. Another thing that goes through Anty’s mind when she is stressed, is that she needs to write things out to process them. It is like talking on paper for her, which is useful when she gets this need in the wee hours of the morning and all the other humans are still asleep. Later today, after she crosses her essentials off her to do list, she will fill the last two detachable pages of the Moleskine she keeps in her purse. That still leaves her with the decision of what to do with the non-detachable pages, as the whole point of having that book was so that she could take out the pages when she needs to transcribe them, but she will deal with that later.

For now, it is time for her to take the computer back, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

skyebanner01skyebye

 

Unbalanced

annabowling 5 Comments

This week, Saturday was Sunday, Sunday was New Year’s Day, Monday was Saturday, Tuesday was Monday, Wednesday was Tuesday, though I’m writing its post on Thursday, and I could use another nap. Well, nap, period. In the words of Alice (of Wonderland, not Mel’s Diner) I haven’t had one, so how could I have another? The forecast says we may hit sixty-six degrees today. In northern NY. In February.  It’s kind of a mess.

I don’t like messes. My ideal weekend, in fact, would include cleaning and organizing my office. Maybe the dining room too, if I get really wild. I want to put things where they go, turn piles into files; that sort of thing. Yesterday, I kept forgetting what day it was, and exclaimed, “oh, puppies!” when I saw a picture of otters. It’s probably a good thing I am not a veterinarian, if I can’t tell the difference between otters and puppies, and definitely a sign that I need one of those nap things. Also, to get out of the house and be around people who do not share my mailing address. My people meter is low.

Tomorrow, Real Life Romance Hero starts a new job, so Friday will, hopefully, look like a normal Friday.  I could use the routine. Today is part Wednesday, a little Tuesday, definitely Thursday, and my writing/critting commitments for the day take me through past, present and future. This is enough to make me throw up my hands and retreat to a blanket fort, but that would probably be too hot at sixty-six degrees, so blanket fort is not a viable option, even if the blanket fort does have Netflix.

Because Sunday was New Year’s Day, it wasn’t a writing day, or writing prep day, and that made Monday a grumbly, frantically preparing pages for Tuesday morning critique day. Which ended up being moot, because the one time N doesn’t check her email, so she doesn’t see my message, asking if she could please print my pages, because the family car is committed to RLRH’s job interview (this is the job he starts Friday) and I still can’t find what’s jamming the printer that is right next to my desk, so this means there is still a part of Tuesday out there, ready to pop out at me at some yet to be determined time, after N has had a chance to read and comment on said pages.

Tuesday night, which my brain remembers as Monday, even though I know it was Tuesday, I didn’t watch This Is Us, which I love, because I was working on Her Last First Kiss, and, while part of the reason I stayed at the keyboard instead of shambling off to the living room was that I wanted to stay with the story (because N’s comments, when she had me talk to her about the new scene, even though the pages were cozy in her inbox, got me going and I wanted to capture them) another part of it was that my brain was too flat out tired to switch from writing mode to watching TV mode.

Right now, I have a cable knit blanket in my lap, not because I am cold (though I am sitting directly under a ceiling fan) but because I feel more comfortable with something on me, and also because it’s normal. This has not been a normal week. This week also brought the passing of a cousin I hadn’t seen in quite some time, though we had recently reconnected on FB, as well as renewing acquaintances with two other cousins. One of them now lives in the same city where I attended college for two years, and where I met RLRH. Small world.

Today’s task list is a mishmash of things from other days, shuffled around, grafted in and cobbled together. As much as I like making order out of chaos, this feels like a lot of chaos. This is where Anne Lamott’s famous one inch picture frames come into use, as well as Barbara Samuel’s “in this moment,” writing prompt. What do I need to do right now? Do that. Everything else can wait its turn. Right now, it’s this blog entry. After that, tea.

Technically, slipping out to the coffee house this afternoon is actually last Friday, in case my personal timeline wasn’t spiraled enough, but I know there will be tea and I will plug in my earbuds and open a notebook or turn on my laptop, and, as a once upon a time writing group facilitator often said, the practice begets the product. Her rule was that, once our pens hit the pages, they had to keep moving until she called time. It didn’t matter what we wrote on those pages, only that we kept the pens moving. Our brains knew how to write, and, they know that’s what happens when pen is on paper.

There have been many times this week, when I didn’t know what day it was, or 5PM felt like 10PM, 2AM felt like 6AM and 9PM at the same time, but the one thing that has remained a constant is the writing. Hero and Heroine, Girl and Guy, know what they’re doing, where they’re going, and how they’re going to get there. Think I’ll let them drive.

 

 

Off-ish

annabowling 4 Comments

Yesterday, I went to a New Year’s party. A bit later than the usual New Year’s party, yes, but these things happen in life. The dynamic was different than most years, but the company was still good, there were bacon wrapped figs (or maybe they were dates; it does not matter, as they are gone now, and they were delicious) and there were books to swap, which absolutely did happen. I not only came home with an armful of Patrick O’Brien books for Real Life Romance Hero, but a couple of big, thick, emotional historical romance novels, as well as two containers of leftovers, a lovely gift from our hostess, the lovely and talented M.P. Barker, and my brain, or perhaps my body (possibly a collaboration between the two) not entirely sure this was not an actual holiday. I was doing holiday things, after all, and went to a holiday place, where I saw holiday people and ate holiday food. Ergo, holiday.

The calendar is not giving me clear signals in either direction. The block for today says President’s Day, but it also says Monday, and I did haul my tired bones to the laundromat, where I gobbled nearly a third of a Barbara Samuel Georgian historical romance I have been wanting for literally years. We will not go into the brain fog that required me to fashion an impromptu scooping system out of the detergent box I got from the vending machine, so I could scoop the skin destroying remains of detergent a previous patron had left behind in the place where my hypoallergenic detergent goes. That brain fog, though, did give me a clear direction. I emailed N and asked if we could move tomorrow’s crit session to another day this week. N was amenable, and we picked a date.

Then, I took a nap. Hung out with Real Life Romance Hero, who also needs some downtime today. Had lunch delivered, consumed same with the two of us standing at the kitchen counter. Watched one of the food shows on the DVR. Figured I may as well mosey on into the office and get the blog post written, so I could say I did something today. Well, there was laundry, but I mean writing things. There’s a difference.

Though the honor of spending time in M.P Barker’s lovely home now means that it is a holiday, time to stuff myself with food, talk to people I don’t get to see every day, and go home with at least one book I did not possess before, there were many years when being in that house meant that it was Wednesday night, and that meant nag group, which meant I had better have pages ready. Though they weren’t always for the WIP of the moment, there were always some pages to bring, and I greatly appreciate the input I received from the others around that table.

Though I have my Tuesday mornings with N and email check ins with Critique Partner Vicki, I do not have a new version of nag group in my current location, a question I answered a few times yesterday. I will admit to some nostalgia, and I did float the idea of resurrecting some virtual form of those gatherings via modern technology, so we will see where that takes us. I had the chance to chat with some old friends, who are on different writing paths, and meet new people, two of whom asked where they could find my blog. I handed out a couple of cards, and do hope they’ll drop by. :waves hi, in case they are reading this right now:

When the sun set, Housemate and I headed for home (and The Walking Dead, because we have our priorities.) My brain drifted (no worries, I was in the passenger seat) from story ideas, to memories of writing groups past, to current WIPs and the upcoming NECRWA conference, my very first shot at co-presenting a conference workshop. By the time I got home, I had enough energy to watch The Walking Dead and pour myself into bed immediately afterward. I fully intended to push through and do all the stuff I planned on for a regular Monday, but this isn’t a regular Monday, and the week that went before is certainly anything but regular, so maybe a break from routine might not be the worst thing I could do.

Still, I’m  here, writing this, because, dangit, Monday is blog day, and I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t post something. So, this is here. Not really on, not really off, more like that comfortably aimless in between that I usually associate with the tucked-between week. Not that I’m thinking I’m going to get a whole week of that, because tomorrow is indeed a regular Tuesday, and there are chapters to write, that last Golden Heart entry to judge, pages to print, and laundry to put away, but, for today, I’ll take a moment or three, refill the well, so I have something to draw from tomorrow. Tomorrow, it’s on.

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Did Not See That Coming Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. This week, Anty was very crafty with her picture taking. She sat on the floor, in the doorway of my room, while I ate, waited for me to finish, and then she took my picture. I was not prepared for that, but it did give room for me to play with adding graphics, so that is a good thing, even if I did not expect it. This week had some unexpected things in it, but before I can get to that, I have to talk about Anty’s writing first, so I will get to that right away.

As usual, Anty was on Buried Under Romance this week, and this time, she talked about the changing definition of Happily Ever After. Does that mean that the humans never have any problems because they are in love, or does the fact that they are together enough? Does it mean something else? What about Happy For Now? Anty’s post on that subject is here, and it looks like this:

bur170217

Anty was also very excited to read her first Juliana Gray historical romance, because Miss Juliana is also Miss Beatriz. That’s Beatriz Williams, whose historical women’s fiction Anty loves, so she could not wait to see what the same author could do with an actual historical romance. She was not disappointed. You can read her review here, and it looks like this:

aladyneverliesreview

Now we get to the unexpected part of our post, but, since I already said in the title that things were unexpected, you probably expected that. This proves you are smart. I will start with the Anty part. If you read Wednesday’s post, then you know Anty did not expect to twist her ankle inside Panera, when she’d taken pains (see what I did there?) to avoid injury on her way to the place, but that is what happened. Thankfully, it was not a bad twist, and Anty did not even need the wrap on the second day, so it was not a big adjustment, but she is glad that writing involves sitting, and that her office chair is very comfortable. It is cat approved, by its previous owner, but not this cat. I still hate Anty’s office carpet and am trying to guilt her into having it taken out.

The other unexpected thing happened yesterday. Uncle got a phone call to come in to work ahead of his shift, along with everybody else. He was not expecting that, but he did suspect what it might be, and he was right. The company Uncle worked for closed down many of their locations in our region, and Uncle’s workplace was one of them. Nobody had expected that, but that is what happened. Uncle and Anty are not worried, because Uncle is smart and very good at what he does, and he has a plan.

Having a plan helps a lot when the unexpected occurs, which, Anty believes, one should expect. Emergencies and accidents very rarely give advance notice. That is why there is a backup bag of treats in the pantry, and I do know about the kitty laxatives they said we were all done with. Even though we all hope I will not need them again, in case I do, they are there. I should hope I would get one of those emergency treats afterward. But I digress.

Anty likes plans. She likes them a lot. Plans help her stay on track when the unexpected occurs. Get up in the morning, write morning pages, make task list for the day, do the things on the list. That stays the same no matter what happens. It is like an anchor that keeps a ship in place. Sticking to her plan yesterday helped Anty stay calm and trust that things are going to be okay even with Uncle’s big news. When it was time to work on Her Last First Kiss, Anty opened her notebook, got out her pencil, and figured out what the scene needed to make it better.

Plans also help Anty with her goals. Anty loves her sessions with Miss N and Anty Melva, and would like to make faster progress with each draft of these books. That means she needs to find a way of tracking what she is already doing and focusing on the things that will help her do it best. For some writers, setting a word count is very helpful. For Anty, not so much, but if she keeps track of different things about each session, then she can see the patterns emerge. What time of day is best for her (hint: that is morning, even if there are other humans around, so this may require leaving the house on some mornings) and worst (after 2PM, she gets sluggish, and do not ask her for anything between 9-10 PM unless you like to be snarled at; I,personally, do not.)

One thing that has worked for Anty in the past is setting a page count goal. She does not know how this came to be (much like how her electronics came to be pink whenever possible) but she and Miss N generally exchange six pages at a time each week. Anty finds that a comfortable amount to exchange, but she would like to step things up a bit. Maybe not shove a whole pile at Miss N at once, but we are past the initial draft here, and Anty’s story people are eager to meet their readers. It is her job to facilitate that meeting.

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

skyebye

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

 

 

What if I Fall?

annabowling 5 Comments

This week, N and Mr. N picked me up for the weekly critique session, so I wouldn’t have to tromp through the arctic tundra of the park, and risk bodily harm in the ice and snow. Good people, those Ns, but what actually happens? I twist my ankle on my way from microwave (occupational hazard of extroversion; food goes cold while blabbering, and needs to be reheated) to seat. I do not remember exactly what happened, but apparently, I was airborne for a second there.

I do remember my bagel getting some serious air and landing, thankfully, on the table, so no bagels were harmed, but my ankle is another story. My favorite Panera worker rushed over to make sure I was okay and had not hit my face on the table. I had not. I remembered enough to remove my boot in case of swelling (I saw none at the time, Housemate said there was some, when she got home that afternoon) and ask Panera Worker for an ice pack. Panera worker dashed into the back and returned with an impressive bag of ice, and the admission that they live with a nurse, so they know how to make these things. I propped my foot on an empty chair, plopped the ice bag atop it, and returned to bagel preparation. This particular ankle has been noodley since I was but a wee little princess, so this honestly was no big deal for me. Had worse, had wrap for ankle at home, had crutches if needed, I’m there, N is there, we have pages, let’s do this.

Since N and I have been doing this critique thing with each other for a while now, it’s no surprise that we’ve picked up on patterns in each other’s work. The word, “more,” comes up a lot. In Her Last First Kiss, Hero is an artist, and N and Mr. N are both artists, and one of Hero’s preferred mediums is one of Mr. N’s preferred mediums -I did not plan that, it happened that way, as such things sometimes do- so this is an extremely useful connection. In this scene, Hero is one gobsmacked fellow, unprepared for encountering Heroine for the first time, especially in the place and context, and he’s knocked off his axis by the experience.

N marked this passage as one of my “more” places. Hero needed to see more. Sure, it’s nice that Heroine has symmetrical features, but it’s more than that. Her hair isn’t  only “brown,” but sienna and umber and the color a perfect cup of tea is before the milk goes in, and he doesn’t have all his paints with him, but he’s in London, so he’ll have to go buy them and he doesn’t have a painting room here yet and uh, what did the other people in the room just ask him? He wasn’t really listening. Oh crud, she looks impatient. How long was he off in art world? Stuff like that.

This is good. This is stuff I need to know, to bring Hero and Heroine’s story and their world to life on the page. It’s also scary. That lush detail stuff is what I love in historical romance. 1784 people are not 2017 people. They have a whole different frame of reference. Hero is always going to see in terms of lines first and then colors. Heroine is always going to want to make order out of chaos (and Hero is pretty much a whole lot of tall, ginger, misunderstood chaos on two legs) so that’s always going to affect the choices they make, and the windows through which they observe, and participate in, their world. This is why I go for emotionally complex historical romance over, say, funny contemporary (which is a whole other skill set.)

At the same time, it requires silencing (or at least muting) years of “whittle it down” and “make it simple” and “fast, fast, fast” and other commonly heard pieces of writing advice, some of which are not as well suited for this kind of story. There is no writing cabal that has hard and fast compulsories on this kind of things. To put it in terms Hero can understand, I get to color with all the crayons in the box. The good thing about that is that the combinations are endless; I can dive in, go nuts, put hot pink next to red-orange and scribble gray on top of the whole thing. I can work it so that the difference between blue-green and green-blue makes total sense, throw a neon in with a pastel if that’s what the particular picture needs.

The scary thing about that is also that I can go nuts. More combinations means more combinations that could go wrong, and what if “they” don’t like it? Oh, but, what if they do? Ships in harbors and all that rot. I’d rather take the chance than be safe. As Critique Partner Vicki once said, “intentionally go too far.” It’s easier to take out than to put in, very much so. So that’s what I’m doing now. Making notes on where I can do that whole “more” thing, and then moving along as though I had already made those changes. I’ll get those on the next pass. My goal is to get this book out in the world, on an editor/publisher’s desk, or on the road to indie release, before December.

Am I going to fall somewhere on that road? Yes. That’s not what matters. What matters is that I get back up, ice that twisted extremity, and dive in as deeply into the characters and their world as I possibly can. Kind of appropriate that my ankle twisted before the critique session began, in that regard. By the time Mr. N came to collect us, I was ready to see if I could put weight on my ankle (I could) and Panera Worker came back by our table with a big smile and a free pastry ring, to make the day better. I’m pretty sure not all rewards of keeping on keeping on in this writing game come with cream cheese and cherry filling, but, sometimes, they do.

pastry-ring

Typing With Wet Claws: Conference is Coming Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday.  This week, you get a greatest hits picture of me, because  Anty’s mail server loves the picture she took of me this morning so much that it does not want to send it to her desktop and wants to keep it all to itself. We are now in the second month of 2017, which is probably my birthday month. When Anty and Mama found me at the shelter, the vet said I was about ten months old, which means, since that was December, I must have been born in February. Maybe I am even a Valentine baby. Anty thinks that would be fitting, and, since part of her job as a writer of historical romance, is figuring out what could have happened in the past, we are going to go with that. More on that later, because, first, I have to talk about Anty’s writing and where you can find it.

First, as always, Anty has her Saturday Discussion post on Buried Under Romance. This week, she talked about books that become movies, in reality, or in readers’ minds. That post is here, and it looks like this:

 

BUR01feb17.png

maybe Anty should put the funny pictures at the top of the post?

The next two links are kind of sneaky, because they are not whole posts, but posts where Anty helped at Heroes and Heartbreakers. First, like every month, Anty got to say what her favorite book of the month is, and, this month, it was a book she already wrote about on that site, which she liked very much. That post has recommendations from other H&H bloggers, too, so it is possible, in theory, to get a whole TBR list from one post alone. That post is here, and it looks like this:

hanhbestreads

The other link is really the sneaky one, as Anty did not write the quiz, (Anty loves taking this kind of quiz) one of the potential results comes from a post she wrote, about a hero she liked very, very much. So, though Anty is not in that post, one of her favorite characters is, so she thought I might like to include it in my post anyway. She was right. That post is here, and it looks like this:

 

handhbookboyfriend

 

Now that it is February, that means April is only a little bit away, and that means it is almost time for the NECRWA conference. Anty loves going to that conference every year. Sometimes, people tell her how much they like my blog. My blog. Let us spend a moment on that, if we may. As Anty once said, when a fellow writer asked her how she comes up with new ideas for her blog every week, the key is to get a cat to write one third of the blog posts. I do not know if that will be part of her “Blogging Isn’t Dead” workshop, which she will be co-presenting with Corinna Lawson and Rhonda Lane, but I would not be surprised if the topic came up at some point.

The approach of conference time means that Anty has some work to do, not only to get together with Miss Corinna and Miss Rhonda, to talk about what they are going to say (and who is going to say what, specifically) or connect with people she definitely wants to talk to that weekend (Anty is an extrovert, so basically everybody) or what she is going to wear, but really important stuff. I know what you are thinking, and we can cross the most important item off that list right now. Uncle will feed and play with me while Anty is away. Conference weekend means Uncle and Skye weekend, so it is a holiday for me, too.

The really important thing Anty wants to focus on this year is her own books. Since she has a first draft done of Her Last First Kiss, and she and Anty Melva are working steadily toward the end of the first draft of the Beach Ball, it is time once again for Anty to look at pitch sessions, and what she is going to say to any agents or editors she might meet at any part of the conference. Anty has never gone to a conference with a book and a half in the hopper (book and two halves, if she wants to count her post-apocalyptic medieval, which really only needs half a revision to be ready for indie or traditional publishing. Probably indie, though, because it is post-apocalyptic medieval, and those aren’t exactly thick on the ground these days. Or any days. Anty still loves the story, though.)

It’s been a while since Anty has had a pitch session, and, as much as she loves them (Anty thinks eight minutes of a publishing professional’s undivided attention is right up there with amusement parks, romance-only bookstores, and bottomless cups of Lapsang Souchong tea; let’s be real, if there were an amusement park that had a romance-only bookstore in it and served bottomless cups of Lapsang Souchong tea, we might  never see Anty again.) getting ready for them is the nervous part. Anty has been in sessions where the other person has said “I love your sample, send me the whole thing” right away, and she has been in sessions where the other person has said “I don’t like stories that have Element X in them,” when Anty’s whole story is about Element X. Most sessions fall somewhere in the middle. Anty said I am not allowed to talk about the pitch session she had when she had been awake for three days straight, because that is when she gets into really punchy territory. That can be entertaining at home, not so much in a pitch session.

Since I am running out of room here, I will cut to the chase (please do not chase me; that would be scary) : it is time to hunker down and get stuff as ready as it can be, because one never knows when the other person might want the whole book, right now. It’s a magical time of year. Editors and agents go to these conferences for the specific reason of finding new writers and new books. They want to hear about what writers have to show them (but not in the people litterbox, please) so knowing what a writer wants to say about their books in advance is usually a good idea. This involves planning, and Anty loves planning, so I think she will be okay.

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

skyebye

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

Declaring My Major

annabowling 1 Comment

Later start on the blog than I had expected today,  but that’s fine. I wrote two pages of a scene for Girl and Guy, from the Beach Ball, while at the laundromat, did some recon for an upcoming feature at Heroes and Heartbreakers (oh, the odious task of looking for outstanding declarations of love) and took a picture for the original concept of this post, which was going to be about my inability to resist pretty paper. Yes, the paper on which I write does have to be pretty, thankyouverymuch, and I am particular about it. Nothing wrong with having the right tools for the job. That almost works as a transition to the thought that hit me part way through my process of winding down yesterday evening.

We’ll skip the particulars of said winding down, as it happened in a room where the furniture is made of porcelain, but there I was, thinking of something entirely unrelated, and then the thought hit me: I’m focusing on the eighteenth century now. This should not have been a surprise. I wrote about that exact thing the day before yesterday. I jabbered about it at lunch with my BFF. I may or may not have sent thought waves out into the ether, because that seems to be a step in my process (much like my need to circle a scene and smash my head against a brick wall or two until I bust through) but it wasn’t until last night that it sank in that I am declaring a major here.

Back in another life, I majored in early childhood education. The most important thing I learned by studying that discipline is that I am not suited for early childhood education. If I ever master time travel and end up as a seventeen-year-old college freshman again (though, seriously, if I ever master time travel, my own seventeenth year is not where I would be going) I would strongly counsel seventeen-year-old me to go with her gut and major in drama, like I originally wanted to do. Declaring a major means deciding where the majority of  my time and mental energy is going to be allocated. That decides what I study, how much I study it, and what things have to get moved to the side to give my main area of focus some breathing room.

For a writer, that means we are now in the realm of branding. As an advertising executive’s kid, I learned, from an early age, that how a thing is presented has an effect on how that thing is perceived. Writers need to let readers know what kind of story they can expect when they pick up one of our books. What kind of story are we going to tell them? In what kind of world is this story going to take place? For historical romance readers, in what era do these stories happen, and how much is the history going to affect the romance? All important questions, and all part of building a brand.

I am still a temporal nomad at heart (can we call this interdisciplinary studies?)  I love a lot of periods. I have a rough draft of a Golden Age of Piracy romance, which may need to be two books (because I didn’t count on falling in love with my heroine’s parents in that one, and kind of want to play with them for a while) and a post-apocalyptic medieval romance (the Black Plague counts as an apocalypse – fifty percent of Europe taken out in a twenty year span? Totally counts.) and they will get written. I still want to write more seventeenth century, and I will. That dewy-eyed twenty-three-year-old hasn’t given up on the Tudor era, either, and I want to write in the Edwardian era again, but moving forward with a career plan means figuring out what kinds of stories I want to tell for the foreseeable future, and, last night, my brain told me what that was.

This is a good thing. Picking a major means focus. It means that eighteenth century romances get precedence on my TBR shelves. Not that I can’t read books set in other eras (hello, temporal nomad here :waves:) and a good story can be set anywhere, but, right now, seeing how others who have gone before me do what I am doing now becomes extra important. It’s picking a direction in which to travel, especially now that, with two WIPs viable to term, I’m looking at what comes next. I know the time in which these new stories will be set, so that settles that issue, an important one to writers who do love a wide array of settings. Back in another life, it was common for a historical romance author to write one medieval romance, then the next book might be a western, then a pirate story, then Gilded Age New York, then an Elizabethan, then Australian, then American Civil War, then…well, who knows? I would love for that sort of thing to come around again, and I hope that it does, but, for right now, picking a major and going for it is the smart move.

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Anything Can Happen Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty and I would first like to thank everybody who asked about Uncle’s paws. They are doing much, much better, and things are getting back to normal around here. At least as normal as possible, with a writer in the house. Then again, I have always lived with a writer in the family, because I was born wild and then lived in the shelter, and this is my only family, so I do not know how it is for others. Maybe I should say normal for us. There was that one day, though, but I will tell you about that later. First, I have to tell you about where you can find Anty’s writing this week, apart from here.

As always, Anty has her Saturday Discussion topic at Buried Under Romance. This week, she talks about what anchors us to a certain kind of story. Anty will admit she was tired and loopy when she wrote this one, so it might be worth reading for the entertainment value alone. Uncle says Anty gets very entertaining when she is extra tired. That post is here, and it looks like this:

bur270117

Anty also had a post at Heroes and Heartbreakers, where she talks about how great Mogul, by Joanna Shupe is. Anty always liked the Gilded Age (a long time ago, in NYC. Anty lived in NYC when she was a very tiny people kitten, right after she was adopted, but it was not as long ago as when Miss Joanna’s books are set.) so she is always happy to see historical romances that use that setting. She thinks there are not nearly enough of them. Maybe Anty should write one of her own someday (but not now, because she is already writing two other books, and she knows her limits.) That post is here, and it looks like this:

handhmogul

 

Now that my obligations are fulfilled, we can move on to the rest of this entry, specifically the part about me. When I have a sick human at home, I work as a nurse as well as a mews. That means I need to sit very very close to the human who does not feel well and shoot love beams at them. If I could jump or climb, I would get up on the bed with them, but I have special paws, so I stay on the floor and send my love from there. Sometimes, when Uncle needs to rest, and other humans are moving around,  he closes the bedroom door. That makes me sad, because I want to be with him, but I understand where he is coming from on this one. Sometimes, I like my door closed, too.

We had one of those days this week. Uncle had asked Anty if she could please be home to let in Landlady and another human, who might like to buy the building. Anty said she would, and she was, but what she did not know what that it would be a whole bunch of humans. Some of them wanted to take pictures of the rooms (including where Uncle was resting, but they said they were sorry to disturb him.) Some of them wanted to turn faucets and light switches on and off. Some of them wanted to open and close all of the windows and doors (not at the same time.)  Some of them wanted to do other things, and none of this fit in with Anty’s plan of a quiet afternoon, spent transcribing her notes.

Because the front and back doors had to be open a lot, Anty put me in Mama’s room (that is where my food dishes and water bowls -I have two of them- are kept, so I would not be hungry or thirsty)  and closed the door, so that I would not go where I am not supposed to go. Most of the time, I am a very good kitty, but, sometimes, the landing outside the front door gets too interesting, and I want to see what is out there. The problem is, I am not allowed to go out there, because past the landing, there are stairs, and past the stairs, there is another door, and past the other door, there is outside. I do not particularly want to go outside. I lived outside before I was rescued, and it was not that great. I also have never experienced stairs, so the humans want to make sure I do not get any surprises in that department. With all those strange humans (and I only knew Landlady; the rest were all new to me) milling about, Anty thought it was best if I stayed in one place.

Anty also thought it was best if she stayed in one place, too. I am glad she did, because her place was outside the door of Mama’s room, so I could smell her. I like it best when at least one of my humans is very close to me. I am their near girl. All the while I was in Mama’s room, I heard Anty’s pencil scratching on the pages of her notebook. Anty loves writing in her notebooks, and, this time, she shut out all the chaos going on around her and worked out what she needed to change for a scene she had written. While she does not want the apartment swarmed by strange, noisy humans, every day, it did remind her that, if she connects well enough with the story, she can write through pretty much anything. That is a good thing to know, because, in this family, anything can happen.

Anything, including Anty wanting to get back to her story worlds, so that is about it for now. Until next time, I remain, very truly yours,

 

 

skyebye

Until next week…

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