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So It Begins…Again

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Technically, this is Monday’s post. I actually tried writing Monday’s post on Monday, but a twisted ankle (better now) and my one year old (almost to the day) laptop’s crisis, resulting in the nuclear option of a factory reset, took up the first two days of the week, an so I’m now doing Monday’s post on Wednesday. I don’t mind, because A) now I have something to talk about, and B) the post I had was a stinker anyway. I am not exaggerating. It bored even me.

I should probably mention that, as technology un-inclined as I am, I am also very attached to this particular laptop, and the thought of having to go back to the old one, even as an interim measure, did not sit at all well. Real Life Romance Hero stepped in and pulled the trigger on the whole reset deal, while I washed my hair (clean hair is always a mood booster) and read the latest (that I have) issue of The Walking Dead. The fact that The Walking Dead is my comfort read probably says something, but that’s another story.

We will skip to the part where RLRH informs me that the reset went smoothly and now I needed to put in the annoying personal information. That done, it was time to look at what I had. Short detour to install Windows 10, gasp in horror, and hit the button to return to Windows 8.1, because I am not that much of a masochist. All the while, I Skyped with a writer friend on my phone, because I have to talk about things like this, and finally left things for the night, knowing I would need to face the big question today: what programs do I really need to have physically installed on my laptop?

Skype: I put Skype on my phone pretty much the second I had to take it off my laptop, because Skype is an extrovert’s lifeblood. The whole internet, really, but Melva and I can plot insanely fast when actually face to face, and, since we live 200-ish miles apart at present, Skype is the way to go. It’s also how I communicate with H and Critique Partner Vicki, so not-Skyping is not an option, but, again, how much space is it going to take up and/or leave me?

Spotify: My tunes. I have a playlist for each project (save the Beach Ball, but that gets my Go To Work playlist, so it’s kind of covered) and am either listening to the appropriate playlist at most times, or browse for whatever suits my needs at the moment. I also have Spotify on my phone and tablet, so it’s not strictly necessary to have it on my laptop, though it is super convenient to have everything on one device.

Scrivener: I have Scrivener installed on my old, has-a-complicated-relationship-with-the-internet-and-uses-an-external-keyboard-plus-the-screen-always-wants-to-recline laptop, which also has Word. I’ve been almost exclusively working in Scrivener for Her Last First Kiss, and mostly in it for the Beach Ball, but I really don’t need all the bells and whistles when I’m writing the bullet point draft (smooths out into my first draft; I’ll explain later) and can do quite fine in WordPad or GoogleDocs, or Word on my old desktop (so old that the CD drive tries to kill me and it refuses to recognize the Internet.) I can move current work to Word or GoogleDocs, continue from there, then plop it all back into Scrivener (if I want to) when I’m done and/or the new desktop joins the family.

Scapple: I love Scapple, and I would love to use it more. Like Scrivener, I also have it on the old laptop, so it doesn’t technically need to be on this laptop, and, like Scrivener, a bit jumping through hoops-y to reinstall, even though I have all the information. So, I have them both, only not on this device, and I do like all that nice open space in my hard drive. Like so:

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So good not to be in the red…

See the nice blue bar that tells me how much space I have? As in, it’s not red and all the way up to the end of its space? That’s so unusual to me that I don’t want to lose it, but, at the same time, gal’s got to get some work done, or all future blogs will be full of whining (much like this) and not the fun stuff like finishing books and submissions and releases and all the rest. So, I’m considering, and I may end up winging the whole issue, putting in what I need to put in, when I need it, searching for ways to work around it, and, maybe, finding the way I do this best, now, rather than the ways I “should” or have always done.

Right now, I’m writing some stories. Head down, eyes on my own paper, keep banging on (Thank you, Idris Elba) and, before I know it, I’ll be typing “The End,” only it won’t be. There are other stories, other times and places to visit, other heroes and heroines whose stories need to be told, other tales to tell and other computers to drive me insane in the telling of them. Other pens, too, and notebooks, wherein emptying the one means filling the other, and all the adventures my imaginary friends and I will have along the way. Right now, I am writing these books, telling these stories, and that’s where I need to put my time and attention. Right now, I am posting this, then taking my act on the road, to our local coffee house, so I can transcribe the latest scene. It’s going into WordPad for now, because I’d much rather write than fiddle with programs.

Typing With Wet Claws: Too Darned Hot Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Even though I am the one with the built-in fur coat, Anty  is the one most affected by the heat. Uncle had a rough day, too, yesterday, and even Mama has been feeling sluggish, and she is usually the hardiest in this weather. Before I am allowed to talk about anything else, I have to talk about Anty’s writing first, so we will do that now.

Anty’s most recent Buried Under Romance post is here, and it looks like this:

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Do you like to go fast or slow?

Summertime has never been Anty’s favorite time of year, because it is very hot and bright, and she is sensitive to both of those things. That means that, for most of the summertime, staying inside, in front of the box fan, during the day is the smart thing to do. Thankfully, since Anty is a writer, this actually works in her favor. Well, apart from the whole lack of energy thing. Do not worry, though; when autumn comes, Anty will get her superpowers back. She is not willing to wait for a couple more months to get to the top of her game, and so she has to make a couple of adjustments here.

Since Anty is a morning person, getting up super early helps. It is still cool in the morning, and  her brain is all fresh from sleep. The house is quiet, too, so it is the perfect time for her to write her morning pages. She is excited to start a new morning pages book, and has settled on the Papaya! Art spiral bound book for her next round of morning pages. If you have missed that post, (it is here) that book looks like this:

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She still does not know what pens she will use for that, but that is okay. She will know what to use when the time comes, and admits that she will probably have to do an ink test, even though she doesn’t want to make any mistakes on a book this special. Come to think of it, she feels the same way about the books she is writing, but there, too, she is learning to make adjustments.

Miss H, one of Anty’s writer friends, reminds Anty that nobody ever has to see a scene if Anty really thinks it is, um…stuff, (Miss H did not say “stuff.” I am using it as a euphemism for what she really said.) but Anty does have to write it. Anty is very tempted to say bad words to Miss H when Miss H says this, but she settles for saying the same thing right back to Miss H when it is Miss H’s turn. That is the important thing. It is okay to write the scene while scared of writing that scene. Getting even the roughest version out of the brain and onto the page or screen is what is important here. There will be time to make it pretty later, but nothing can be done if there is nothing on the page. Anty finds that it can be difficult to get over perfectionism, but it is also necessary. Sometimes, that is the biggest part of the battle, and once there is something, anything, on the page, then the rest comes easily.

This week, Anty has been working on both Her Last First Kiss, and the Beach Ball, although not as quickly as she might like. As I mentioned above, it has been very hot, and there has been a lot of humidity. I usually find a doorway with good air flow (the bathroom hallway is the best, because there are no windows, the floor is linoleum (or would that be lion-oleum, because it is comfy for kitties?) and, if I am in the right spot, I can catch breezes from the living room fan, Anty and Uncle’s bedroom fan, and stay in direct line of sight of the pantry door, which is where the humans keep my food and treats.

Even though Anty is most dominant, she is too big to flop in a doorway, and so she has to take other measures. Her comfy chair is in front of the living room fan, and the master bedroom door can close, keeping all the cool air inside. Her office even  has a ceiling fan, so that gives her another place she can work comfortably, even when it is not a good idea for her to go outside even the short distance to the coffee house. Even so, there are some days when it is flat out (and I am flat, even though I am inside) too disgusting to brain.

Anty is learning that, when it is difficult to put out, then it is time to take in. Because her body loses water, salt and potassium when the weather is hot, then she needs to put those things back into it by what she eats and drinks. The same way, since she puts out story when she writes, she needs to take story in between writing sessions. Reading is the best way, in her genre and out of it, to both stay grounded in why she loves what she loves and to inject some new energy into what she’s already doing.

 

Sometimes, the shift happens when Anty is not even looking for it. Today, while doing laundry (she went very early, so she could be there and back before it got too hot) Anty read a chunk of one of the books she got from the library earlier this week, and, when it came time to read the next chapter, she took out her mini notebook from her pen pouch to make a couple of quick notes. Yeah, Anty, those pages are more than a couple of notes, but that is exactly the point. Keeping one’s well filled means there will be enough to draw from when the time comes.

Anty says that time has come now  (also for my lunch, so there’s that) so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

Skye O’Malley Hart-Bowling

 

 

 

 

Still In Favor of Tire Swings

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Fourth of July, exactly one week left in my morning pages book, and I still haven’t chosen another. This bothers me. I certainly have enough notebooks from which to choose, and, when the day comes, I will be at my secretary desk, pen in hand and putting something on the very first page. That’s not the issue. It is, however, in line with the whole changey nature of life in general, so I’m going to let it be what it is.

The Fourth of July celebrations I remember best are the ones from my childhood. We’d head over to Aunt S2’s house (I had two Aunt S’s as a kiddo, both the close-friend-of-a-parent sort, and to further complicate matters, both were married to Uncle G’s. For clarity’s sake, Aunt S is the one who wrote books, and Aunt S2 threw Fourth of July celebrations that set the bar for the summer holiday, as far as I’m concerned. Kind of the summer version of Aunt S’s Christmases. Their respective spouses are Uncle G and Uncle G2.) around noonish or slightly thereafter, and not return home until close to midnight.

Aunt S2, I should mention, was actually originally British. She met Uncle G2, an American, in the UK, love bloomed, she crossed the pond, and I am not sure how it was she became the hostess of the Independence Day festivities (including the Bicentennial,) but she did. I never gave that much thought while growing up, nor did I ever find out if she ever became a US citizen. Mysteries for the ages, those, but what isn’t mysterious is how vividly I remember those celebrations. Watching each new arrival, to see what foodstuffs they brought to the communal table was a big deal for us kiddos, as was climbing all over the swing set in the back yard, and getting permission to play “in the field.” The field was not an actual field, but a sizeable patch of grass flanking Aunt S2’s house and the apartment complex adjacent. There was a fenced-in enclosure in the middle of it, the setting for many improvised imaginative play sessions that somehow remotely involved gardening.

The year Uncle G2 put a kiddo-sized plastic tire swing in the tree near the entrance gate, that became the hot ticket ride for the younger set. Our most forbidden pastime was putting leaves on the grill, to watch them change. Adults usually put an end to this as soon as humanly possible. There would be a whole watermelon brought out at some point, received with all the enthusiasm of a birthday cake, and, once night had fallen, we’d all pack into various vehicles, laden with lawn chairs, and head to the high school track to watch the fireworks. I don’t think any fireworks are going to match the impact of those in my memory, though the current year is welcome to try, with a caveat that fireworks aren’t always a happy thing for everyone. Pretty, sure, but scary for pets, combat veterans, and others, so I don’t think fireworks as an adult can be the same as they were for me as a kid.

After the fireworks, the 2s and their kiddos would follow us to our home, where the younger set would mostly giggle about being up that late, while the adults …well, I’m not entirely sure what the adults were doing. I do remember special desserts my mom had made, waiting for this private afterparty, and there may have been adult beverages for those old enough to partake. At some point, the 2s took their sleepy kiddos home, and my parents somehow convinced me to go to bed, even though I was not tired and had plenty more holiday left in me, or so I claimed between yawns.

Fast forward to now. Lovely apartment in a beautiful city, but no back yard, though we can watch the fireworks display from our balcony, which is an experience in itself. I’m looking forward to that. Since both Real Life Romance Hero and Housemate are spending their days helping others enjoy their holiday, as they work, respectively in the restaurant industry and retail, that leaves me with some time on my hands.

Today’s desk picture is my robot lock screen and Paris mug, because it doesn’t feel like the Fourth to me. Not sure what’s up with that. I got excited for Canada Day, and I’m not even Canadian. I am going to call writerbrain on this one. Having a day to take in creative fodder helps to put it out the rest of the week, and that’s a good thing. As an extrovert, trying to replicate a celebration that, to me, should involve lots of people, with only a few is draining, so those childhood Fourths remain as they were, the soft golden glow of nostalgia cranking them up a notch or two from what they actually were. I’m still finding out what a proper Fourth would mean to me, in the now.

Maybe it’s time to marathon favorite episodes of Sleepy Hollow, or revisit some of the American Revolution romances that were all the rage when I first became aware of the genre. Maybe it’s time to stream the Hamilton soundtrack, or see if any cable channels are airing 1776. Celebrating the Fourth is a fallow holiday for me right now, a resting period to let things settle and see what else can grow there in the future. In that light, I think today’s meh-ness kind of fits. I’m impatient with holidays, like I am with writing. I want the whole thing, with all the blinky lights and fireworks and ohmigosh, J brought her special baked beans, this is the best day everrrrrr moments, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

There’s only another layer. As a kid, it was enough to pick out an outfit, get in the back seat, and get out when the car stopped moving. There it would all be -holiday! Whee! How it got there was the grownups’ problem. Works the same way with holidays or books. Now, I am one of the grownups. Different vantage point, so of course it’s going to be a different view. Back then, I knew what the covers of historical romance novels looked like. Now, I read them, write them, and write about them. As an adult, I’m not only a consumer of book or holiday, but an active participant in the creation of both, whether the scale is large or small. Still figuring it all out, but also still highly in favor of tire swings. Make of that what you will.

Typing With Wet Claws: Happy Cat-nada Day Edition

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Hello all, Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Because this is a holiday, I am allowed to wish all who celebrate a happy Canada Day. We are not Canadian, but we live far enough north in New York, that some of the street signs tell us how to get to Montreal.  At the bodega across the street, we can buy Canada Dry ginger ale (well, a lot of other places, too) and once, we got all dressed potato chips there, which are popular in Canada. Anty probably knows more about the Degrassi franchise than an American of her, um, vintage, should, especially the original cast version. She also likes reading books by Canadian authors like Mary Balogh, Virginia Henley, Marsha Canham, and the late Jo Beverley. Maybe she needs to do some remedial reading of said authors, in celebration. Maybe while eating poutine, because some local restaurants have that on the menu. We have some Canadian neighbours (note Canadian spelling, please) we could invite to join us:

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I think some of these birdies are bigger than me.

 

Holiday wishes conveyed, Anty’s latest post on Buried Under Romance is all about the covers on romance novels. This can be a very heated topic, especially as trends in cover art, and the mediums in which said trends are executed, are constantly changing. What kinds of covers do you like or not like to see? Anty would love to know. Her post is here, and it looks like this:

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What does your ideal romance cover look like?

Even though Anty is not Canadian, she is celebrating vicariously today. It is always nice to be happy for one’s neighbors, so there is that. Besides being close enough to the border for some things to dribble down, Anty has a writer friend she talks to through the glowy box, who is Canadian, and she would like for her friend to have a nice day. Hero and Heroine have a Canadian connection, too, which means that Anty has to learn new things about what Canada was like in the time Her Last First Kiss takes place.

One thing she already knows ties in with her rabid Anglophilia, and her own connection to the Revolutionary era. The part of New York where Anty spent her people kittenhood had a lot of British sympathizers still living there when the war was over. As you can imagine, that was not the best place for them to be, so going someplace else was in their best interests. Many of them made the trip north, and began new lives in Canada. That is something some of Hero’s relatives do, in Her Last First Kiss, and something Anty has always found very interesting. She has visited a museum that has (probably a replica of) a document that announced the date all British subjects/sympathizers needed to be gone from that town (since the British army did burn down the whole town at one point during the war, I can see where there might be some bad blood going on there.)  That was one of those moments that sent a jolt of electricity through her writerblood. Anty says it was like touching history, to read that. She can only imagine what it must have been like to actually see the notice nailed up  in person, and know that the people the notice addressed would mean her and her family. Maybe that will be in a story someday.

Anty actually has been to Canada, once, when she was a tiny people kitten. Anty’s mama’s anty (and several other relatives) lived in Dunkirk, NY, and Anty’s parents took her there for a visit. Since they were close enough to the Canadian border, they took a day trip to bring Anty to the Canadian side of Niagra Falls. One of Anty’s mama’s relatives thought it would be funny to tell Anty (remember, she was a very tiny people kitten when this happened) that visitor to Niagra Falls had to go over it in a barrel. Suffice it to say that Anty was not entirely on board with this idea, but her parents got her into the carrier anyway. She had never been to a different country before, so crossing the border was a new experience.

Seeing Niagra Falls in person was also a new experience. Anty loves waterfalls anyway, and her mama’s relative was wrong; the vast majority of people stand on land and look, although some get to go in a boat (Anty’s family did not; they stayed on land.) Getting Anty back in the carrier to go back to Anty’s mama’s anty’s house was another matter, because A) being in a different country is very, very interesting for a very tiny people kitten who has never done that before, and B) giant waterfalls. Giant waterfalls are also very, very interesting to a very tiny people kitten. Anty’s papa had to bribe her with a toy canoe made of real bark, and a doll dressed like an indigenous Canadian girl. Anty is not sure to which people group that doll’s character belonged, but it was probably Algonkian or Iroquois. Since it was already a very long trip to see Anty’s mama’s anty, they did not get to visit Niagra Falls again, but that does not mean the story is over.

Anty and Uncle would like to visit Anty’s friend from the glowy box someday. Anty’s friend does not actually live inside the glowy box. She lives in Montreal, which is a big city, with many interesting things Anty and Uncle might like to see. I, of course, would stay home, because I am a kitty.

Now, it is time for Anty to work on her books, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

 

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Until next week…

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

 

There Are Lobsters on My Desk

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In case there is any doubt as to my lifelong case of raging Anglophilia, today’s picture should put that to rest. Paris-themed stationery aside (as in literally; I had to move my Marie Antoinette themed matchbook notepad out of the way to take this image) I’ve been hardwired for most things British straight out of the box, as far as I can remember. Don’t ask me when it began, because I have no idea, though I will allow that, by the time I was one year old, the family newly moved to a house in Bedford, NY, from Manhattan, our bottom-of-the-hill neighbors were Scottish immigrants. Shortly after that, my mom met her best local friend, a British  expat, who happened to have a baby my age (yes, our families met on a playground, why do you ask?) Very easy to guess, in this case, what sort of adults I saw most often on a regular basis in my formative years. I strongly suspect they imprinted on me, early, and with lasting impact.

While that probably explains my affinity for mentally hopping the pond, I lay the thankblame (which should totally be a real word) for historical romance being my soulmate genre at the feet of two aunts. Aunt L was my mom’s sister. She lived in New Jersey, and, every time she visited (we lived in CT by this time,) she would bring at least one paper grocery bag stuffed to the top with historical romance novels. I was too young to read them at this point, but it was still my job to take the bag directly to the laundry room, un-bag them, and set them aside for my mother’s later perusal. This was when I fell in love with some of the cover art in that first wave of historical romance. It was all painted back then, not photographs, every cover a tiny work of art. I read the blurbs, noted hero and heroine first names (I’ve been name-obsessed since I was about eight) and was a good kid, not looking into the forbidden pages, not even a little.

Well, kind of. Aunt S, wife to Uncle G, my dad’s best friend from their Army days, wrote one. Then two, then three, you get the drift. I went with Mom to the book section of Caldor, to peruse the rack and keep an eye out for Aunt S’s name. I don’t remember which one of us found it, but I remember how my heart did a skippity-skip when I saw it, then another when Mom took it out of the rack.  We were buying that book. We were taking it home. I have had that same feeling many a time, when lifting a much-desired book from its shelf, rack, box, hitting the download button, whatever, but this one…this one was the very first, and I knew, without knowing much about it, that this one would be special. I didn’t know it was going to change my life.

Even before Aunt S wrote her first book, even before (to my knowledge) Aunt L hauled grocery bags full of historical romance novels from NJ to CT (and it only now hits me that my mother and aunts were romance readers, and I never got to talk romance novels with them. I even remember mentioning something about a character from one of Aunt S’s books to Aunt G, another of Mom’s sisters, and her responding that she saw the character differently…you read at least one romance novel, Aunt G, and you never said.) I lived in Bedford, NY, during the Bicentennial (dating myself, I know, but I am fine with dating myself, because I always have a lovely time; I’m delightful.) As in town that was literally burned to the ground by the British Army during the war, except for one house. Home to a very lovely historical society I loved then and love now, and setting for my first historical romance, My Outcast Heart.

Dalby and Tabetha’s story takes place a  half century and change before the war, so they’d be opinionated seniors by that time, but it’s safe to say that, growing up around that much Revolutionary history, the Georgian age imprinted on me, as well. Maybe that’s why the Georgian period seems to be my historical default setting when I start a new novel. It’s not the only period I like – I’ve written sixteenth century, English Civil War, turn of the twentieth century romances so far, that are currently available, and I have hopes for my first medieval, but when it came time to start Her Last First Kiss, there wasn’t any doubt that it would be Georgian.

There aren’t any Redcoats (aka Lobsterbacks) in Hero and Heroine’s story, though they’ll likely find a few when they get where they’re going, but in future books, there absolutely will be. Ember and her Golden Man still rustle at me from the pages of notebooks and not-quite-right drafts, and I’m sure there will be other soldiers with tales to tell, so I will keep acquiring lobster-related items along with my Union Jacks and other related ephemera. For now, I’m head down, eyes on my own paper, for Hero and Heroine’s tale, which I can now get to, as I can cross “blog entry” off my list. Happy midweek!

 

Mental Health Day

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This may be the only thing I write all day. Then again, maybe it’s not. I’m not sure, at this point, where the figurative road will take me today, but I knew, when I woke at two and four and five and six, that this was a day I needed to recharge. The weekend had its share of domestic tornadoes, the weather was hot, and, at the time I got up (well, some of the times,) I fully expected temperatures in the high eighties, and blazing sunlight, neither of which are conducive to me at my best. When I come up short with topics for my morning pages, I write about what my ideal plan would be for that particular day, if I could do anything-anything. Anything-anything means I am not bound by mundane concerns like weather, transportation, money, desired companions being alive or non-fictional, that sort of thing. Today, my plan did not take up a lot of space on the page: stay home and red books. Maybe nap. So I did. Or, rather, I am.

The weather we actually got is a little different than what I expected. Current temperature as of this writing is still eighty-six, but we have a light rain, which means cloud cover, so sun is not an issue. It doesn’t feel that hot. The house is quiet. Real Life Romance Hero and Housemate are both off at work, and I could be. (Am, because I’m writing this? Am, because filling the well is part of the process? Am, because the Skype conference I had with Melva yesterday about Beach Ball is still fresh in my mind, and the wheels are turning, even if that’s not my main concern for the day?) There is still a lot of day left in front of me, still time before Housemate returns home, yet more time before RLRH returns home, and Skye is, as always, respectful of my clickety-clack on the glowy box.

Last night, everybody was home. Last night, the weather was sticky hot and icky humid. Last night, I had one shot at a Skype conference with Melva before she headed off for a family vacation, where she will, no doubt, recline on sparkling white beaches with Mr. Melva, for more than a week. The only private place to have said conference would be in my office, which would, if the door were closed, qualify as an oven. Housemate kindly clambered atop the kitchen stool and activated the ceiling fan, and, once it had been going for a while, made the room rather…inhabitable. This is kind of a new thing. I could get used to that. Melva and I made plans for the next few scenes of the Beach Ball, and I spent the rest of the evening chatting with another writer friend, and poking another project with a figurative stick. I would have stayed longer, and likely picked up a second wind, but I was about to go facedown on the keyboard, and did not have the mental faculties to read, let alone write. Hence, today.

I still count today as a productive day. I have napped (not intentionally; it kind of happened, but I figure I needed it) and opening my laptop to write this entry is the first time I’ve touched the machine (apart from carrying it from office to living room – nearly a year into owning this lovely pink piece of technology, and I am still amazed at how light she is) all day. Apart from checking a couple of things on my phone, I’ve been unplugged. Stuck my nose in a book, a paper one, read purely for pleasure, no writing about it needed. I haven’t played any music or gone anywhere near Netflix or YouTube or any of that.

Instead, I’ve read. I’ve spent time with RLRH. Took time to have lunch and do nothing but have lunch while having lunch. Played with Skye. Napped. Considered what only-for-pleasure book I will read next, after I have finished this one (and I may finish it during this calendar day, too, or maybe tomorrow) and when I might want to visit the library next, and harvest a fresh crop. Rolled my current writing projects around in my head, in the background this time, instead of the foreground, made a few mental notes that will translate to paper notes in a bit. For now, I want them to marinate.

I am surprised that I don’t feel guilty. There are no Hypercritical Gremlin voices calling me a slacker, while they jump up and down and turn a redder shade of purple, their fuzz standing out on end (it does that when they are ruffled; the are usually ruffled) and clench their fists. Instead, I feel…peaceful. Beyond the box fan in the window, I hear light rain, and car tires on pavement, one of my top three favorite sounds of ever. The fan blows cool air over my bare legs. I am debating getting up to refill my travel mug with cold seltzer. Maybe once I post. Maybe after I read another chapter. Maybe after another nap. Maybe if I nip into this document, for only a moment, to jot one thing down.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Officially Summertime Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Now that it is officially summertime, this is going to have an effect on the way Anty does a few things. It does not affect the fact that I have to talk about her writing first, before I am allowed to talk about anything else, so I will tell you about the current Buried Under Romance discussion post.

This past week, Anty discovered a new-to-her author (who is not very new, because she has over fifty books out and more on the way.) It looks like Anty has some reading to do. Have you ever discovered an author with a very big backlist? How did you handle tackling that? Start at the beginning and go through in order, or jump in wherever you felt like it? Maybe you even found some other way. Drop by Buried Under Romance and let Anty know. She is nosy about things like this. That post is here and it looks like this:

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This past week saw the onset of the summer season, which is not Anty’s favorite. Anty is not covered in fur like I am (because she is a people) so she does not have that to shield her from the sun, which can be very, very bright. It can also get very, very hot, and Anty, because she had heatstroke when she was a very young grownup, needs to be careful in hot weather. That means staying inside as much as possible when it is bright and/or hot outside,  stay hydrated, and get more rest if she needs it.  When she does go outside during the daytime, then she needs to wear a hat and protective clothing (long sleeves, or a shawl covering arms and shoulders, long skirt or dress) because her skin is sensitive to chemicals used in many sunblocks. She even once got a rash from newborn sunscreen. All of this makes me very glad that I have fur and am an indoor kitty. I like my sunbeams, but I do not think I would like being outside all the time. I was, before I was rescued, and it was not that great, but I am digressing.

Anty finds that the arrival of summertime means that she needs to make a few changes to the way she goes about this whole writing thing. For one thing, she has started going to bed earlier so that she can get up earlier. Anty is a morning person anyway, no matter the season, and mornings are the coolest part of the day, since the house is still comfortable from the nice, cool night. Anty’s brain is sharper in the mornings (she crashes shortly after lunch, then gets a second wind) so she likes to start with her morning pages (she still does not know what book she wants to be her next morning pages book, so stay tuned for developments on that front) and then get into the business of the day.

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Anty has found, through writing her morning pages, that writing about what she is going to write, before she writes it, makes the actual writing a lot easier, because she does not have to decide what she will be writing while she is actually writing it. If that does not make  a lot of sense to you, do not worry. Anty had to think about that while explaining that to me, too. What it all comes down to is that Anty is a talker. While the best-best thing is to talk about the story to another writer friend, preferably one in the same genre, writing about writing is like talking on paper, so it is a big help. Anty thinks the butterfly cover on the notebook in the picture above is symbolic of all the changeyness going on these days. She does not know what she will write in that notebook, but she does know she will be writing in it with sepia ink. Once she fixes that pen cartridge, that is.

 

 

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That brings us to the actual writing.  Summertime has not always been a great time for that,  thanks to the whole heat and sun thing, but, this year, Anty  has found a few ways to get around that. Writing by hand in her nice, shady office is a good start, and remembering to keep her creative well filled by making time to read, take in other stimuli, and, most importantly, play with me. It is an ongoing process, and Anty has learned -or, she would say, she is learning- not to rush. Of course things are going to be different now than when she first got into this game, because she is different, and the market is different as well. Maybe, this year, instead of grumbling about  how long it is until September (autumn is her favorite season,) the key is to appreciate this stage of the journey for where and what it is, and know that, if she stays on the right track, she will get there. That leaves room for some summer fun along the way, which, for Anty, usually involves books and friends who love books. Also ice cream. There is also playing with me, but I am an all season kitty, so maybe I do not need to mention that, because it is obvious.

It should also be obvious that that is about it for this week, so, until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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

Hungry

annabowling 2 Comments

When you’re hungry, eat. When you eat, eat food.

–Kara Brooks

The fact that I know exactly how much longer it will be until lunch should explain how I got on this theme for today’s blog. The fact that I have a mental list of every snack in the house, can rattle off a ranking of which order I would prefer to consume them, and have already decided I will propose tonight as a foraging night (meaning we have food, we’re all grownups, everybody find food and eat it, because I’m not cooking) sealed the deal on today’s topic. The quote above comes from my cousin, a tall, tattooed, red-haired Army veteran with the voice of an angel, who is adept at giving me smacks upside the head when needed. I do not recall when this particular quote came into play, ( best guess a few years back) but I remember it, word for word

This is not a post on nutrition, and it is. It is not, in the aspect that I am not going to talk about calories, food groups, pyramids or any of that stuff. It is, in the aspect that one can, theoretically, own the greatest racehorse in the world, but if one never feeds him/her, how many races is he/she going to win? (Hint: zero, because horses that do not eat do not survive, and dead horses cannot run.) Now that we’ve got that out of the way, in a move that surprises nobody, (say it with me now) it’s the same way with writing. Maybe there are some people who can put out without ever taking in, but I am not one of them.

Last night, I had a Skype chat with another writer friend, and had a file open, because we do that often, write while chatting. This time, though, I stared at my split screen, Skype on one side, Word Pad on the other, and…nope. Yes, I know these characters. Yes, I love them. Yes, I know what happens next -it’s right there in my notes- and yes, I have a plan. No, I could not make any of it happen. I punched a few keys in desultory fashion, scrolled through my Spotify playlist, whined to my friend, stared down Word Pad, and…nope.

Zip, zilch, zero, nothing, nada, nil, endless void where writing ought to be. Storytelling, even. I’d take bullet points. I got bupkis.  Less than bupkis. The characters froze in place and stared back at me, their expressions conveying only a general “we thought you knew what was going on here” vibe. My reaction could best be summarized by sending over a tuxedo-clad waiter (yeah, really not moving from the food thing here) to explain to Sir and Madam that there has been a slight inconvenience in the kitchen and Chef deeply apologizes for the inconvenience.

“Slight inconvenience,” in this case, would mean that there was a raging grease fire, Chef’s only weapons a slightly damp washcloth and a bucket of what could be sandbox sand, or it could be kitty litter, but the grease fire did serve to distract from the fact that the delivery of actual ingredients for the dishes ordered (or, really, any dishes at all at this point) had not yet arrived. As in, the washcloth and maybe-sand-maybe-kitty-litter is basically what there would be at this point. I don’t think I have to point out that nobody wants a dinner of washcloth and sand and/or kitty litter. Not even if it’s rolled, burrito-style and presented with a garnish of whatever happens to be in Chef’s trouser pockets.

In a restaurant situation, this means that somebody has to go out and obtain said ingredients (okay, yes, put out the grease fire first. Always put out the grease fire first.) In a writing situation, facing a page with “well, I got nothing,” is usually a good cue that it’s time  to go out and get something. Take a break. Read something that engages, whether it’s a book, an email, the back of a cereal box, whatever. Watch an episode of a favorite TV show. Take in a movie. Take a walk. (I like to go to the park and look for ducks. Ducks usually serve as wonderful creative consultants. I think it’s all the paddling.) Have a snack. Have a nap. Play with a pet. Insert old saw about drawing water from an empty well. Not going to happen. Time to get something in there, before anything else can come out.

So it was, last night. I bid my friend goodnight, saved my document and logged out. One relaxing bath and a couple of chapters later, I turned off the light, the perils of characters-n0t-my-own the last thing on my mind, ready to digest overnight. I woke up still hungry, but I have a full pantry (aka TBR shelf) to take care of that. The selection is varied, and I am only minutes’ walks from two different libraries, so if the particular flavor I want isn’t literally at hand, it’s not that far away.

Right now, I’m hungry. Yes, for lunch (which will happen after posting) but also for story, for that deep immersion in the story world, climbing into the characters’ skins and seeing what they see, feeling what they feel. I don’t want to browse. I don’t want to skim. I don’t want to nibble or sample or taste. I want the meat. I want to feast. I want to take in what I need to do what I need, not in quick bursts, but to go the distance, and, maybe, fuel somebody else’s fire.

 

 

Flop Day and Morning Page Rambles

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Today is a flop day. The temperature, at last consult, was ninety-three degrees. The sun is bright. I am fair, and sun-and-heat-sensitive. This means stay the heck inside, wear light, loose clothing, stay hydrated, and plop self in front of box fan for the duration. Since I am a writer, this is not that difficult a task. I have reading to do for various upcoming Heroes and Heartbreakers posts, and two ongoing WIPs. Well, official ones. I have back burners. Lots to keep me out of trouble, and in range of cool, moving air. Real Life Romance Hero is at hand, and, later in the afternoon, the whole household (minus Skye, who stays home, because she is a kitty) will decamp to an air-conditioned car and air-conditioned venue for an extra dose of cooling.

Mornings are the easiest parts of flop days, as it’s not as hot yet as it’s going to be, and I’m a morning person anyway. My morning beverage is cold instead of hot on these days, and comes with me when I write my morning pages. In two more weeks, I’m going to have filled my current morning book, and will need to choose another one. This may or may not be from my current stock. A peek, first, at previous and current notebooks:

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Book with the river scene is my previous book; book with burgundy damask flap is current.

 

The Eiffel Tower theme was not intentional, so not strictly necessary for the new book to continue that tradition, but both do have a rotation of designs on the interior pages, and that is a requirement. That’s where the indecision comes into play. I do very strongly prefer writing on beautiful pages, and having rotating designs on each two page spread reinforces that I am writing two pages and two pages only for this purpose. I could have sworn I had a third Paris-themed book (not the one in today’s featured picture, though that is the new baby; those pages are plain lined ivory, and the only thing I know is that I will be writing on them with red and turquoise Pilot Varsity pens, no clue as to content) at hand, with a black/white/red color scheme, that would be the natural successor, but the book in the crate where I thought it was has plain lined pages, not rotating designs that I remembered. Either I filed it in the wrong crate, or I was engaging in some wishful thinking. Bottom line here is, I need to pick a new morning pages book. I do have two books with rotating designs, as shown below:

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Candidates one and two from current stock

 

I did take pictures of the covers, but it refused to load, and I am not taking pictures of every design in both books, so use your imagination. Assume the art style remains consistent within each book and on its covers. The larger book is Paris-themed, but I’m not sure it’s clicking with me at this precise moment. Neither book has lined pages; some are unlined, and some have grids. The larger book has some pages where the design takes up the entire page, and I’m not sure where I’d even write on those pages. Designs in the smaller book take up part of the page, so that would cut into the writing space, and that’s more thinking than I want to do first thing in the morning, unless it’s one of those days where I get to start off by having breakfast with my imaginary friends. Neither book is out of the running, because A) I have them, and B) I do want to use them one day, but I’m not sure if they belong to this purpose.

There is one other contender currently on hand, and I already know what pen I would use to write in it (turquoise Pilot Varsity, as shown.) :

Front cover
Same spread on all pages

 

Absolutely gorgeous, though the spread is the same on all pages. Could get monotonous after  while, but I could possibly alternate with the sepia Pilot Plumix (once I fix the jammed-too-far-into itself cartridge; last week was not good for refilling fountain pens.)for the sake of variety. Still thinking on that one, and I do  have some time. I’d prefer to use something already on hand, but there are some lovely books out there, so the field is still open. Maybe I’ll even find I didn’t imagine the black, white and red Paris book.

When the time comes, the book will be there. This time around, I’m going to increase my days to seven rather than six. I’ve found I miss doing daily pages on Sundays, and have toyed with having a special Sunday book (which would press another book into service, so maybe not an entirely bad idea there) but keeping everything one place seems the more efficient option. Who knows? I’ll know when it’s time. That’s part of this whole finding my way part of the journey, and if it’s paved with more notebooks, all the better.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Winds of Change Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Today feels like summer, after a week of mostly very cool weather. Right now, Anty and I are next to an open window, with a box fan, which makes it nice and cool. It also ruffles my fur. Anty is easily amused, but I have a sunbeam, so I do not mind.

This week, at Buried Under Romance, Anty talked about the perils and pitfalls of reading and writing independently published romances. Do you read books like that, or write them? Anty is very interested to find out. That post is here and it looks like this:

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Anty will have a whole new post up tomorrow, about what it is like to discover new reading adventures, so be sure to stop by Buried Under Romance and join the conversation. Anty is nosy and likes to know what other people are reading, especially since she has been making it a point to do a lot more reading of her own, these days. Even though there are still the same number of hours in every day, (do not think Anty has not looked into ways of getting around that, including but not limited to spending less time asleep) she recognizes that the way she manages those hours goes a long way to making them as effective as possible. While it is true that, to have a novel writing career, there must be completed novels (have you ever been in a store that does not have products to sell? Would those stores stay in business? Probably not, but. then again, I am a kitty, so do not go by me here.) it is also true that trying to draw water from an empty well is about as smart as trying to handle a full day on little to no sleep.

This means that Anty has to slam the breaks on some habits that do not serve her purpose, and pick up others that do. One of those habits is reading. Anty remembers a time when she almost always had her nose in a book if she was not actually writing. Anty also remembers that this was before there was Internet, and time spent doing one thing is time spent not doing another. Combine this with the look the people vet gave Anty when she told him how many hours per day she looks at a computer screen, and Anty knows what she has to do here. Story in, story out, she always says, and it is true. If a human wants their car to run, they have to put gas into it, and it is the same with writers. if Anty wants to create stories, she has to take them in as well, not only for entertainment, but to see what others are doing in her field, as well as outside of it. (When I say “field,” I mean genre. Anty does not have a field like farmers have fields.)

It is also important to take in new stimuli. Anty calls this the magpie stage, and she says that it is for the beginning of a project, but it is really for all the time. One of her Spotify lists is for miscellaneous songs that she likes, but has not assigned to any one particular story. Listening to the songs on that list tells her brain it is time to do new things, and, in time, songs will sort themselves, either into other lists, or groupings within this one.  Some songs take a long time to decide where they belong, and that is okay. Anty has time.

Today, Anty spent some time, after she wrote her morning pages, looking through her notebook crates (she has two of them here in the apartment) because, in about two weeks, she will be all done with her current morning pages book. That means it is time to decide on a new one. So far, she has three possible candidates, but do not quote her on that. She prefers when her morning pages books have alternating two page spreads, but only a few -really about two, maybe three- of the books she has on hand actually do. Which means that she either needs to pick one of those (even if the spreads are kind of funny and some have grids instead of lines and some have no lines at all, only designs) or alter a book with spreads that are all the same. Whichever way Anty goes with this, it will be a new adventure, since every notebook has its own personality.

It feels appropriate to be moving to a new morning pages book when things are changey overall, and she has accepted that moving toward the finished draft of Her Last First Kiss is going to happen at its own pace, even if she wishes it were faster. That is okay. The first time doing anything always takes the longest, because that is when the human is learning how to do it. For Anty, it is re-learning. Similar, but not the same, with enough of a difference to ensure there are still interesting discoveries to be made. That is actually a place where Anty feels fairly comfortable, ready to hit her stride.

Speaking of which, she is making those ruffly noises with her papers, which tell me that had better be about it for this week. Until next time, I remain, very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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