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Playing Hooky (Well, Sort Of)

annabowling 4 Comments

Today, I played hooky. Well, sort of played hooky. I’m writing this entry, after all, and after I’m done, I kind of sort of want to drop in on Hero and Heroine for a little bit. You know, to see how they’re doing, and all. Make sure they don’t feel too neglected after the weekend, that sort of thing. Touch base. Set up for tomorrow.

I didn’t start out intending to shirk responsibility. I got up early, had breakfast with Housemate, and tackled some email before lugging a load of laundry to the Laundromat, which is where the whole hooky thing started. There’s reading I should be doing (aha, there’s that sneaky should) for pending posts on other blogs, and there’s writing I owe, and good gravy, is there work to be done on both Her Last First Kiss and the Beach Ball, but I’m also feeling rather crispy crittered, as Real Life Romance Hero would put it. The bits of conference workshops on recovering the joy of reading and writing pounded at the inside of my skull, and so, with a reckless abandon, I called up one of the books on my phone. Not the eARC I should be reading, but Jezebel’s Blues, by Barbara Samuel, a classic contemporary romance I’ve been wanting to read for years, because A) it’s set in her Gideon, Texas world that I first discovered in The Sleeping Night, a twentieth-century historical romance/women’s fiction with a contemporary frame, and B) I am twirling-around-in-circles-in-fields-of-daisies in love with both her use of language and skill in finding the intimate emotion of the story. In short, I needed it. Needed to get out of my head and into my heart, because, you know, romance writing and all.

So, I started reading . The voice and the story washed over me like the river whose flood brings Eric and Celia together in Jezebel’s Blues. Oh, yes. This is why I love romance. This is why I write. This is what feels like the most natural thing in the world. This is what I want and need to be doing when I sit down to work. The dryer cycle ended before I even knew, and I closed the reading app with great reluctance. Still, the story simmered.

This was Real Life Romance Hero’s day off, and, crispy crittered as he was himself (both Mother’s Day weekend and graduation weekend are tough on the restaurant business) he asked if I’d like to have lunch at a local pub we’ve been meaning to get back to for long enough that, when we were seated, they had a whole new menu. We had this:

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I had a Diet Coke, he had a Guinness, we spent some time focusing on each other. Talked about how we wanted to address the whole desktop situation, since the original plan fell through, and the laptop is feeling the strain. Plus, I miss my Sims, and we’d both like to take a shot at Fallout 4 and Skyrim. I throw out the idea that maybe we could just hang together after lunch, watch a little TV at home, and then I can come back fresh at this whole writing thing tomorrow. We debated taking a walk through the park, for baby waterfowl watching, but nixed that, due to the strong wind chill. It’s May, and we refuse to be cold in May. So, home, Kitchen Nightmares, and…here I am.

With permission to kick off and do nothing, I reached for the laptop to fill some pages, not because I had it on the schedule, not because I should, but because that’s what I  want to do. No pressure, just the fun of putting my imaginary friends through the wringer, because I know it’s going to be worth it in the end. For them, and for me. I didn’t feel deprived. I didn’t feel distracted. I didn’t feel dry, or as though I had to drag individual words out of nowhere. I felt…relaxed. Natural. In touch with my story brain. This day of giving myself some space and taking in what I want to put out may not have been that wasteful after all. Maybe I need to do this more often.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Reading Room Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday.

As purr (just kidding there; I do not actually purr. That does not mean I am not happy, it only means I do not purr. I chirp when I am happy. I chirp a lot.) our agreement, I must start this entry with a link to Anty’s most recent Saturday Discussion post at Buried Under Romance. This one asks what’s in  your To Be Read pile. Here is a hint: Anty’s is BIG. She does not have a pile, she has shelves. Also her e-reading devices. That post is here and it looks like this:

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It also ties in very nicely with what I want to talk about this week, and that is reading. I know what you are thinking; kitties are probably not big readers, but we do like to be near humans who are reading, so Anty’s reading experience does directly affect me. Now that Anty has had new glasses for almost an entire week, she sees a lot of things differently. It is easier to see the computer keyboard and screen, as well as write in notebooks. She can also see paper books and her e-reading devices more clearly, which brings another matter into focus. Pun intended.

Now that Anty can read without jumping through hoops (not literally, but she probably could if she wanted to; she’s pretty determined) she can also see how many books she has yet to read (there are a lot of them) and, thanks to her love of planners and calendars, what does not look like a lot of time to read them. This may require some creativity. I am willing to do my share, which means sitting very very very close to her, and being very very very quiet. I can also remind her when it is the right time to take breaks to feed and/or pet me. The people vet did not tell Anty anything about taking breaks from reading paper books, but they did say that she should look away from the screen at ten minute intervals. I think she should look at me. That will be very restful.

One of the workshops Anty attended at the conference told her that it is important to feed her creative well, and reading is a part of that. It (or maybe a different workshop; the do not have a kitty track at these things, so I did not go, and cannot be sure) also said that treating writing like a respite from the chaos of daily life (and domestic torandoes, though I do not think the instructor used that term, because it is Anty’s term, and they had not met before.) I think the same thing applies to reading. This means that Anty has some retraining of her brain to do, to treat reading as a pleasure again, instead of a task.

Sometimes, reading is work, if she is reading a book to write about it. That does not mean that it is not still fun to read, but that the reading needs to be done within a certain time, and she is also thinking about what she is going to write while she is reading. That is a different thing than flopping in her chair, bed, or tub, to read a story merely because she wants to read it. She needs to make time to do that, and to make that time a priority. That is one of the reasons why she wants to get the good office chair out of the storage unit and bring it home.

She will also need to bring a small desk home, from that same unit, for the new desktop, and the chair is partly for that. The other part, though, is so that she can use the office space for reading. That would be different, rather than trying to squeeze in a few minutes here and a few minutes there. The instructor at the workshop talked about being in the story world while writing and reading (at least that is what I gather; this is all secondpaw, since I was not physically present) and how that refreshes the brain, away from everyday life. Anty does not use the word “escape,” because that would imply that she would be away from the non-story stuff permanently, so she says “respite” instead. A time away to refresh herself and then she can take on everything else.

Right now, she is still looking for the best way to fit reading into her day, and that may take a few tries, but that is okay. Looking for things is often the way we find them. What Anty and I both know for sure is that talking about what she is reading will be an impetus to read more, so that may mean more blogging. I will be here to help her out as much as I can, because that is one of the many duties of a mews. More time reading (unless it is out of the house) means more time with me, so I am very much in favor of that.

Anty says it is her turn with the computer for now, 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)

 

 

Technically, this is last Wednesday

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Technically, this is last Wednesday’s post. I’m not comfortable with a backlog like that, and I’m still figuring out when I’m going to fit in the post that should have gone up yesterday (I keep track of this sort of thing) because Friday is Skye’s day to post. It will happen, though, because I’m antsy when I have a backlog, so pushing through and filling that space with something -most likely nonsensical babble, and maybe even a video post if I’m truly stuck for material, which I may well be. It’s been one of those weeks. Couple of weeks. I’d planned to come back from the conference, fresh out of the gate, ready to implement the tools gathered at the conference, and…life happened.

I’ve started and deleted this post more times than I care to count, because I’m not sure what the story is that I want to tell on this Thursday morning. The work for Her Last First Kiss, that I know. That’s one of the good things about having an outline. I do have to bump back the date for finishing my bullet point draft, because the last two weeks were full of domestic tornadoes. These are new patterns forming, as life in general goes into a new season. It’s only natural that this is going to carry over into the writing life as well.

Right now, it looks as though the new-to-me desktop will be arriving at some point next week, and I am looking forward to that. I have plans to move one of the bookcases from my office, into the living room, to make room for a computer desk that we need to get out of storage, along with the good office chair. That would be one with back support, though I do have the ergonomic chair (the sort where one doesn’t sit, but kneels) that I love, but when used with my secretary desk, rather than  regular desk, does not work at all. The current plan is to put a regular desk in the bookcase’s place, office chair on wheels in the middle, secretary desk on the other side, so that I can swivel from one desk to the other.  This means that a good chunk of the weekend is going to be spent getting the office ready for the new arrival, which should be an experience in itself.

Okay, about halfway into the magic 700 here, well, more than that, and I still have no idea what I want to talk about. Which means that I plow onward, babbling without purpose, because that’s purpose enough, getting my fingers moving on the keyboard and priming the pump. Some days, that’s easier, some days, it’s  harder, and some days, like today, it’s neither. The groove I want to get into is there, somewhere, but it’s not going to let me know where it is or how to get there. I will, though. Been here before, gotten through it every time, so odds are that I’m going to make it out this time, too.

On Sunday, when the optometrist attempted small talk whilst poking me in the eyeball, he asked me what I wrote. I answered that I wrote fiction, blogged about romance in books and TV for a publisher’s blog, led book discussions on another, and maintained my own blog about the writing life, his answer was, “wow, you write a lot.” Cue sound of record player needle skidding along some vintage vinyl. Huhwuh? It doesn’t feel that way, sometimes. Sometimes, it’s all too easy to do the math when the Hypercritical Gremlins gleefully circle the date of my most recent novel release in glaring yellow highlighter, and get stuck there. Those times, thankfully, are getting shorter and farther apart.

It’s been said we shouldn’t look backward, because we aren’t going that way, and in this case, I’m going to say I agree with that. I can’t move that date on the calendar, but I can take the yellow highlighter away from the Gremlins and toss it out the window. I can take a big black Sharpie and mark off, instead, my goal date for finishing this draft. I can track my progress in a way that makes sense for me, and that makes me excited to open the notebook or file every day, instead of dread it, because look how far behind I am.

Since it’s not yet been a full week with the new glasses, I’m still a wee bit surprised when I catch my own reflection, because that’s not what I’m used to seeing. That’s not the way it’s always been. The new hair color, I’m used to that now, and hey, looking pretty good on that one. It’s the same with writing. I’m not used to the new schedule yet, the new tracking, the new support system, and even the new media. It’s not yet been a year with the new laptop, but enough of the keys now have no letters on them to make me kind of proud when I look down at the keyboard. I don’t need them. My fingers know where the keys are, and I’m looking at the screen, anyway.

There will be a learning curve with the new desktop, the new office configuration, the new schedule and all of the rest, but what’s most important is something that isn’t going to change. My love of the story is going to be the same, no matter what else is going on, and I can’t wait to see what Hero and Heroine’s love story looks like in its final form. The only way to get there is butt in chair, fingers on keyboard, pen on paper, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, no, I can’t, I’m writing. Lather, rinse, repeat until the tale is told. Then on to the next one.

 

 

 

I Can See Clearly Now: An Allegory

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On Friday night, my glasses fell apart in my hands. I didn’t do anything to them, only took them off, and the left lens clattered into the sink. No biggie, I figured, and kept calm as I retrieved the lens. The screw had been loose for some time, so likely enough I hadn’t remembered to tighten it that day. All I’d have to do would be stick the lens back in, maybe find the screw if it had also fallen out, use my thumbnail as an impromptu screwdriver, and I’d be back in business. Easy. Only, that’s not how it went.

The screw was perfectly fine, but the left arm of the frame dangled at an odd angle, the frame itself having snapped. Well. This was a pickle. No, I did not have a backup pair, and no, I did not have contacts. My Saturday was already booked full; CRRWA meeting in the morning, Tulip Festival date with Real Life Romance hero, to begin the second I got back from the meeting, and then an online viewing party for a favorite TV show with friends who are similarly inclined. None of this was going to be easy when all I could see were blurry blobs of color.

Even so, I tried, because I am me. I have two friends in the medical field who are super sure I actually broke my right foot during Caregiveapalooza, and, since there was no time to get myself checked out, I bound my own foot and hobbled around as best I could. So, I would do the same thing here. I first tried using a binder clip to keep the lens in the broken frame, which was serviceable enough for an hour or two, but uncomfortable. Next attempt was electrical tape, which technically kept the lens in the frame, but also wreaked havoc with my peripheral vision and depth perception. Also, the corners of electrical tape, when poking one in the eye socket and/or cheekbone, provide a feeling I am going to describe as discomfort, but I was not going to miss that meeting. (Heather McGovern spoke on using character and conflict to heighten the black moment, and I am all about the black moments.)

Twice, at the meeting, I jumped in surprise when friends approached me from the left. I did not see them there. Clearly, this was not going to be a workable solution, but I took notes as best I could and will compare them with a friend’s later, to catch anything I missed. Friend was able to drop me in front of my house, despite the festival traffic, and, after  short pit stop, I informed Real Life Romance Hero he was going to be my guide for the afternoon; we were going to be holding hands the entire time, and not just to show affection. He told me he’d been planning on doing exactly that. Good man.

If you’ve never attended an outdoor festival sans corrective lenses, let me give you an overview. There will be a lot of shapes and colors coming at you from all directions, and you will not be able to tell what they are. Assume they are people, and none of them know you can’t see a thing beyond blobs. There will be a small twinge of apprehension, because, if you let go of the hand you’re holding, you are likely going to be toast. After a while, you’ll start to get a feel for what it’s like; you’ve traversed this ground before, under different circumstances, so maybe you’ll be only lightly toasted, not actual toast, if your guide parks you someplace somewhat out of the way-ish, to get a couple of the best hot dogs on earth. You learn to ask questions when needed. Are there condiments? (this is always an important question) What about napkins? Is that a dog? (most of the time it was a dog; once it was a small child. Real Life Romance Hero thought that was vastly amusing.)Since I can see only blobs, will someone else please take a picture? Things like that. Food still tastes good, company still good, and questions posed to festival staff will help point you in the right direction when you suspect a favorite vendor may be present, but cannot see them because blobs of color and all that. A few modifications, but you still come home with a purse full of kettle corn and a tower of horseradish samplers, so still good.

If you’re suspecting I’m going to turn this into some allegory on writing, you’re right. Housemate and I spent the entirety of Sunday at the optometrist. The utter destruction of my former spectacles garnered some interesting comments from the staff, who were sympathetic and understanding of the entire affair. They even worked out a small discount and pushed to get me lenses that day, rather than let me swim through the fog any longer than I absolutely had to, so, overall, a positive experience there. There is the matter of something the optometrist found and would like to keep an eye (pun intended) on and discuss later, but that’s another story.

What this story is about is clarity of vision. BFF and I took a lunch break, then as soon as she steered be back into the room, I heard a chipper “They’re ready! We did it!” BFF steered me to the appropriate seat, and the person who first greeted my foggy-eyed self rushed over to see the end result. Staff member handed me my new frames, I put them on and there it was. Sight. That’s what the world looks like. Relief. Adjustment, because my brain had started to figure out how to maneuver around the blobs of color, but having the right outlook makes it all that much easier to go about my life.

It’s like that with writing, as well. The colored blobs of uncorrected vision can be like all the vague ideas that come at a writer in the early stages of a new project. Who’s that? What’s that doing there? Where are we going in this strange new land? Are there condiments? Genre can be a guide. I write romance. I know where this is going. My lovers are going to get through all obstacles, to go home together, and happy to be there. I’ve been this way before. I’ve written romance novels. I read them. I know where this is going, and I know I’m going to get there, so I can trust myself and my guide and enjoy the experience. Not too bad a lesson to learn (relearn?) when I’m pumped from conference, meeting, and have a new-to-me desktop on the way. Think somebody is trying to tell me something here?

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Ten Pound Cat in a Five Pound Bag Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. In case any of you are worried, the ten pound cat in this week’s title does not refer to me. I do not weigh ten pounds, nor have I ever been stuffed in a bag of any sort. (There is the carrier, though, but we are not talking about that here. This time.) “Stuffing a ten pound cat in a five pound bag” is a metaphor Anty uses, and I will talk about that in a minute. First, though, here is a link to last week’s Buried Under Romance discussion post. You can read it here, and it looks like this:

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Anty  is pretty sure that some people may be only seeing this now, since she is a little bit behind on things this week. By a little, she means…uh, I am getting a look that tells me I may have gone far enough on that one. Anyway, she wrote that particular post ahead of time, which was convenient, because she was at the conference all weekend, but it was also inconvenient, because she did not get a chance to share the link once the post did go live, because she was at the conference. She feels bad about that, and is rather impressed that there are comments anyway, and a little (she wishes I would stop using that word as a speech pause, because it is one of her big language peeves, so I will try my best) embarrassed that she is only noticing it now. Never fear, she will answer anyway. It has been a big week. Here is what Anty looked like when she got back from the conference:

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About five minutes in the door after coming home.

 

That is a very tired human, even though it was all for a good cause, and, while I am sure that she will get back to normal at some point, that is more or less what it’s been like for the past week. She has been grouchy, too, which is a part of being tired. This is where the stuffing a ten pound cat into a five pound bag thing comes into play. That is a term Anty came up with when she was taking care of three humans at the same time, a few years ago, and it means to have more things to do than time in which to do the. I do not know why she used cat stuffing as a comparison, but maybe it is because cats do not usually go easily into such containers. I think that is probably it.

Anyway, that has encompassed a lot of Anty’s week. One of the workshops she attended had to do with managing time so that a writer can write more, and she was eager to try that. She still is, only, because this is Friday, tomorrow is both her CRRWA meeting and the Tulip Festival (she has a date with Uncle for that one) and Sunday is Mother’s Day (it is not Anty’s favorite holiday) she will have to try them next week, because this one is basically toast. She suspects better planning could have found a way around that, but until she masters time travel, she can only move forward.

Well, mostly. There is the matter of a few assorted photographs from the conference, that Anty sent herself, which took a while to actually show up in her email. She is not sure how that works, but now they are here, so I can share the with you. Anty did not end up wearing the red shoes in this picture, like she had planned, because she forgot to break them in enough beforehand, but she showed them to Anty Melva, who agrees they do look like  a pair of shoes in the story they are working on together:

 

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Non-fictional version of fictional shoes.

Anty promises herself that, next year, she will plan what pictures she wants to take, intead of trying to remember and ending up with an odd assortment. Here are some pictures from Saturday’s breakfast. The bread table and Brenda K. Stone’s Froot Loops. Miss Brenda asked Anty to take the Froot Loops picture, so Anty did. Maybe I should ask Anty to take a picture of my food. Because she would have to feed me first, before she could do that.

 

Speaking of stuffing big things into small bags, here are all the books Anty brought  home from the conference. She was very good (walletwise) and did not buy any more books that weekend, though she did see many books for sale, that tempted her, very much. This is why Anty always brings an extra, empty bag to these events. It always gets filled.

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Eight more for the TBR shelves….

That is eight more books for Anty to read, and she already has her TBR shelves, plus her Kindle, and books to read so that she can write about them, all on top of writing books for others to read. I can see where that might make a human feel ever so slightly overwhelmed, but that is okay. As Anty says, the feelings have a job to do, so the best tactic is to let the feelings do their job and keep moving forward. That is best done by deciding what task is the most important, and doing that first. To keep with the cat and bag analogy, get the head in first, and the rest will follow.

Uh oh. I do not want to give Anty any ideas about getting me in the carrier (we do not have any trips planned, but we kitties can be suspicious about this sort of thing) so 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)

Home Again, Home Again

annabowling 4 Comments

Welp, NECRWA 2016 is now a memory, conference clothes have been (mostly) laundered, I still have to put swag away/distribute specific items to those who have called dibs, and follow up on contacts made over the course of the weekend.  I have notes on Beach Ball to transcribe, as Melva and I outlined four scenes on the drive back, and a wealth of information from some excellent workshops to implement. Pictures taken during the conference are in my phone, but taking their time to actually show up in my email, so I may have to wing it for today’s entry, and show the pretties on Wednesday.

Which is fine, actually, because taking a good, hard look at how things actually work is part of my takeaway from the conference. One of several, really, some tangible objects, others not, but I want to get some impressions down here before the rest of the week intrudes. Sunday, I was a slug under my duck blankey, awake long enough only to consume food Real Life Romance Hero (himself also a slug, but a really handsome one) had delivered because neither of us was up to operating complicated machinery like stoves or toasters or microwaves. I had plans to read, because reading is something I need to make more time for, as reading is absolutely part of the writing process. Reading turned to napping under the blankey while half-listening to (watching would require open eyes) Bar Rescue on whatever channel plays that show. Food Network? I should know that, but I don’t. Real Life Romance Hero had control of the remote, which was fine, because :points to duck blankey reference.:

Today was Monday, which became a transition day. Laundry, following up on contacts, planning and organization, and going over the notes from the awesome workshops I attended on Saturday. It feels like I’m getting my house in order and doing homework at the same time. That all fits with the sense of entering a new season. I’m not talking about spring, even though of course, that’s happening at the same time, but life in general.

Susan Mallery gave a wonderful workshop on writing more, which is definitely one of my goals. Encouragingly, it would appear I’m doing some things right: writing at the same time each day; paying more attention to how I put a book together, rather than what works for anybody else; and paying special attention to what books I love and what books I hate. Which books were a joy to write, and which ones made me want to shove pencils in my eyes, because that would be less painful? Since I like lists and schedules, some of her tips in that department, which she warned might be “really scary” for some participants, actually got me pumped to put them into motion. Anything that gives me a reason to start a new notebook is okay by me. This workshop also helped me decide that today would be the transition/organization/planning day. I like to know what I’m doing, when I’m doing it, how it’s going to get done, and then let me at it.

Tanya Michaels’ workshop on surviving setbacks was the perfect chaser, because that is also pertinent to my interests. Every writer is going to have some setbacks, some disappointments, some detours. Every writer is going to get thrown from the metaphorical horse. The key is getting back up, and getting back on; basic, yes, but important to hear, and important to find out the steps to take to figure out which way “up” actually is for that particular circumstance. Again, the key seems to be finding out what works for the individual and sticking with that. I loved hearing that yes, it is okay to have a core story. Watching Tanya display book after book after book and happily announce that they were all about a cowboy and a single mom, a cowboy and a single mom, a cowboy and a single mom, etc, struck a note. I don’t write about cowboys or single parents, but it’s the principle of the thing. Have the core story, and find new ways to tell it. That, I can do.

Donna Alward gave a wonderful workshop on creating character cheat sheets, which sheet I need to request, as they were hot properties, and with good reason. Joanna Shupe, whose Magnate, the first in her Knickerbocker series of Gilded Age New York historicals, I am currently reading, spoke on writing the intricacies of writing physical intimacy. Since Melva and I needed to get on the road halfway through, we’re going to have to pester friends for details on what we missed by leaving early, but that’s one of the best takeaways from these conferences; friends.

This year, Melva and I wound up at a table full of super fun, talented women, with whom we instantly bonded. Some, we’d met before, at other dinners, from other conferences, and some were new-met, but we clicked at dinner and stuck together through the weekend, and, now, that we’re released back into the “real world,” ready to put theory into practice, we’re sticking with each other here, as well. A new chapter begins.

 

 

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Uncle and Baby Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is the conference weekend, which means that Anty is going away for two whole days. Without me. Actually, I am glad she is not taking me, because taking me would mean going in the carrier, and I do not like going in the carrier. It is scary. Home is better.

Technically, Anty will be only gone from Friday morning to Saturday night, but that is a long time for a kitty to be by herself, and by “herself,” I mean me, because I am that kitty. Being alone is not my favorite thing in the world, because I like to be around my people as much as I possibly can, same as Anty. That is why I like to sit in the areas of the apartment where there is the most foot traffic. Then, they will have to see me and pay attention to me. Uncle has to go hunt on both days, so I will have more time by myself than I like to have, but when he does come back from hunting, it will be Uncle and Baby time, all the time. That makes it somewhat better, because I love Uncle and Baby time. Uncle plays with me a lot and gives me scritches. I am not allowed to make any comment on the amount of food he gives me, but I am a happy kitty. I like to sit really really really close to him (on top of his feet is my absolute favorite) and follow him everywhere. By “everywhere,” I do mean everywhere. If the door to the human litterbox room is open, I take that as an invitation and will come in to observe, so Uncle never has to worry about being left alone.

Anty will also not be alone, because she will be with Mama on the drive from NY to MA, and then she will be with Anty Melva for the drive to the conference, and, then, she will be with a whole hotel full of people who also love to write romance novels. Then, when it is over, she will be with Anty Melva for the drive back to meet Mama, (Mama will also not be alone; she will be with Grandma) and then drive back with Mama, until, at last, they are both home, and they can be with Uncle and me. Then we will all be together again. Having all of my humans in the same place is my very favorite thing. Okay, that and treat. I love when my humans give me treat.

I am sure that Anty will come home from the conference with a lot of stories to tell, both fictional and otherwise. I could tell some stories about how Anty tends to get overthinky about pretty much everything before she actually heads out to the conference, but I also remember that she is in charge of how many treats I get, so I will not do that. All I will say is that following her around while she gets her suitcase packed has made me one tired kitty, but that is all part of the job of being a mews. I do not know if there is such a thing as a mews conference, but if there were, I would hope it would be done by remote, so we could attend from the comfort of our own homes. Comfort is a pretty important thing for us mews-es. We have to feel secure and familiar with our surroundings, if we are going to provide inspiration and support for our writers.

In case you did not see last week’s Saturday Discussion post when it was new, Anty talked about comfort reads this week at Buried Under Romance.  Many humans have certain books, or types of books, that they turn to when they need to feel secure and familiar with their stories, and that can mean many different things to different people. Some of Anty’s favorite comfort reads may not seem very comfortable to some readers, but what matters is that they make her happy, and that is reason enough. You can read that post  here, and it looks like this:

 

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What are *your* comfort reads?

 

Anty says it is about time for me to wrap this up, because she has to get going already, so that is going to be about it for this week. Next week, though, is the Tulip Festival, and Anty and Uncle go to that every year, which means that will be another big weekend for Anty, and whole other blog entry for me. I had better start doing my research, 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)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Call and Answer

annabowling 2 Comments

Today almost ended up being a video blog, but I know myself, and that’s going to have to wait for later. What’s on my mind today is -are?- a bunch of things. There’s no time tomorrow, the last day before the conference, to sneak in an entry, and so it needs to be today. I have one ear open for the doorbell (as if anyone can miss a big ol’ prewar doorbell that vibrates the walls and scares the stuffing out of the cat…and the me, because yikes, that thing is loud. Effective, though.) because I’m waiting for a delivery for something Real Life Romance Hero ordered and the rest of my head is…not scattered, exactly. Lets call it multitasking.

We’ll jump right to something from my morning pages (in italics):

That’s where I feel I am now, coming back home in a different season of my life . A lot of things are changing. Some people who were always there, are now elsewhere. New people have moved into some of the vacant houses. At some point, this will be the way it’s always been.

Last night, I chatted with a writer friend, about a scene in her WIP, the emotions so finely honed that it viscerally shook me, made me first think A) well, crap, I can’t top that, and then B) I want to do that. Not top her work, because it’s not a contest. What I do want is to create my own version of that. Get that kind of response. Be that deeply involved with the characters and emotions and elicit the vivid sensory images. That kind of thing.

Her scene affected me so much that, a good night’s sleep, walk through the park, daily pages and half a blog entry later, part of me is still back there, not yet ready to leave it. Wanting to draw some of that in and make it my own and put it back out, mingled with my people and my era and their story and and and and…yeah. Writers, you know what I mean. Readers-who-do-not-write, it’s too late for us; save  yourselves.

It’s not the only thing that  has me under the influence, either. There’s a new picture in my inspiration folder, that I’m still not sure why I like it as much as I do, but I keep coming back to it, so there is something in there, even if I don’t know, at this point, what it is. I don’t have to know; figuring that out is part of the journey. There will be time spent staring at it, thinking about it, isolating different parts so that I can see them from different perspectives, trying on and discarding lyrics and quotes and looking at and looking away and thinking and feeling and not-thinking and not-feeling and putting it on the back burner until it tells me.

That’s all part of this homecoming process, knowing that, sometimes, the story tells me, rather than the other way around. It’s the difference between pushing and pushing and pushing and pushing and pushingpushingpushingpushing on a door, and reading the sign that says “pull.” Then pulling, et voila, open door. Funny how that works.

I keep coming back to this idea of homecoming, this place that is familiar-but-not. Keep coming back to the magpie stage, gathering this and that and incorporating it into what I already know. Into what I don’t yet know. It’s…not weird. Not strange. Not familiar, either, but familiar all the same. It’s part of the process. Knowing that not-knowing what I’m doing is exactly what I need to be doing, and knowing that it’s going to be different every time. Knowing that that difference is always going to be a constant. Knowing that, even though I may shy at this jump, I’ve taken it before, and  I can certainly take it again. Knowing that another lap of the place is what I need to build up the speed for that jump. Knowing that my metaphors are going to muddle. Knowing that they are going to mingle, along with pictures I don’t know why I like, songs that grab me from the first note, the scent that grabs the reins of my attention and pulls hard while I’m doing something completely unrelated, and, without my conscious effort, there I am, fully absorbed in the world of the story. Inside the characters’ skins, living their story with them. That’s home.

 

 

 

 

Coming in out of the Cold

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Monday afternoon, cold still hanging in there, but negotiating its exit strategy. We will see how that goes. No idea right now what I want to blog about today, so I am going to jump in and blabber and it will go where it goes. Which is, of course, the magic seven hundred words for the mandatory entry. I could bump this entry back to tomorrow, as I know I get two hours of uninterrupted time after my weekly meeting with N (note to self – bring Mont Blanc and standard cartridge so I can figure out what the heck I’m doing wrong in inserting the darned thing. Seriously, I’ve tried both ends, and nada. Scratchety-scratch on the paper, but no ink after I ran through the mystery dregs of the old ink that somehow missed getting rinsed out when I flushed it during a rare moment of clarity over the weekend. That’s flushed with warm water in the kitchen sink, not in the bathroom bowl. Even at prime coldbrain, I would not do that.)

Okay, pens. I can talk about pens.  The Pilot Namiki cartridges did come on Saturday, and went into the Plumix like a dream, so I have my very first fountain pen back in action. Possible review to follow, because that feels like a natural progression, and it really is an easy to use pen, plus the sepia ink is gorgeous. We will not talk about my adventures trying to put the Jinhao (international standard size) cartridge in the Mont Blanc, even though that should have fit. It probably does, and it was operator error. Hence plans to consult N, who actually knows what she’s doing with the whole fountain pen thing.

I promise that I will talk about things that are not pens, but can be done with pens, namely, writing, once I get my full brain back. Going through the process of writing down anything, as with both my morning pages and blabbery blogging, even without a plan set out beforehand, is a big help in that direction. As a once upon a time writing group facilitator, J, used to remind those of us in her group, the practice begets the product. Or something like that. Like I said, I am not fully back yet. Too fuzzy, don’t remember version – put pen to paper and/or fingers to keyboard and write something. Anything. Sooner or later, writing will kick in and something will start to make sense, fictional or otherwise.

One step at a time kind of thing, the left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot kind of thing.  With the conference only a matter of days away now, there are going to be questions asked by new friends and old, and the answers aren’t always what I wish I were giving at this stage of the game. Am I signing this year? That’s one of them. Answer I give, with game smile: “Not this year.” Answer my Hypercritical Gremlins want to give: :hysterical laughter, breaking down into wrenching sobs that give way to sniffles: They, obviously, are not my biggest supporters, and are quick to remind me that my current crop of titles are A) not all that current, and B) electronic exclusives. Neither making it all that easy to sign, but that’s okay. That’s this stage of the game. That’s this year.

This year, I am at work on one novel and one novella, and cast periodic glances at the post-apocalyptic medieval novella, suspended in mid-revision. Next year, I can have up to three manuscripts ready to make the rounds. That’s pretty darned good. Yay, me. This is not a race. Success and happiness and all that other good stuff are not finite quantities. All the hundreds of other writers and publishing professionals in attendance are proof of that. All the books laid out at our seats every meal and given away as prized in baskets and at workshops and for sale at the literacy signing are proof of that. Every one of those was, at one point, butt in chair and fingers on keyboard. Every one of those was an idea. Every one of those was a “what if?” Every one of those was a “I wonder if I can…” Every one of those was a “I’m going to show up and put something on the paper/screen today.” I can’t think of anything more encouraging than that.

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Conference Week Edition

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hereLet Your Imagination Take Flight conference,Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. This is the last week before Anty heads off for the annual Let Your Imagination Take Flight conference, put on by the New England chapter of Romance Writers of America. A whole weekend in a hotel full of people who love the same things that Anty loves is something she looks forward to every year, even if that is also a hotel empty of kitties. At least she has pictures of me to tide her over, and many of the other writers like to talk about their kitties, too, so she is not totally doing without. I will, however, expect extra scritches when she gets back. I think that is only fair.

This week means it is time to prepare for the conference. Besides picking out what outfits and other personal items she is going to bring, there is also the task of the elevator pitch. If you do not know what that means, I will explain. An elevator pitch is a very short description of one’s manuscript, quick enough to tell someone (hopefully an editor or agent) during the span of an elevator ride. This means whittling the whole story down to its very basic parts, while still whetting the appetite so that the other person will want to hear more. As you can imagine, this can sometimes be quite the challenge.

For Anty, this week, it may be even more of a challenge, because she is dealing with a spring cold. This cold is the kind that makes her brain all foggy, and her body want to take go to sleep at times that are not nighttime. Nighttime, during colds like this, is for staring at the ceiling, and thinking about story things. Also going through a lot of tissues, though she does that during the daytime, too.

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Pen guts for Pilot Plumix and MontBlanc Noblisse

Anty thought that getting some of her pens ready for new ink would be a good idea. That is not exactly what happened. The part of the Mont Blanc that takes ink does not work, and Anty thought she could put the standard cartridge from Jinhao in that pen, instead. It went in, but she is not yet getting the new ink to show. That is okay. She will put the pen, capped, nib side down, in its cup and then try again later. The Pilot cartridges should arrive later today. Uncle will probably check for her, because he is home, and does not have a cold. Also, he ordered Chinese food. I do not eat Chinese food, because I am a kitty. I eat kitty food. Speaking of which, I think I have some humans to stare at once I get this blog entry posted.

In case you missed it last week, Anty’s most recent Buried Under Romance discussion post is here, and it looks like this:

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What kinds of books do you wish your favorite (or new) writers would write? Anty is always interested in hearing answers to questions like that, even when she has a new topic. I would like to see more books with kitties in them, but maybe that is just me. Humans probably have different answers.

Anty will find a lot of humans with different tastes in reading and writing at the conference, but they all have a love of romance fiction in common. Anty loves the energy she gets from these conferences, and says that Saturday morning breakfast, is extroverted morning person Christmas. A room full of people, who love what Anty loves, want to talk to other people, plus endless caffeine and breakfast foods? That is about as good as it gets in that respect. There will be old friends and new friends and free books and lots of swag, plus the ride there and back, with Anty Melva, where they can talk about the story they are writing together. Best of all, Anty will get new stories to tell, both about the conference, and maybe even some seeds for new books yet to be written.

Since Anty will be getting a late start on her pre-conference preparations, I will be standing by, in case she needs me to take on one of her regular blog entries in the upcoming week. That is part of the duties of being a mews, and so is making sure Anty gets enough rest. To do that, I curl into a ball and sleep right in front of her chair, so that she cannot get up without waking me. I had better get to 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
(the kitty, not the book)