possibly pointless blabbering

Anna-ticipation

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Right now, I am sitting on my pillow pile, lap desk in my lap. Outside, it’s grey and intermittently rainy. There is a package of pens (not the ones pictured) on its way to me, possibly arriving today. My tea mug is empty (again,) and, as soon as I finish this entry, I can get up and make more tea. It may possibly be chai. In the later afternoon, there will be groceries. This may or may not expand my tea choices. It may also expand my pen inventory, but that is a risk I am willing to take.

This past weekend, I attended our monthly CR-RWA meeting, where Jean C. Gordon took us through her Gone in Sixty Minutes synopsis workshop. Now, I have one eye on my notebook, as I go through the Monday stuff, because I want to get back to what I was doing on Saturday afternoon.

I’m not usually excited about writing synopses. Writing a whole book is, somehow, easier than giving a brief summary of what the book is about, and what it means for the two lead characters. Do not ask me why. All I know is that, usually, when I hear the word, “synopsis,” I immediately forget the entire book, stare blankly, and mutter something that sounds vaguely like “ummm….”

This time, however, I’m much closer to “this is super cool, and I can’t wait to hunker down and get to it.”  I even like the idea of writing the synopsis before writing the book, and may have to give that a go at some point.’That may be close to what Melva and I are doing with Chasing Prince Charming right now. I used Her Last First Kiss for the hands-on part of the workshop, as well as reconnected with a once upon a time critique partner, about resuming that relationship, and, now, that it’s time to get back into the serious business of making book (literally) I feel more…grounded may be the best word. I was not expecting that, but I will take it.

That work isn’t for today, though, because Monday is for doing Monday things. Getting ready to Skype with Melva, making a grocery run, transcribing longhand pages. Keeping one eye on the clock, because I know when the mail carrier brings our building’s mail, and there is a very good chance that there may be pens in there. Not that I know exactly what sort of pens they are going to be, because this is from a pen exchange on a Facebook group for pen enthusiasts. I am also getting a bunch of pens ready to send off to my exchange partner, someone whom I know very little about, other than their address and taste in pens. Sometimes, that’s all one needs to know, only enough to take care of the task at hand. If that hand happens to be holding an awesome pen, well, that’s a plus.

As usual, the weekend included some craft store tourism with Housemate. This time, I cracked open the marker paper insert I’d been wanting for a long time, open as soon as I got it home, whipped out some markers and stamps and stencils, and started throwing stuff onto pages that were not the first page (excellent art trick to get over the reluctance to ruin the first page of a new sketchbook/insert.)

Again, this is kind of similar to something Melva and I are doing with our first draft of Drama King, and what a combination of talks with N, Saturday’s workshop, and a few other factors, have me wanting to do with  Her Last First Kiss. Maybe one of the pens in the pen-ding delivery will find its purpose in doing exactly that.

I already know what my reward, at the end of the day, will be. Right now, I have one re-read of a classic historical romance for my before-bed reading, and one brand new contemporary YA, by two authors who always hit the mark, on my phone, to nip into when I have spare moments. Both of those are the kind of read where I find myself thinking about the characters during the day, hoping they don’t do anything interesting without me. They usually don’t, Other people’s characters are usually better behaved than my own, and happy to wait for me before they get back into the action.

Not so with my own imaginary friends. Getting up to stuff is pretty much in their job descriptions. They’ll run off the planned route, on a whim, make decisions and take actions that I did not authorize first. Oftentimes, they come up with better stuff than I do, and maybe this is what they will do, tonight, when I am scanning the shelves for no sugar added applesauce, or cruising the pen aisle for fun things to toss into a package I will mail out later this week.

It’s important to stay in the moment, and do the thing in front of us, but, sometimes, casting a glance at the horizon can be an excellent reminder of where we’re going, and why we want to be there.

Typing With Stuffed Paws: Fine and Private Place Edition

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Yo. Sebastian here. It’s Friday again. Domestic tornado-y week for Stately Bowling Manor this week, but those things happen. Writer Chick still got stuff done, though. I’ll get to that. For those who are wondering, my buddy in this week’s picture is a gargoyle. Technically a grotesque, because she doesn’t have some thingamajig that makes a gargoyle a gargoyle, but whatever. She’s guarding the roses, which seem to be growing fine. Only the one flower so far, but lots of branches and leaves. For those keeping track, Tudor is far and away outgrowing Lancaster.

Apparently, I am supposed to tie that kind of thing into whatever Writer Chick is doing this week, but even I know nobody wants to hear about how many times she took out the recycling (it was four, plus hauling two dead air mattresses outside, to the big dumpster) so I will try to keep things pertinent. The operative word here would be “try.”

Okay, so, there’s the Buried Under Romance thing. That’s here. If you’re looking for the featured image, it’s this:

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Writer Chick is progressing through her To Be Read list, and doing okay, all things considered. If you want to follow her reading challenge on Goodreads, that’s here. She still has some record-keeping to do, or maybe that was my job? Whatever, we’ll figure it out. After naptime.

Right now, Writer Chick is focusing on getting more historical romances into her reading rotation, especially standalone novels that fall on the epic scale. That means a lot of going through the archives, and finding older books, some that she missed the first time around, and others that she loved and would love to revisit. Then again, there are a lot of much-anticipated YA novels coming out in the next few months, so this may be a tricky balance. Should be interesting to see how it plays out. She keeps meaning to get audiobooks on Overdrive, so she can listen to books while doing other stuff, but does she remember? Nooooo. She might want to start putting this in that big stripey book she carries around everywhere. I don’t know what she has in it, but it has stripes, so it has to be good, right? Because stripes are the best. I am strongly pro-stripe.

Tomorrow, Writer Chick goes to her local RWA chapter meeting. That’s Romance Writers of America, which means a big room full of Other Writer Chicks and Some Writer Dudes, where they talk about -you guessed it- writing. I’m probably staying home, but there is no rule against bringing felines of the stuffed persuasion into such gatherings, so one never knows. Could be a good photo op. We’ll see what happens.

With domestic tornado-y weeks, the writing time can be a precious commodity. Fortunately, Writer Chick is into that whole pen and paper thing, so she has a secret writing place where nobody can burst in on her. Can you guess what it is? Here is a clue:

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Writer Chick is considering using this as a new author photo, even though the background is the hint as to what room it was where she took this picture. If you need a second hint, all of the furniture in this room is made out of porcelain. It has a door that shuts, there are no windows for distracting views (the foliage is rather splendid this time of year) and, at the moment, it has what is probably Writer Chick’s favorite pine-scented candle of all time.

The downside of this is that the room in question is also the human litterbox, but, as Anty reminds the other humans, there are public litterboxes in the lobby, and they know where the litterbox paper is kept, so there really isn’t a problem here (though there will be, if they press their luck any farther.)

Objectively, this is a pretty good solution to needing some private time/space for writing (or reading; the bathtub is great for that.) One, everybody has to use that room, so getting into it is very rarely questioned. Secondly, privacy. Nobody wants to bust in on people in the litterbox (except for paramedics; they’re allowed) and, in case they do, there is a curtain right there, that can be used to subdivide the room. My best guess is that Writer Chick would not want to be in that room if somebody else needed it for litterboxing, but deadlines are deadlines, if you know what I mean.

For creature comforts, this room is loaded. It’s climate controlled, with a heater and a fan. There is an endless supply of water, both hot and cold. Thirst is no longer a problem. This particular human litterbox is the default location for all of the Skype chats Writer Chick has with her contemporary writing partner (I haven’t decided what I’m going to call her yet. Writer Chick calls her “Melva.”) on Monday nights. Writer Chick is still figuring out the best way to position her phone for the video chats, but trial and error usually sorts that kind of thing out in short order. Or long, if it’s more error than trial.

Clock is ticking for Writer Chick to be out the door (she’ll want to put on things like makeup and go-outside clothes first) and for my sunbeam time, so that’s it for this week. Catch you next time.

SebastianWindowBye

Falling Into Place

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The fact that I am writing Monday’s blog on Wednesday should give some indication of how the week has gone, so far. The fact that today’s picture was taken last week, with vague plans to say something about writing by candlelight, and/of my practice of evening pages (same as morning pages, but at night, a brain dump before bed) only confirms that indication.

The fact that I am seated on my pillow pile, in my corner, with the box fan aimed at me, one third of the way into the month of October (and precisely two weeks before my birthday, for that matter) proves that it is now October in New York, and this sort of thing is to be expected. I am, in fact, not surprised, and dressed appropriately to haul a hamper full of stinky textiles down to our building’s laundry room, in leggings, flip flops, and an oversized t-shirt that was not oversized when I bought it, so yay me. Real Life Romance Hero passed by aforementioned laundry room, in a winter coat. He may have second thoughts about that by the time he gets to his destination. I am sure he will have a tale to tell, when day is done.

The fact that I am babbling here speaks to another alteration to my schedule this week, and I will be having my weekly Skype confab with contemporary co-writer, Melva, at two-thirty this afternoon, instead of seven on Monday night. It’s anybody’s guess when the laundry actually gets put away, because there also has to be a recycling run, and quick dash into the grocery store. The rest of the day will probably be scheduled by negotiation, which is par for the course around here, these days.

Um, Anna, some of you may be asking, what does any of that stuff up there have to do with writing? You know, the making up stories thing? You still do that? To that, I say a hearty “oh heck yes.” There is no turning that kind of thing off. Trust me, I’ve tried. It did not go well. To those who are indeed asking that question, hang on, I’m getting there.

I have found, from necessity, that I can, indeed, write by candlelight, sometimes with a fountain pen (extra points when it is a vintage fountain pen) and my quest to reconnect with some of the books and/or authors who inspired me to write historical romance, especially the sort of historical romance that I love best, continues. This morning, I finished reading Enchantress Mine, by Bertrice Small, a standalone historical romance set around the Norman Conquest.

I have a bunch of thoughts and some feelings about this re-read. I’d totally forgotten, for example, the Easter egg of a minor character, that serves as a loose connection to the author’s Glenkirk books. The connection is minor enough that I do still consider this a standalone, which I noted in the notebook I grabbed on my way to the laundry room, because I had found myself in the position of needing a laundry bag notebook.

The last time I did laundry, I filled my previous laundry bag notebook, and, at the same time, emptied the pen I was using in that book, a Pilot Frixion clicky pen, which I mourn, and will replace. Since reading and writing are the only two things I do during laundry time (besides doing laundry, of course) the fact that I finished a book, a notebook, and a pen, on my last two laundry trips has to mean something. Markers of progress, and all that. (Mmmm, marrrrrrkerrrrssss…..)

Speaking of which, the filling of notebooks and emptying of pens leaves me with some pressing pen related issues. Namely, the ten slots in the pen case that I’ve meant to keep as my everyday carry in my computer tote, and the elastic pen case that goes with whatever notebook is going in the laundry bag next. I have dedicated notebooks for both Her Last First Kiss (props to those who have accepted the task of kicking my butt back into gear with this oen; keep doing what you do) and for Drama King and related books. If I have time before the Skype session, I will scribble down the snippet of dialogue for an upcoming Drama King scene, and see what Melva thinks before that bit goes any further.

Co-parenting a novel, as it were, is a different enterprise from going it alone, and both approaches have their plusses and minuses. I’m glad I’m doing both, and I’m glad, even, that both are in a phase of readjusting and reconnecting. Maybe part of that is due to, finally, being in my favorite season (need for box fan aside; you should see the foliage around here) and some encouraging words (you know who you are) or maybe it’s only that I have hit that part of the journey, where things grow and change, and the stories, as it were, are big enough to get themselves dressed in the morning, as it were.

As much as I love planning, some things plan themselves. Finding out, for example, that I can write by candlelight, and that I find it both calming, and has a bit of historical atmosphere, those are pretty darned good things. Knowing that I can smush my schedule around, and fit in the important things -the writing, the reading, the pinpointing why I love what I love- in with the everyday necessities, like laundry and recycling runs, well I’m not going to complain about that, not at all.

That’s all the time I’ve got for blogging today, so time to sign off, slap on some concealer and lip balm, and get my Drama King notebook open to a fresh page.

Typing With Stuffed Paws: Introductory Edition

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Let’s get introductions out of the way. My name is Sebastian Thunderpaws Hart-Bowling, and I will be serving as Cat Regent until one or more flesh and blood cats can take on their rightful blogging duties. Trust me, these humans, especially the writer one, are not fit to be left on their own between cats. Hence, the need for a Cat Regent, specifically me.

As far as I understand it, the duties of Cat Regent mostly involve keeping an eye on that writer chick who lives here. I think the dude who lives here calls her Anna, or something like that. I think that’s what the other chick who lives here calls her, too, so that’s probably her name, but whatever. I’m still going through the orientation packet, and by “going through” I mean “sleeping on,” but that goes without saying.

Before I go any farther, it’s elephant in the room time. Yes, I am aware that I am a stuffed animal. All of us are aware. Deal with it. The humans really cannot be left alone without feline supervision, but currently live in a no-pets building, until they can find a pet-friendly place, which should happen in the spring. When that happens, I will train my non-stuffed replacement, and return to my normal life of naps, and emergency pillow duty. Until then, I get to motivate the writer human, and use this blog to air my grievan…I mean, provide support and keep readers abreast of new developments.

Originally, I wanted to call this blog “Get Stuffed,” but Writer Chick said she’d write all of the Friday posts by herself, before she let me do that. As Cat Regent, and temporary Mews, I cannot allow such things to happen. Since my paws, and, well, all of me, are stuffed, that title is acceptable.

As you might have guessed, the change in hosts means that some things are going to be different around here, regarding the way I keep you informed about Writer Chick and the stuff she’s doing. To make sure we are all on the same page, here are all the humans who live here, and what I call them:

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Writer Chick: The other humans call her “Anna.” Writes books, writes blogs, reads books. Drinks tea (a lot of it.) Gets way too excited about notebooks and pens. Loves epic historical romance and contemporary YA. Bakes a mean macaroni and cheese. Wrote this.

SebastianandDude Dude: This guy. Married to Writer Chick. Fuzzy, but not stuffed. Reads, but not romance. Used to cook professionally, now does it for fun. Pretty smart. Good at naps. Leaves the apartment to work. Current area of interest: US Civil War history.

placeholderyarn Other Chick: Camera shy, so will be represented by this picture of yarn. Also leaves the apartment to get monies. Knits a lot. Buys groceries. Fairly quiet, and low-maintenance. Makes best blankets ever. Reads a lot. Some of those books are romance.

Then there’s me. As far as origin stories go, either Dude gave me to Writer Chick, or the other way round. Ever since Skye went to Rainbow Bridge, they have been putting me in the places where a cat should be, like in front of the bathroom door when one of them is inside, on top of the refrigerator, or in the basket of clean laundry. Like I said before, these three should not be without feline supervision. They get kind of pathetic. Scratch the “kind of,” because it is not a pretty sight.

Neither is Writer Chick first thing in the morning, before shower, caffeine, and morning pages, or when she is not writing. By this, I mean in the general sense, as when she does not have a manuscript in progress, not that she scares small children when away from the keyboard or notebook. Thankfully, she has two manuscripts in progress right now, and it is my job to keep her working on both of them.

Drama King is Writer Chick’s second co-written contemporary romance, with co-author Melva Michaelian, and Her Last First Kiss is her current historical WIP. You (both collective and individual “you”) are invited to kick her in the posterior to pic, up the pace on getting draft two of that one finished, and out on its rounds.

Still working on my signoff  phrase. I have been informed that I cannot use “Get Stuffed,” for that, either. Hmph. Oh look, birds!

SebastianWindowBye

Intravenous

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A few years back, I had several big life changes happening at the same time. A long-time friendship ended, there was a serious illness in the family, and  I’d had to helm an interstate move of three adults and one cat who did not sign off on any of this. Needless to say, all of the above did a serious number on the ability to create. I have multiple Moleskines filled with random ramblings, trying to make sense of everything, but fiction? Not so much.

Those changes also did a number on my ability to sleep, so there were more than a few times that I said to heck with it, slip out of bed, and plop myself in my recliner, in the dark of pre-dawn, underneath a hand-knit blanket, and plug in my earbuds. I’d kick back in the recliner, eyes closed, and let the music play, Skye kitty nearby, to send love beams my way.

The songs on that playlist didn’t pertain to any one particular novel project. It wasn’t the time for that. What it was time for, was to feel. There were a lot of sad songs on that list, loss songs, and songs that were just…big. Meat Loaf.  Mary Chapin Carpenter. Elton John.  Snow Patrol. HIM. Others.

Lying in that chair, under the blanket, one thin wire connecting me to the thing that I needed to have pumped into me, reminded me of sitting with my father during his dialysis sessions. By the time the sun came up, I’d have enough to get up and start doing things. In time, I started writing fiction again.

I remember those mornings, sometimes, when I find myself facing a blank page, or looking askance at my to-do list. On those times, I’ve found that it’s usually time for a creative transfusion. This morning, that included watching Bob’s Burgers, in my pajamas, while eating oatmeal, and then meandering a few feet to the left, to the kitchen/dining room table, and mess around with some of the art supplies that had been sitting in their moving boxes for far too long. watercolor, ink and stencils layered onto the paper, guided by instinct. The language part of my brain went on the back burner, my conscious attention divided between the backlog of TV shows I’d been putting off watching, and the images that composed themselves, as overthinking was the farthest thing from my mind.

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And then…because there always is an “and then,” because that is how stories work, the tips of my ink-stained fingers tingled and itched to get at the keys. This entry wanted out of my head and onto the page, because after that (see previous comment about the inevitable “and thens”of every story) it would be time to rad Melva’s next scene for Drama King, and, after that, I can work on my own, and tomorrow, N and I get back on board with our mutual butt-kicking, for my historical and her contemporary. I am keeping one eye on library notifications, because I have some classic standalone historical romances on their way to me, to help stoke this historical fire. By which I mean get me back into historical mindset, because A) as much fun as co-writing the contemporaries is, I need some historical transfusion, and B) we are now in October, which means full superpowers should be going into effect, and I want to go at this as strongly as I can. There is also C) the fact that love beams do indeed come across the Rainbow Bridge, and writing between cats is, in fact, different than writing with a physical furry shadow.

There’s also the transfusion of last month’s Connecticut Fiction Fest, this past weekend’s Albany Book Festival (as an attendee, not a participant) and enough pages logged already in my reading tracker to put me two weeks ahead of my goal for October, on the first day of the month. Today, I got a transfusion of cartoons at breakfast, and cop shows at lunch, all the cups of tea I couldn’t have while the cold sore was in town, (totally making up for that now) and the agreement of all family members that now would be a good time to decorate our for-now apartment.

We still plan to find a pet friendly place some months from now. We can spend those months living out of boxes and staring at plain beige walls, or we can have some fun and put our stamp on the place. Expect progress pictures, as we go.

Such is the way a new normal begins. Do what you can, when you can. When it’s a struggle to put out, it’s time to take in, as much as it takes, for as long as it takes. Creative transfusions can come from old favorites, or the  most unusual sources. For me, I like to throw it all in there, and see what sticks. Sometimes, the enthusiasm for writing will wane, especially when there are big life changes, even when the desire, or even the need, to write,  hasn’t gone anywhere.

Even as the enthusiasm can ebb, it can also flow. Sometimes, that’s at a trickle, and sometimes, after a big enough or effective enough transfusion, crash in like a tidal wave. Usually, it’s somewhere in between.  I have a list, in my bullet journal, of things that I know make for good transfusions: Spotify playlists, secret Pinterest boards, favorite movies, books, and TV. Taking the time to set up a Sims world exactly the way I want it, then spend long weekend afternoons, playing through generations. Hauling my beloved antique rocker (I don’t know how old it is, but it’s older than me) out of storage, and setting it up in my corner of the living room. It doesn’t recline, but it rocks, and that’ll do.

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Friday Favorites (in Flux)

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One week in, and I’m still not sure what I want to do with the new format for Friday posts, while we are between resident felines. Sebastian has taken a more active role in the household, Real Life Romance Hero and I plopping him on the other’s lap, shoulder, book, etc, at random intervals, so Sebastian might find his way into a guest hosting spot of Feline Fridays.

The search for pet-friendly housing will continue, but we will also be taking a breather. New feline units are expected, probably, in spring. Until then, I still have blogs to fill, so I’m going to have to blabber about something. As of right now, Friday Favorites feels about-right-est. We will see.

One of the things I have always liked to do when I am at an in-between place, is to find a romance-friendly used bookstore (the romance friendly part is important) and tuck in for a couple of hours. It’s not a real visit, if I don’t spend at least some time sitting cross-legged on the floor, combing through the bottom shelves, my eyes peeled for classic historical romance and hoping for a rare gothic sighting. There were, until fairly recently, a couple of such stores around here, but both closed last year, and I think that may have been it for UBS locations in NY’s capitol region. Nothing against brick and mortar stores that sell romance novels, and e-books and Amazon are lifesavers for sure, but there is something about the experience of a UBS.

Lately, my reading has polarized into two distinct camps: contemporary YA, and classic historical romance. Big, bug-squasher paperbacks that span years, sometimes decades, and continents, acceptable time periods ranging from the ancient world, to about five minutes before living memory. Those two genres, on the surface, couldn’t seem farther apart, but are they really? I’m thinking not. That thought has settled into place, and will probably be affecting the way I track my reading this coming year (and will probably practice before the new year begins.) What elements about each book drew me to them in the first place? What surprised and/or satisfied me during the reading process? What sticks with me after the book is done? What would I have done differently if I were the one writing the story? Consider it another chance for me to blabber at myself on paper, but the more I blabber to myself on paper, the more I want to write actual fiction, so I think I am heading in the right direction with this idea.

Stats and Buried Under Romance links will come back in October, possibly in a slightly different form. This past week has been largely spent wrangling domestic tornadoes, which do seem to be settling, and Monday marks Serious Return to Work.

This will, of course, require new pens (what doesn’t, am I right?) and possibly the creation of a new tracker or two. I am eminently self-bribe-able when it comes to pen and paper, and my mom was right – the more I do, the more I will want to do. First, though, there must be the kicking and screaming, the watching of streaming TV/movies while playing with art supplies, and watching the email to find out when the sam hill the library is going to let me know the books requested on inter-library loan are available for pickup.

Having the right kind of book, at the right time, is an important thing in general. For a writer? Essential. When I teach my Play in Your Own Sandbox, and Keep All The Toys workshop, we have an exercise I’ve always found to be tremendous fun. Not only asking ourselves what we like, but why we like it. What elements show up again and again. Right now, I find that especially exciting, so that my find its way over to Friday blogs.

There may, as well, be more posts going into more detail on the tools of the trade, aka pens and paper, possibly adventures in computer repair. Since we will soon be getting some furniture out of the local storage unit, there may even be a chance for a few shelfies, with explanations of what it was that earned specific books a spot on the shelf. Sebastian may or may not claim part of the shelf space for his own (such is normal when three cat people are between felines for a few months) but we will see what happens when things are actually in place.

For right now, we have a lot of flux, and I am going to have to call that a good thing. Flux is a time of change, a time to learn new tools, rediscover old passions, and build strengths, both old and new.

TLDR: Friday blogging is going to be a little different, but still fun. Catch you next time.

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Until next time…

 

Number One With a Bullet (Journal)

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For a long time, I resisted the term, “bullet journal.” I know one reason is that the word, “journal,” has always squicked me out, and I have no idea why. Ito does, though, but that’s what the thing I had already been doing for years before I found out that it was a thing, is called, so using the commonly accepted term means that I get to find more resources, and other people who share my interest. That’s not the point of this post, though. That’s me, babbling my way through a first paragraph, because a first paragraph means there is something on the page, and it is no longer blank. Boom. Writered.

The above paragraph is also me, not wanting to get up and retrieve the longhand notes I wrote for this entry while doing laundry yesterday, so I am relying on my undercaffeinated memory to get me through. After I’d stuffed a load of wet washing into the dryer, I asked myself what I could talk about, right now, that made me happy. The first thing that came to mind was this stuff:

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My forever loves

In the past, I’ve always set up binders the way I thought they should be formatted. I’d put together pretty papers, scrapbook paper to cover the section dividers, and have sections for story, hero, heroine, villain when needed, and miscellany, and then, the one thing that was uniform across the board. Never. Use. Them. For. Embarrasingly. Long. Periods. Of. Time. Sometimes, forever. Obviously, this approach Does Not Work. For me. It probably works perfectly for somebody else.

For me, instead of a useful tool, I get aesthetically pleasing monuments to failure. I love setting up the notebooks, and looking through them, and thinking of what I could put in there, which actually does a lot for y creative process, but using the books themselves? Not so much.

When I first stumbled upon the traveler’s notebook system, aka a bunch of smaller notebooks inside one unifying cover,, bells rang, angels sang, and the same thing clicked as the thing that clicked when I hid under the brass bed in the guest bedroom, with the copy of The Kadin, that I’d filched from my mother’s nightstand. Yes. This. So what’s the difference?

I’m still trying to figure that out. The main physical difference is that the traveler’s notebook inserts aren’t held in my brings, but by elastic bands, and all I have to do is slip in notebooks that are already made, in whatever format and configuration I want. Now that we are at almost-October, I am looking at setting up next year’s notebooks, which has me thinking about how I can use this with my writing, as well.

For 2018, my writing tracker consisted entirely of one question: did you write? I would tick this box immediately after writing my morning pages. Achievable goals for the win, pun intended. For 2019, I want to go farther, do more. The question is, how? What do I want to track? Okay, that’s two questions, but still, that’s been on my mind. Do I want to track word count, which is the usual thing, or so it seems, or do I want to find some other method that might work better for me? Number of pages per day? Time spent composing and/or editing? Percentage of the way toward my goal, be it word count, page count, chapter count, calendar date? I may start with all of them, and see what sticks.

One of the beauties of the traveler’s notebook system, is that it’s perfect for frustrated perfectionists.  For added flexibility, I prefer using erasable pens and highlighters. I have heard that Frixion also makes erasable markers, but if I fall down that rabbit hole, I may not be heard from again in the foreseeable future.

I’m looking at how I want to track my inspirations, as well, For this past year, I’ve logged pages read, and titles/authors, but, for the year ahead, I think I want to do more. I’m not sure in what sense, but I like the idea of following the bunny trails of things I like, and to see what elements of the books I keep coming back to, time and again. I have some time to figure thig out, try a few different layouts, for both content and aesthetics.

More information is always good, and keeping track of what’s going on, and how it’s going, allows me to notice patterns that I might not have noticed before. When do I do my best writing? When do I need to refill? What refills me the best? The idea of starting some sort of notebook setup for ongoing projects, so that I have everything in one place, gets me excited. As in can’t wait to get to it, excited.

Which is where I like to be, especially when I need a creative kick in the patoot. Does it mean this is a magic shortcut? Not by ay means, but it feels like me, and I will take that, any day of the week.

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Butt in Chair, Pen to Paper

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There aren’t a lot of articles out there on how to get back into the swing of writing after the loss of a pet. Personally, I haven’t found any. Hence the left foot right foot approach of putting butt in chair, and pen on paper. I work best in longhand. I always have. Still, there are times when it’s going through the motions. Writers and cats have a special connection, and Skye was, and is, my mews forever. At some point in the next couple of weeks, we will brig her ashes home. When we move, in time, to a pet-friendly apartment, we will add a new cat, or cats, to our family. They will be their own creatures, and I can’t say, before getting to know them, whoever they are, whether or not they will agree to blog for me. I have no earthly idea what Friday’s blog is going to look like, and I am okay with that. Maybe it will take a break for the week. I don’t know yet.

Last night, I had my weekly Skype session with Melva, to talk about Chasing Prince Charming‘s adventures in submission (we racked up a really good “no,” this week, so I count that as good) and where we are going next with its companion book, Drama King.  I have a rough scene to smooth out, as soon as the immediate fam sorts out a domestic tornado, and, after I get Melva’s next scene, I get to rough out the scene that comes after that. Those whom I have tasked with needling me about Her Last First Kiss, you are doing a splendid job. That kind of thing works well with me.

For the first couple of days after Skye passed, I didn’t have any energy to do anything but cry, or stare at the bleak, cat-less future. Losing a pet sucks, no question about it. I found myself scrolling mindlessly through the internet. Cat videos have been extremely calming, and looking through all of Skye’s photos also helps. I have spent more time than I would care to admit, scrolling through ranked lists that pertain to a daytime drama I followed avidly in high school and college, but haven’t watched even one episode, since. The teenagers I remember are the parents now, and there may even be a grandparent or two; I haven’t looked. There are some things I do not need to know, especially when I am emotionally vulnerable.

Other things, though, have risen to the surface. Over the past weekend, I had a lot of time to myself. Housemate made a trip to Camp Grandma, Real Life Romance Hero was at work, and I gave myself assignments with a stack of new art supplies. I put pens in a new pen case. Playing with pens is always a sure soothing method, which, for a writer, is also one that is readily at hand.

I read some. Not a lot. Some, though, and there were, in fact, more reading-related activities. I’d been following the worksheets N and I are using to connect ourselves to the projects it’s high time we get out there, when I heard about Skye. Things had been going pretty darned well, actually, and then, in an instant, BOOM. Life will do that to a person.

Melva, also, recently lost a pet, and, in our weekly chat, we tossed around the idea of our two cats on the other side of Rainbow Bridge, plotting something together. Could happen. Who’s to say? We commiserated, gave each other a little more time, and made plans to move ahead.

Which is why this disjointed entry is up here. Melva and I talked about how we need to take our own advice, on writing when dealing with real life plot twists. Adjust expectations. Do what you can, when you can, and, maybe most importantly, remember why you’re doing it.

Those of us writing for publication would like to see a royalty check, sure, but I’m talking now more about capturing that initial spark, the one that turned “I wish I could do this” into “of course I can do this.”  As is often the case, thoughts became more clear when I sat myself down with pen and paper, and let the whole matter leak out onto the page.

Back when I was but a wee princess of eleven, I stole my mother’s copy of a seminal historical romance novel from her nightstand, and scurried to my hidey-hole under the big brass bed in the guest bedroom. My mom followed the flashlight beam, but too late. In the first few pages, while the heroine was still an even wee-er (more wee?) princess herself, I was sold. I’d found what I wanted to read and write for the rest of my life.

Big, thick, epic historical romance, that spans miles (sometimes continents) and years (sometimes decades) and drags both hero and heroine through one heck of a lot of trouble, before the triumph of their HEA…that’s my jam. I want to inhale that now, like oxygen. It won’t fill the Skye-shaped hole. I’ll have to heal around that one, and, when new felines come, they won’t fill it either, but make their own places, on their own terms.

There is still grieving. Other cat people understand that. There is also the steady, inexorable need to make story. Writer people get that. Sometimes the two things happen at the same time, and sometimes, they take turns. I am not in control of how they work that out. The only thing I can control is butt in the chair, and pen to paper. It can’t always be gold, but it can always be. That’s good enough.

The Fine Art of Self-bribery

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Post-conference letdown is most certainly a thing. The change from spending an entire weekend amongst others of one’s kind, where writing, publishing, and promotion are the topics of the day, to quizzing one’s family on the location of garbage bags, and other domestic matters, is a big one. Sometimes, it takes a while. Sometimes, it takes more than that.

There is, of course, the physical reserves that need to be replenished. In other words, sleep. There needs to be some. The change from hotel bed, to home bed, may be an improvement, or it may be not an improvement. Kind of a crapshoot with that one, but at least home has the familiarity of home. On the down side, family members have still not consented to put mints on my pillow. Not that the hotel I stayed at did that either, but sometimes, it’s nice to have the gesture.

There’s unpacking, which usually includes laundry. I may get unicorn points for actually liking the whole laundry process, but that may also be because laundry time = reading time. This may count in the self-bribery category, an I am more than okay with that.

Getting back into the swing of things, after a conference, for me, involves a good deal of self-bribery. It’s very rare to come back from a conference as exactly the same writer one was when one went to said conference, and, along with swag, new friends, and possible free books, a writer generally comes back from a conference with new ideas and things they want to try. Do these things always fit into the category of business as usual? Not by a long shot.

Yesterday, my goal was to write this blog entry after I got home from breakfast with N. I’d attended CT Fiction Fest, and she’d been at an all-day event with our home chapter, Capitol Region Romance Writers. Naturally, this meant that we had to compare notes. Which led to giving ourselves homework. Which meant, for me, that a trip to nearby retailers, for new office supplies. To be fair, pretty much everything is a call for new office supplies for me, so this is not as big a deal as it may be for others. Even so, the pull of playing with new pens and/or paper and/or organizing the papers I already have are enough of an incentive to get me to actually do the same stuff that was haaaaarrrrrd before the conference (or not related to a conference. I always want to go get new pens, etc.)

As a result of this venture, my everyday carry pens and highlighters are all the same brand, Pilot Frixion. As much as I love the Pentel RSVP pens, and will still use them in other capacities, A) I did not have one in green, and B) my green Marvy LePen was mostly in there for sentimental reasons, anyway. It will go into a shadowbox, with related items, later. Now, my EDC pen case is a lean, mean, writing machine. Also, an erasable one, which is extremely useful for a perfectionist, marching herself resolutely back into a draft.

Sitting across from a critique/accountability partner and coming to terms that it is high time to get back to one’s current ms in one’s favorite genre, even when the room seems to get a little smaller, and lungs get a little bit squeezy at the thought of maybe not being able to do the thing one loves, as well as one would like. Especially when the word, “homework,” comes into play.

There’s the thing, though. Homework, especially homework that involves writing in longhand, means that it needs the proper supplies. It’s going to need paper. It’s going to need pens. Highlighters, maybe. A folder or notebook, definitely.  “Shopping” from my own stash, and picking out the supplies that volunteer as tribute, is as fun as purchasing new stuff, so it’s not all about the shopping.

It’s about the focus. It’s about the commitment. It’s about honoring the story and the characters, and wanting to get myself in the very best position to see this through to the end.

So, today, I lay out the pens and highlighters all from the same maker. I checked to see if the laptop cord will reach from the kitchen table, to a power strip on a nearby wall. Spoiler: it does., I will test the Mac Book and desktop later. The thought of happy back and happy eyeballs at the same time, with the added bonus of not having to scramble to my feet, is a powerful draw. So is the chance to practice drawing (pun intended) once I have my writing goals for the day, met.

There is a new scented candle on the table now, pine, to hint of the seasons soon to begin, and a fresh cup of tea, to warm body and soul. My planners (yes, plural) are nearby, so I can have visible evidence of tasks accomplished, and a clear outline of where I need to go, to get to where I want to be. The seasonal Windows theme is new to me, and it’s fun, as well as helping to set the mood. I’m not at the point, yet, where I want a different theme, depending on the project I’m working on at the moment, but that could be a reward, trying stuff out, in that manner, for doing some of the eat the frog stuff that is also on my list.

Making up stories, and polishing the rough stuff, that’s the fun part. Poking around in electronic guts, or hauling a desktop around the common room, eh, not so much, but, if I do those things, it makes doing the fun stuff all that much easier/more efficient. The instructions for the printer are right there, on top of the box. Get that in place, and I can print pages. When I can print pages, I can three-hole-punch them. When I three-hole-punch them, I can put them in a binder. When I put them in a binder, I can see the manuscript grow, as I print out the fruit of each new session. Carrot and stick; it works for me.

Tabling the Issue

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This morning, I sat at the kitchen table -I call it the kitchen table, though it’s really in the common room; we basically have a studio apartment, plus a bedroom-  and made a list on pen and paper, to make some sense of the blog topics swirling around my mind this morning. There were a lot.

Two nights ago, my writer friend, H, introduced me to an animated Japanese film, that is still holding onto a lot of my brain space, and, oddly enough, embodies a lot of what I love about historical romance, though the film really isn’t one. Still thinking on that, and will likely blog on that later. There’s the conference coming, and stuff I still have to o in order to get ready, much of which I will be doing after I get this  blog entry posted.

Then there’s the (probably) most mundane thing on my list, the fact that I like writing at the kitchen table, which is not really the kitchen table. It’s not in the kitchen, and it’s basically the everything table, but kitchen table it is, when I tink about it, so I’m calling it that.

Since I am a pen and paper first writer, having the table solves al ot of the between-offices issues. When the rest of the family is ougt of the apartment, there’s my uninterrupted writing time. My brain works easier on pen and paper than facing a blank computer screen, so I’m not sure why I haven’t roughed out blog entries on paper before now.

In the best of all possible worlds, I would probably want to write in longhand only, hand the pages off to somebody else to transcribe, then go over the printed pages with pens, highlighters and sticky notes, as many times as it takes to make a finished raft. Maybe that will happen someday, when I’ve sold more books, but, for now, I have to fill both roles.

Writing at the kitchen table has a few benefits. For one thing, there is a time limit. Since this is the everything table, I need to be done by mealtimes. I usually do the cooking anyway, so that limit is pretty but make-your-own-sandwich nights, and eat in feral cat mode, aka everybody retreat to their neutral corners nights, are now a thing. In that case, I get the table.) Because the table is the everything table, that also mean I can’t let any clutter accumulate. When the session is over, everything must go, and back to the place where it lives, so I can find it for the next time.

The table is also within eyeshot of the kitchen, so I am only a few strides away from tea, at any given time. Tea is an essential part of the process, so this is a huge plus. When I look up from the page, the first thing I see is the flame of the jar candle, which is another strong positive. Maybe its’ something primal about how our ancestors would gather around the communal fire, and tell stories. Maybe it’s that I like candles. Maybe Stare at the flame for a few seconds, take in the scent (iced tea scent, today) and then get back to putting ink on the page.

There are a few negatives, too. For one thing, I really like writing at the table, but handwritten manuscripts are a thing of the past. Little historical romance writer humor there. Very little. This means that, at some point, I am going to have to transcribe.

This is an issue because all of the  outlets directly under the table are occupied by router and something else with blinky lights. There are also outlets that I could reach, with an extension cord, to the left or right, but, on the right, those outlets are already occupied by TV and cable box. To the left, we have Housemate’s bed. The cord would go directly across her face. We’re good friends, but extension cord across the face is a lot to ask, even for besties. This also means that I would need to fix the Mac’s three-beep thing (which I have to do anyway, so put on the  big girl panties, Anna) and/or propping the pink laptop up with multiple binders, so it’s at the right angle, or, for the truly desperate and/or dedicated times, hauling the desktop and monitor over to the table, and then putting it back where it goes, when the transcription session is done.

When we do move, and I can get my real desk back, I want to keep it for handwriting, and get a different desk for computer work.  Since my beloved office chair has wheels, I can put each desk on opposite walls, an turn around when I want to go from one, to the other. Space permitting. If not, well, I really do like this table.

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In other news, there is an update on the War of the Roses. Tudor (or maybe Lancaster, as it is possible that somebody mixed up the pots before they got labeled) officially has a blossom. Bloom? Flower? I will know for sure when it fully opens and shows us if it’s all red, or red-and-white.  More petals than bud now, so I can’t say bud anymore, but my rose vocabulary is lacking. At any rate, I am proud of this new development. His brother has some new leaves, and there may be things going on with the stems growing new stuff, but this is the first actual flower since the great drowning of August. Maybe it’s a sign.

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