Reading

Grumpy Writer Blather

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Blabbity blabbity blab blab, hit keys, English words, hate it when Wednesday’s posts get bumped to Thursday. Do not remember which week I still owe a Wednesday post from, but I remember that I do. I’m trying something new today, blocking time out in one hour segments, because I am the queen of overthinking. (Seriously, I am. I was once in an NECRWA meeting, and the instructor  had broken us into small groups to work on my writing goals. I will not go into my entire dither here, but cut to the chase, where I stopped myself, and asked the rest of the group, “or am I overthinking?” They, all at once, answered with “Oh, God, yes!” So, yeah. That’s pretty much me.)

I hate going into even a blog entry without a plan. Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate it. I’d say I have nothing for this entry, but that’s not true. I always have something. I hate it that Jo Beverley died. When I think of her work, I think first of her RWA workshop on flying into the mist, and her useful lists of forms of address, as well as how long a horse, horse and carriage, team of horses, etc, can travel in a day. I think of her posts on Word Wenches and articles on romance writing, her Facebook posts and the discussion of the  merits of standalone romances in the age of series, series everywhere.

It’s only after that, that I think of her actual books. Not sure what that means. I’ve read most of the Malloren world books, and only the first of the Rogues. I’ve read a few of the reissued Signet trads, and a plethora of novella entries. Right now, I’m reading Lord of My Heart, her first medieval. Not very far into it, but it’s always an interesting experience, reading a book by a favorite author and knowing there won’t be any more. Granted, I have rather a lot of Beverley still to read, but whatever there was is now whatever there will be, and I am not okay with that. I am going to miss having her in the world, the books, the blog posts, and, even though our only person to person contact had been short exchanges on the Word Wenches blog or Facebook, never personal, it’s like there is now a part of me that isn’t there anymore, and I’m still dealing with the jagged edges left from other broken-off parts, so it’s an adjustment.

I’ll grump for a while, fuss around in my office for a while, and I’ll write. There’s a bullet point draft that needs writing, because, once that’s done, I get to the smoothing out and rewriting, which I sometimes think I like better than coming up with the initial raw material. This may actually succeed in distracting me from the fact that summer, my least favorite season, will be upon us after this weekend. Bleh. Yeah, I’m grumpy. Grumps like this are best dealt with by acknowledging they exist, and letting the grump do its thing, because it does have a job to do. Exactly what that job might be, I’m not sure, but I trust that it’s leading me in the right direction.

Not quite at the magic seven hundred, so I will keep on going until I’m there.  Blabber has a job to do, same as grump does, and the best thing I can do is keep out of its way and let it do its thing, dump the entire contents of my noggin onto the real or virtual page and then, maybe, see about mushing it all into some sense of order. There’s usually something of value, even in the biggest mess, and I do feel like a big mess today. That won’t last. I’ll work through it, but it is where I am right now, and it has a part to play in the rest of the day. The fact that I don’t know what part that is, exactly, bothers me, but getting this entry checked off my list will help me feel more like the writing badass that I am.

I get antsy when I don’t get enough writing time, and by that, I mean specifically fiction. It’s like the characters and stories bottleneck in my brain and batter at the inside of my skull. Really best, in that case, that I let them out so they, too, can do their thing. Which, apparently, is at least partly to get me to the magic seven hundred, so that will be it for this entry, my liebchens. Off to party with my imaginary friends.
 

 

 

 

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)

 

 

Respite

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I don’t feel like blogging today. I really don’t. What I want to do is nap. A nap would be lovely, under my duck blankey, in my comfy chair, a cup of tea at the ready, maybe the TV on, though I can’t think of what I’d want to watch, so maybe we can switch that to music. I don’t like silence-silence right now. I have a headache, my brain is full, and yet, it is also trained that this is writing time, so I’m  here, butt in chair and fingers on keyboard.

Breakfast with N was lovely as always, getting each other up to date on what we’re working on, how it’s going, and our shared irritation with movies we hate. After that, I took out one of my HLFK notebooks and worked on a scene that needs fleshing out. I walked home through the park, into a cold, gusting wind the entire time. That was not my favorite. Lunch, cat tending, and now, I’m here. Novella work happened last night, which sent me to bed in a productive mood, if later than I had hoped.

 

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Skye says less dithering, more blogging.

 

Okay, okay, cat goading always works. I can get something out of this. I’m already over two hundred words, which is a pretty decent inroad. This is one of those days when I’m tempted to let the blogging slip for another day, but then there would be the blogging equivalent of a multicar pileup. Tomorrow is Wednesday’s post, and #1linewed, then Thursday, I write my Buried Under Romance post. Friday has Skye’s post, and it’s the Sleepy Hollow season finale, which I will be recapping. Domestic tornadoes took yesterday, and that leaves today, so I’m here.

So,  what am  I talking about? I have no idea. I’m sure something will happen, and days like this are part of the normal scheme of things. I’m in a stinky mood at the moment, but I know it will pass. Once I get this entry crossed off my list, then I’ve earned some downtime, which will very likely include reading, or maybe that nap. My brain keeps going back to that nap thing, which I am taking as a sign. Soon, brain. Soon. Blog first.

 

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care for a random mint picture?

Yesterday, my confidence took a hit. Something didn’t go the way I wanted it to go. That’s life sometimes. We get knocked off our metaphorical horse now and again; I don’t think anybody is immune to that. There are a few minutes of lying on our back in the dirt, blinking up at blue sky and white clouds,  and, well, dang. That wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did and now, the choice is, stay there, or get up.

I got up. Set the thing-I-didn’t-want aside and opened my novella notebook. A bullet point draft of the scene my collaborator and I had agreed I would tackle spilled out. The next scene that would be mine suggested itself in the end of this one, and a quick email to said collaborator got her thumbs up, so now I know where my next scene (she’ll write the one in between) for that story begins.

 

This morning, after N left to meet Mr. N, my brain still had some funk, but it also had the germ of the scene I needed to tackle for HLFK. Heroine has to encounter Other Character,, and I knew the when and the where, but not the how. Apart, that is, from making things as difficult as possible for her. The old chasing character up a tree and then throwing rocks at them school of thought. It’s a meeting she very much does not want, but she knows is possible, and she’d love nothing more than to slip out of the venue so it doesn’t have to happen. Which means that, not only can she not slip out, but there will be multiple eyes on her, so she can’t react the way she wants to react. A few pages of that, and my brain was still funky, but I had a loose outline of the scene, and that’s more than I started the day with, so I’ll take it.

I’ve always had a quibble with those who say fiction is an escape. I would rather say that it’s respite. Dive into reading or writing a good book, and the rest of the world will still be there, but there is one important difference. That’s us. We got a break from the everyday. We got to travel to a different time and place, walk around inside somebody else’s skin, lived another life, and, somehow, it’s made us better equipped to handle our own. I’m going to call that good.

Typing With Wet Claws: Reading Room Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Right now, Anty is focused on getting the other humans settled in their tracks for the day so that she can get on with hers, so it is a good thing I am the one who is blogging.

Anty has a lot of reading to do this week, and I mean a lot.  Here are only three of the books on her TBR shortlist. You have seen them before, if you read Anty’s entries and not only mine. She needs to get them read so that she can write about them, and have time for the next three that come after them.

 

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so it begins..

That is not all Anty has to read, because there are still other library books, for pleasure (that she does not have to write about, but probably will, because she is Anty) and she has chapters from Critique Partner Vicki that have been sitting in her inbox for long enough that she is ashamed. For one of them, she is really ashamed, but she is very happy Critique Partner Vicki is making such good progress toward The End. That is a very good thing.

 

Anty also  has to read her own work, because she somehow managed to delete a whole section of her Scrivener file. That is okay, because that section was one she had originally written in longhand, in her Big Daddy Precious notebook. Anty says longhand has saved  her um, writing, more than a few times. Plus, writing with a fountain pen helps her feel more connected to her historical characters. I would mention that using a dip pen would be even more accurate, but that might give her ideas.  I have heard the words, “pen cull” around here recently, so I do not know if bringing new pens, and even a new kind of pen, into the house is a very good idea. We have seen what happens when Anty is trusted with bottles of ink. In case you missed it, this is what happens:

 

She will probably get one anyway, because once she gets an idea in her head, it usually stays there. Also, they sell them at the art store sometimes, and we are talking about the human who has been known to burn wine and fireplace scented candles at the same time, to make sure she knows what that smells like when it is important to a scene. Uh oh. I think I may have inadvertently given her an idea.

Living with a writer human has its occupational hazards. One would think that a writer human would be reading all the time that they are not writing. Anty says she only wishes it were so. Even with books on  her e-reader, tablet, phone and laptop, not to mention paper books from the library, Heroes and Heartbreakers, bookstores, and rereads and new reads of books she already owns, there are still other things to be done to help keep the household running, and, sometimes, reading gets pushed to the periphery. (Anty is very proud that I am a kitty who knows how to properly use words like “periphery.” That is one of the perks of being an author’s kitty.)

Besides reading novels and manuscripts, Anty also has to read for research. Here is where I can give you an interesting piece of trivia, in case it ever comes up: Anty does not use research books for the majority of her research. That is not how her brain works. Her favorite method is to talk to experts and pick their brains, and if she can get into a living history museum that is pertinent to her needs, that is the best. Yes, she will play along with the interpreters, and have a persona on hand. Mama knows that, when they find themselves in a living history museum together, Mama is Anty’s um, employee. Mama is fine with that, which is a good thing, but I think Anty would probably do it anyway, because Anty loves living in other times for a little while. (She likes living in our time, for things like the Internet, central heating/cooling and gummi bears.)

Sometimes, these worlds blur. Earlier this week, when Anty was on her way back from her meeting with N, she walked through the park, and found herself caught in the middle. Since Hero in Her Last First Kiss is an artist, Anty needed to know more about what it was like to be an artist in the late eighteenth century. She would get bored reading a big nonfiction book, and does not know any experts in that area right now, so she hit the Internet, to look up artists who actually lived then. Well. On her walk home, and on her next few walks through, it all looked like a Gainsborough painting. The trees, the water, the light, the colors, all of it.

Even when she saw a gentleman sitting on the grass by the lake, her  mind translated things back a few centuries. The pose would have been right at home in an eighteenth century portrait, the expression, and the power paunch was hot stuff back then. (Anty says do not worry, Hero does not have a power paunch.) All Anty’s brain had to do was translate the modern suit to a period-appropriate one, and imagine a powdered wig on the gentleman’s head. She had to remind herself to keep walking and not stare, because nonwriters (and to be fair, there is no way to know if said gentleman fit into that category or not; writers can be anywhere) usually do not understand that sort of thing. That also reminded Anty of an interesting tidbit that will be useful in Hero doing his job; portrait painters often bought premade backgrounds with figures already in them – except for the faces. Those, they had to put in themselves. I suppose that saved a lot of time, when they had to get portraits made quickly, because they did not  have cameras back then.

Anty says I have been very blabbery  and she needs the computer back, 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)

Signs of (Writing) Life

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Right now, I am in my comfy chair, next to a soon to be opened window, cup of tea at the ready, headphones in, blog window open. I had a post typed out, but accidentally trashed it when I got up to take pictures to go with said entry, so I’m going to babble here, stick the pictures up anyway, and see where that takes me.

Today, our temperatures here in upstate NY should top 70. The waterfowl are back in the lake at the park. On my walk home from my meeting with N yesterday, one of the male Canada geese (should I be calling him a Canada gander?) rather pointedly strutted his stuff for the benefit of the Canada goose ladies. Waterfowl romance season, it would seem, has begun. It feels early for that, but if goose love is in the air, it must be spring.

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In less than two weeks’ time, I will have filled my morning pages book. I started this one on October 26th. I’m looking forward to writing the last word on the last page and starting a new notebook (I have a few candidates in my stash already) but I’ll miss the gorgeous pages inside this one. Pretty pages make me want to write more, and knowing there is a set place where I must stop helps me focus on what I want to say in that space.

 

 

Hacking my plain cardboard binder for Her Last First Kiss clicked like wildfire. I love when colors and textures suggest themselves, and it’s easy to see where one choice flows into the next. This is my story bible, with all pertinent information gathered in one place, easily accessible. Times and distances between locations (and noting when our historical people would need to change horses matters, people) and who went to school where, owns what, and employs whom. My best way into this sort of thing is to let myself blunder blindly ahead and, after I smack into a few (dozen) walls, I’ll find what works, and then get to it. Housemate has threatened me with bodily harm if I attempt to use a regular binder again, though there is still some hacking to do.

I need to Mod Podge the cover that slipped oh so easily into the plastic pocket of the old binder (but then I never wanted to use the old binder because the plain white bothered me, so tradeoff there) and there are no pockets to hold loose papers. I can buy those at the office supply store, though, stick some coordinating paper on them, and glue the kraft envelope on the inside of the back cover, to hold smaller ephemera. I blame Moleskine for giving me a need for back cover pockets on pretty much all notebooks, including binders.

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I’m working, I promise

 

These babies are all set to be my constant companions for this week, as I’m prepping for a post at Heroes and Heartbreakers. I did want to increase my reading for this year, and to write more book related posts for H&H, so I’d say I’m doing all right on that front. Who needs sleep when one has books? Seriously, if that could be worked out, I would be a very happy camper. In the meantime, blocking out reading time as though I were studying for a college class is the best way for me to make sure the work gets done. Family has been informed that, when my nose is in these books, I am working.

 

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Reading that is not related to any posts (as far as I know) also needs to happen, because that also fits under the umbrella of “study.” I’m very curious about Kerrigan Byrne’s The Highwayman, and have heard wonderful things about it, so can’t wait to start that. Elizabeth Hoyt’s latest Maiden Lane novel is an auto-read, so that’s going to happen, especially since it fits with my immersion in all things Georgian. I’m still determined to get back on the Bertrice Small horse (and the fact that the book I picked, The Border Lord’s Bride, is number two in its series means I will have to go back and read book one, A Dangerous Love, because that’s how I roll) and I’m still devouring  realistic YA like a starving hyena. Seeing notice of an upcoming David Levithan release in the current issue of Romantic Times Book Reviews magazine made me literally squeal (Skye is used to this kind of thing) when I read it in the upcoming releases section.

Okay, there’s the magic 700 word threshold to call this blog entry good enough and traipse off to century 18 with Hero and Heroine. See you later, Liebchens.

Midweek Rambles

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Rainy Wednesday here, and the fact that I’m only now getting to the first blog entry of the week should be an indicator of how things have been going. The new addition to my workspace is Hedwig, (thanks, Kara!) who has shot up to mascot status in short order. Lift his head off, and he’s a flash drive. He will soon be filled with novel stuffs.

No idea what I want to write about here, so I’m going to wing it. One of the most vivid rainy day memories I have carried for a long time reaches all the way back to fifth grade. We’d recently moved from Bedford Village to Pound Ridge, and I had a playdate with Elizabeth A, to keep us both occupied and our mothers sane for the rain-soaked afternoon. I remember I had a corduroy pantsuit (it was the seventies; don’t judge me, and yes, my mom picked out my outfit) that day, red with a flower print all over it. The legs were too long, so the hems of the trousers (I preferred skirts even back then, but mom said, sooo…)were damp the rest of the day.

We spent the afternoon in Elizabeth’s room. I remember Barbies and some imaginative play, some discussion of the new TV show we both liked, Wonder Woman, probably my first fandom, though I didn’t know what fandom was at the time. Elizabeth had a Chow dog, who had particular tastes in what interactions he would allow with what humans, but he always liked me. I don’t remember his name, or the name of Elizabeth’s older brother. I don’t remember many particulars of that day, but I remember the day itself, and the memory is a good one. Elizabeth A, wherever you are, I hope you do, too.

On this rainy day, years later, there’s imaginative play still. Now, I call it writing, and it’s work as much as it is play, which suits me fine. No red corduroy pantsuit, thankfully, and I’m writing this from my favorite coffee house instead of a friend’s bedroom, but the day has some of the same feel to it. Not that I know exactly what the connection is, but some things become a part of us, and come to the fore when they will.

Today is also the first anniversary of the passing of Bertrice Small, still a favorite author and my entrée into the world of historical romance. I’d wanted, as many Small fans, to dive into some rereading when we got the sad news, and, at the moment, I’d tried, but I couldn’t make the connection. Not a good feeling, but, at times, the best thing we can do is let the feelings do their jobs. I don’t know when I got it in my head that I would intentionally step back from reading an author whose work had been that important to me, or when the idea arose that I would resume on the first anniversary of her passing. Maybe it’s a form of literary mourning? I’m not going to question that one.

Once I knew I wanted to resume on a certain date, everything fit. I would pick up one of her books on that date, and I would read it, but which one? With forty-nine titles from which to choose (well, less than that, as the Lara books are in storage, and I don’t own the Channel titles) the options were too many. N’s advice, “make a decision,” came to me then, and I did. I decided I wouldn’t decide. I turned to my Lionesses at my Facebook group, The Lion and Thistle, and placed my choice in their capable hands.

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this is the one

Some of the suggestions, I’d expected. Skye O’Malley (the book, not the kitty) is my favorite, and The Kadin was the first historical romance I ever read.  I know those books, can quote them in places, so re-reading them would be as much remembering as experiencing the story. The other choices offered, Deceived, and The Border Lord’s Bride, I haven’t read as much. Since my copy of Deceived seems to have gone walkabout (will be reaching out to the library system and/or used bookstores soon) my choice became clear. I hadn’t remembered, until I plucked my copy from my special Small bookcase, that this was the second story in the Border Chronicles, not the first, but since it’s an extremely loose connection, I’m letting that go. I can read the prior title, A Dangerous Love, later, if I want. I did put my choice in others’ hands, after all.

 

As with that long-ago rainy afternoon, I remember the book more in general than in specific, and it’s a different experience. The last time I read this book, it was 2007.  A few things have happened since then. My critical mind is along for the ride, and has some issues with tell-y passages and instances of passive voice, but the voice itself, that’s as familiar as I remember, a welcome back to the things that drew me to historical romance in the first place. It’s also made me schedule reading time in my day, something I’d wanted to do, but put off actually doing, but if I want to make time to read all that I want and need to read, there has to be time where that’s all that I’m doing. This is different from pleasure-only reading; it’s also research.

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library haul; must organize

 

 

In a way, that’s my equivalent of the art student camped out in front of the master’s painting, sketchbook in hand or canvas on easel. What did the master do? How did they do it? That thing that was never recorded, what was it? Can I do it, too? What does it look like when I do their thing, my way? Reading time, writing time, headphones in, laptop on, paper and pen at the ready. Let’s do this.

Talking With Wet Nails

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New title for video blog posts today . These will now be under the heading, “Talking With Wet Nails,” because it’s catchy, and that’s my best attempt for a title today. Still need to come up with an appropriate graphic, but that’s a problem for Future Anna.

Note that I am not actually doing my nails in this post, because that would be awkward, messy and probably boring. I did, however, stumble into the captions function, so we’ll see how that goes.

I’m hoping to make this a more frequent feature here, as part of my effort to stop being as quiet as I have been lately. This also means I only have to write-write one blog per week, as Skye still has Fridays. Innovative and labor saving. I like that.

 

 

TLDW (too long, didn’t watch) :

Typing With Wet Claws: Story Brain Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty did not tell me what to write about today, so I am going to have to wing it, or, in my case, paw it. I do not have any wings, because I am a kitty; only paws. I use them for walking.  Only birdies have wings. Also bats, and some insects. Maybe also Pegasus (I do not know the plural form of that word, but it is a horsey with wings. I am not sure if they are real or fictional, but I do not want to find out by meeting one. They sound scary.)  I think Anty letting me say whatever I want today shows a great deal of trust. I will try to show her she did the right thing.

Most of this week can be divided into domestic tornado management and writing. Anty also found time to get to the library, along with Mama, and bring home a bunch of books. Eight of them, which is a lot, even though Anty says it is a reasonable amount. These are the books:

Anty picked them all. Mama did not find any books she especially wanted to read, but she wants to read some of the books Anty picked, when Anty is done reading them. So far, Anty is close to mostly through one. One. Anty needs more reading time. I would suggest that Anty try using some of the awake-in-the-middle-of-the-night time for reading, but the last time I did that, she looked at me like this:

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That is not something I want to go through again, so that was the last time I will make that suggestion. Anty is doing laundry at least once tomorrow, so that is two hours of potential reading time right there. If it does not turn into writing time, that is. Which it might.  One important thing to know if you have a writer in your life is that pretty much any time can turn into writing time. That comes with the territory, and does not only happen when they are in front of a computer or have a notebook at hand (although Anty usually does have at least one notebook within reach.) Many writers, including my Anty, do not have an off switch. Sometimes, it would be useful if they did, but they do not. At least mine does not.

We do not have any pictures of the Anty Has Story Brain look, and that is probably a good thing. Mama and Uncle and I have learned to recognize it, though, and I think some of the humans who work at the coffee house. Twice, this week, Anty has had a coffee house human remind her that her tea is right in front of her and she can sit down now.  Some of them know it because they are writers, too, and give the gentle prompt as a matter of professional courtesy. The best way I can describe that look is sort of blank, staring off into some place that is not there.  Maybe I should say it is something non-writers cannot see, because merely because something happens inside a writer’s mind does not mean it is not real. Making things in their heads become real is a big part of writers’ jobs, so it is no surprise that it happens when it happens. Sometimes, often in the car, Mama will notice Anty is too quiet, and ask “are you writing?” Almost always, Anty says that she is. Once, Mama asked, “How are Hero and Heroine?” Anty laughed, because that was where her story brain had gone.

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a very small portion of story brain

 

Anty says that, at least for her, story brain is a sign that she is on the right track, and the characters are doing their parts. It is like a movie in her head that plays itself and she has to get it all down. Maybe it is somewhat like recapping TV shows, except that there is no remote to pause things and she has to do it all in her head. I think the inside of Anty’s head is probably very messy, filled with pictures and sounds and bits of movies and snippets of songs, remembered smells and parts of ideas that started out as something else, but took on their own form after they swam around with all the other stuff for a while. I can imagine it is very easy to get lost in there at times, and that is why it takes Anty a little while to come back from it when she has to do things like go to the grocery store or figure out where Uncle’s sweater went.

Story brain is a lot better than lack-of-story-brain. Anty wrestled with that for a long while, and it was not pretty.  I am not sure that story brain is that much prettier, as her office looks like a tornado hit it. More books are coming out of boxes and going into her bookshelves, moving around so books she wants easiest access to, like the library haul, above, are the ones she can get to fastest, and books she never ever looks at can get ready to go to new homes. Right now, she needs books that will help  keep her moving forward in telling Hero and Heroine’s story, and those that don’t, need to go away. She says I can share pictures when she gets things neat again, but not right now.

Right now, Anty needs the computer back so that she can write more about Hero and Heroine, 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)

Backing Up and Moving Ahead

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“You do what you can for as long as you can, and when you finally can’t, you do the next best thing. You back up but you don’t give up.”
–Chuck Yeager

 

Another Monday, another blog entry. Not feeling it today, but discipline and practice are both important, and I find that putting order to chaos satisfies me, so here I am. Morning spent doing housework with help of Housemate. This often consists of her sitting there and letting me chatter at her, as it was today, with me sitting cross-legged on the floor, the box fan in front of me, as I took apart the covers both front and back and cleaned that sucker with grapefruit-scented all purpose cleaner and paper towels. Odds are we aren’t going to be needing that fan for a while, as furnace keeps us toasty warm, and it is January, after all. So, into the newly reorganized closet for our biggest fan. I promise I only do this to mechanical fans, not readers. No reverse Misery-ing here, and, besides, readers are good to have around during all seasons.

The great Christmas ornament harvest of 2016 went well this morning. Good crop, and we hope for an even better return next year. As much as I love the whole process of decorating for Christmas, and will inspect the placement of garland and ornaments (the fact that we use a pre-lit tree is probably best for all involved, lest I get nitpicky about light placement as well; I have in the past.) taking things down is a much quicker and more ruthless process. Down come the lights, coiled, tied, boxed. I pluck ornaments from the tree like ripened fruit, in a matter of seconds. It’s all over in a handful of minutes. This year’s crop is planted in the storage boxes, labeled, and can now germinate for next year. Maybe next year will be the year I finally go for a second tree, which would have black and white ornaments only. Supplemental tree, not replacing the traditional one; I have to have my tradition.

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When I’m at a loss for what to blog about, my guiding phrases of “clean sweep” and “more layers” push me in the right direction. Taking down the Christmas décor and making better use of the closet space fits both of those criteria, as does yesterday’s library trip. Yesterday was a tough day, tired, emotionally drained and frazzled at the same time, and I strode through the library doors with one specific purpose in mind. I was going to grab an armful of romance novels.

I’ve written, recently, about how it’s been difficult for me to read a lot of more newly produced work (part of this, I am certain, is due to my reluctance to jump into the middle of a series of linked books; have to start at the beginning, for me, and there are a lot of series.) This time, I knew what I needed; romance. Historical romance. That’s my reading and my writing home. No matter what happens between Once Upon a Time and Happily Ever After, I know I am going to get that Happily Ever After, so pretty much anything is fair game in between those points. I did end up plucking a current release from the shelves, Cold-Hearted Rake, by Lisa Kleypas, which I started reading as soon as I got home.

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That’s the whole haul, for those who were curious. I’d gone with a vague hope I might find one of the Russian-related historicals on my list (and did, with Forever in Your Embrace) and fingers crossed for a Georgian (but not Regency) setting (When You Wish Upon a Duke delivers on that front) but, apart from that, nothing more specific than wanting a good grounding in my favorite genre. Carla Kelly always delivers on the emotional impact, so that was enough to put the book in my hand, and it had been a while since I’d read a good time travel, so The Last Cavalier fit that bill. If I could hit the snooze button on the calendar so I could snuggle beneath my fuzzy duck blankey and read them all, with endless cups of tea at hand, I think, at this point, I would.

Life, unfortunately, doesn’t work that way, but I can make sure I get some pages read every day, the same way I make time for my morning pages and have to at least touch one of the current fiction projects every day. As K.A. Mitchell, whose wonderful workshop on character relations this past Saturday gave me even more layers to slather on Her Last First Kiss, has said, open the file and change your seat. I have to open the file, or open the notebook. When I do, well, it’s right there. I have a pen in my hand, or the keyboard is right there, too (usually both, in most cases; that’s how my brain works best) and who would it hurt if I took a poke or two at things, hm?

Thanks to a talk with a new writing friend, who listened to me whinge about how hard it’s been to find where I should (note that should, there) including roundabout analogies and a diagram drawn on a napkin with rollerball ink, I am getting the chance to do both the clean sweep and more layers things at one with Her Last First Kiss. What, she asked, was the moment that changed my heroine’s life forever? What permanently took her off the path she always thought she was going to walk in life? Huh. Well. Had to think about that one, and then the answer came out all on its own. When her father left.

Sure, she was seven then, and I didn’t want to start that far back, but darned if the whole scene didn’t play itself out on my walk back home from that meeting. I sat down at my secretary desk, with notebook and fountain pen, and out flowed the whole thing. I didn’t have to yank any teeth. Didn’t have to force anything. Huh. I…remember how to do that. Don’t write a book. Tell the story. Remember back when I didn’t know all the rules, but blithely wrote down the movie in my head? Yeah, that.

Clean sweep. More layers. Easy enough when I don’t think about it.