research

Back to Old School Season

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Last night, the power went out. Twice. The night was sweltering hot, the rest of the family had sequestered themselves in their rooms, hot and cranky, leaving only me out in the living room. My plan was to watch Ink Master (which I am not sure even recorded, but there’s always On Demand, right?) and write, but BAM, the big dark. The box fan went out. College kids (we live in what’s termed the student ghetto, as our neighborhood hosts multiple institutions of higher learning) whooped and hollered, and one fine citizen decided that was the perfect time to shoot off fireworks. Really? Why do you have fireworks in September, sir or madam? Waiting for exactly this sort of event? Can’t make this stuff up, and, being a writer, that’s kind of my job.

So, anyway, there I am, in the dark, faced with a giant shift in plans for the evening. I don’t have tattoos myself (and can’t, medically, as I have eczema, which does not play nicely with tattoo ink) but I find the art form fascinating, so tattoo shows are must-see television for me. Ink Master is my favorite. This season is masters vs. apprentices, which I think is an interesting concept, especially how each pair handles the competition. For my money, if I were the master and my apprentice surpassed me, I would consider that proof I had done my job well. The student should surpass the teacher, IMO, at some point. That’s how we improve.

Which is where we’re going with this, today. After batting around some email conversations with writer friends, I dragged the window seat cushion onto the floor, filled my travel mug with ice water and settled in beneath the living room window, to hug an ice pack and have a good think. I would have written this out if there had been any light to speak of, but there wasn’t, so I’ll get it down here.

The office overhaul has brought a few different things to mind, notably my reading habits of late. While I do have that lovely TBR shelf above, where my brain and heart keep going is over two shelves, to the recently unearthed classics in their new case. Valerie Sherwood, Laurie McBain, Anita Mills, Barbara Hazard…I have  missed those gals and the stories they told. Not all of them would appeal to the modern reader, but they have stuck with me over the years, and in some cases, decades. The question is, why? What grabs me that strongly, for that long? Good questions, and there’s only one way to find the answers. Study the masters. I’d say mistresses, as, with the exception of Jennifer Wilde (who was Tom E. Huff in his private life) these books were written mostly by women (though Laurie McBain relied on her father’s input, and Valerie Sherwood thanked her husband, Eddie, for his role) I’m reluctant to use the term “mistress” in this context. Whole different profession there.

There hasn’t been a lot of reading time lately, but, once I started my reread of Call Back the Dream, I noticed I was approaching a few things differently. Right before the lights went out, I’d sneak-read a chapter in the bathroom. Haven’t done that in ages, but I used to do that all the time, when I couldn’t wait to dive back into the world of long-ago lovers. There was what we’d call head hopping today (I’m not going to go into putting modern standards of writing onto writers who worked when conventions were different, as that was how things were done then, so shushies) but the details…wow. I felt like I was seated at that table in the vicarage, having dinner with the heroine’s family. Each sibling, both parents and even their lone servant were distinctly painted characters, and no, they do not all get their own book. Sometimes, supporting characters are just supporting characters, and that’s okay.

I’ve read this book before, and will read it again. There’s the delicious sense of anticipation, because I know what Camille is going to find in a certain spot by the stream, but she doesn’t know that, and neither she nor Alexander have any idea what that spot is going to mean to them, or how long it’s going to take before they can claim the HEA that they might have had that much sooner if a few things had been even the slightest bit different.

Different. That’s the word. I love the historical romance genre; that’s what I live and breathe, what I’ve read and written since I was but a wee princess myself. I love that there is something for everyone, and I love that I do have these books from the era of my reading career that fires my blood, in which I see myself and the stories I have to tell. That’s in both senses of the word; one, that I possess them, and two, that I need to release them into the wild. I want the bigger stories. I want the variety of historical settings and eras, and people who think, act, speak, believe and comport themselves as people of their time. Not so much textbook-strict accuracy but versimiilitude. Could it have happened? If so, bring it on. Even so, I’m not writing a textbook, and I’m not writing fictionalized biographies. I’m writing historical romance. The love story has to be as important as the world in which it takes place, and it has to be done in such a way that it could not have happened at any other place or time.

The best way for me to learn how to do this is to see how it’s been done, and them replicate it, in my own voice. Which means I’ll be reading through these keepers, balancing the classic romances with newer editions and learning from both, to make something entirely new. Teacher may be a strict one in this class I’m making for myself, but at least I’ll know attendance will be one hundred percent.

Typing With Wet Claws: Historical Versimilitude Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Things are taking a definite swing toward fall this week. The sidewalk part of the construction is finished in front of our house, so it is not quite as noisy and the floor does not shake as much. Anty is very happy that there is actual sidewalk now, so she can wear heels when she leaves the house if she wants to, without risking ankle death. Construction is not completely done, as they still have a giant pit in front of the house next door, and we still have new trees to be put in where the old trees used to be. New trees means birdies will come back. I love watching birdies in the morning, so I am excited about that.

Anty does have a funny story about the day they poured the cement, and she said I can tell it, because it is really about me. Uncle was home until dinnertime that day, so Anty went to write at the coffee house. When left the house, she noticed that there were big mesh things laid out in a grid pattern on the gravel in front of our door. That told her they were probably going to pour the cement soon. She did not know how soon, because, when she got home a couple of hours later, there were men in big rubber boots almost to their knees, spreading the cement around. I should mention again that I am an indoor kitty, and Uncle had already left for work.

Anty was very concerned about being able to get in and take care of me. There was cement everywhere, and the workers were not happy about having to find a way for her to get across. One of them asked if she could please use the back door (I do not think he said please.) Anty said that she could, but she would have to go into the back yard (it is really tiny, because we live in a city) to get to the back door and the gate to the back yard is right next to the porch, so she would have to get across the wet cement sea anyway. The workers grumbled about having to put boards across it, but then she said the magic words. She had to get inside and feed the kitty (I am that kitty.)

Well. The workers put two boards up, side by side, and let her hold their hands so she could keep her balance as she walked across them. Anty thanked them and came inside. I got my meal (it was cat food, which is my favorite) and Anty got some more writing done. I love a story with a happy ending.

So does Anty, which is why she writes romance. She started reading romance when she was still a person kitten, only eleven. That first book was The Kadin, by Bertrice Small, and she knew right away that she had found what she wanted to read and write for the rest of her life. She says so far, so good. Anty may give the humans in her books a lot of problems, but, because it is romance, she fixes them by the end. Reading romance novels written by other humans is something that Anty loves  do, but has not had a lot of time for this summer, but now it is almost fall, so she is looking at reading more romances, especially historical ones.

Anty says recommendations are welcome...

Anty says recommendations are welcome…

Some humans like their historical romances to be what they call ‘wallpaper.’ This term confused me at first, because I thought it meant that they took the pages out of their books and covered their walls with them. I guess that is one way to go, but that is not what it means. A ‘wallpaper’ historical romance means that there is very little detail given about the period in which the book is set, only enough to give some flavor. Anty does not do that.

For Anty, the best books to read, and the ones she likes to write, are the ones where the historical world and the romance are intricately intertwined and one could not be the same without the other. This does not mean that she writes about humans who actually lived in those other times, but things those humans do did affect the people around them, including the ones who live in Anty’s head. She wants to know what it is like to slip inside the world in which her story people would have lived, and see the world the way they would have seen it.

Since Anty has not, to my knowledge, mastered time travel (but Uncle says it is okay if she gets in a blue police box if it comes) this means she has to find other ways to know these things. Some humans like reading books (that are not fiction) to learn more, and Anty does that to some extent, but what she likes to do the most is get hands on experience. Living history museums and historical reenactments are her favorites, as she can pick up on details that books may miss. She likes to know for herself what a shipyard smells like, for example, or how heavy a musket is in her hands. She once talked a blacksmith into letting her come right up to the forge, which most guests do not get to do, but Anty has special writer powers. Watching period dramas is also good, because watching people move around in the clothing of a different time tells her more than looking at a still picture, even though portraits from a particular era are the most reliable source of how clothes actually looked. She also is quick to point out that, while things like white wigs and high heels on men look funny to modern people, in the times they were worn, those things were hot stuff, so her book people would probably like them. Then again, it all depends on the characters.

Anty is now making throat clearing noises, which means that has to be about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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

Until next week...

Until next week…

Paddling Along (and avoiding toxic Shoulds)

annabowling 2 Comments

Plot springs from character… I’ve always sort of believed that these people inside me- these characters- know who they are and what they’re about and what happens, and they need me to help get it down on paper because they don’t type.
– Anne Lamott

Yesterday was not the best writing day I ever had, but it got me excited about writing in general, and Her Last First Kiss in particular. Yesterday was one of those days that wouldn’t. We all have them. If you think you haven’t, wait. They will come. I’d had time on my schedule blocked out for HLFK work, and that was all I could do in that time. Only problem was…nothing.

Opened Scrivener. Yep, those are my words on the screen, and those people do live in my head, but we sat there and blinked at each other, shifting uncomfortably in our seats, answering “what are we doing here today?” with “I was hoping you knew.” Doesn’t matter who said what, when, because it went both ways. Well, okay then, we’ve hit that moment. One of the best parts about relearning my own writing process is learning to recognize the old bugaboos that have stopped too many stories in their tracks. Rolling along, hit a bump or even a wall, and then, well, let’s back up a bit. What went wonky?

Now that I have my office hours blocked out, it’s easier to focus. If it’s not going to be a writing day, it can be a research day. That, too, was a blank, because I’m still figuring out how I research. Leafing through factual history books doesn’t always work, because I end up face down, snoring, all too often. I want to be in that world and feel it all around me. I want the senses of the time, what my individual characters would notice and what would affect their moods, thoughts, choices, etc. That’s because they are in the driver’s seat. They live their lives, I follow them around, sometimes picking up the cryptic breadcrumblike clues they leave in their wake, hoping I’m smart enough to figure it out, though they don’t yet trust me enough to tell me the real stuff and wait for me to puzzle things together.

Yesterday was one of those days. I set up a Pinterest board (private, because all WIP boards have to be private or I lose the scent) which consisted of a couple of character pictures (I don’t normally cast stories, but if a face goes with a character, that’s fine,too) and..ummm…what ele? Clothes, I guess? A house? I am not good at this sort of thing, people. I feel like I should be, but there we are at the toxic shoulds again. Historical romance is my natural writing home, so I should be into research, right? I love books, so I should get all excited about paging through dusty tome after dusty tome until I find the exact umm…something…that will get all my ducks in a row and eh, what were we talking about again? I got distracted. I feel like I should want to read more historical biographies (even the fictionalized ones can be problematic) because isn’t the best way to find out what it was like for someone to live at that time to, I don’t know, read books about actual people who did live at that time? For some, yes. For me, not so much.

There was a time when I would have shaken my finger at my own reflection and scolded myself for this. Something like “bad researcher, no accuracy for you.” I once went on a research trip with two other writer friends to Mystic Seaport. They quite happily settled into the research library, made use of the staff to find books on the events they needed. I thought the library was gorgeous, but weren’t the walls closing in? Oh, just me? Okay. I had to get out. Had to. I didn’t crack a single book that I can recall, but to this day, I remember what it was like to wander the deserted streets of that seaport in the chill gray air and the bracing wind. I still have broken seashells that I scavenged from the shore and stuffed in my pockets. I still remember being the only person in the shipyard, breathing in deep of the scents of salt and sap and sawdust, placing my hand on the ribcage -because that’s what it looked like- of a boat that had been built before my grandfather had been concieved and knowing, knowing why a character in the ms I was working on at the time loved the sea as much as he did and why another wanted to build ships more than anything else in the world. They met me there, and I count that research enough.

Should I have stayed in the library and researched like the others? Debatable. I didn’t know what facts or records I needed for that story (still don’t, which could be one of the reasons that ms is at rest) but I did know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, while walking those empty streets, that I was in the world of Miranda Jarrett’s Sparhawks (okay, maybe a few decades off, but still…) When the wind slammed a heavy glass door into my shoulder when I decided to go into a building and look at an exhibit on …umm, something to do with ships….the pain wasn’t as as strong as “cool, now I know what this feels like. I can describe this.” That got me excited. That’s the way I want to approach research, because that’s what works for me.

I broke for lunch yesterday, after time spent pinning stuff that could have sort of maybe been somewhat related to my people and went to lunch with Housemate. She, kind soul, let me babble, and then dropped a solid gold bomb on me. Well, of course I was stuck on what Heroine would do. Heroine doesn’t like X. She likes Y. Oh. Y. Why didn’t I think of that? So, I gave Heroine Y in my head and darned if she didn’t react totally differently to Plot Point. Okay. I can work with that. She’s dropping breadcrumbs again, and so I must be off.

Typing With Wet Claws: Crunching the Numbers Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Exhausting week this time, with Uncle sick, but he is feeling much better now. It is still cold outside, even though there are some birds outside the living room window. If I could jump (I do not, because I have special paws) I would be on the window seat all the time, because birds are very, very interesting.  The art across from Anty’s favorite seat at the coffee house has changed. It is now this:

i1035 FW1.1

This week, Anty has been writing a lot. There are the blog posts, here and elsewhere, and she is hard at work on a new book. There is a lot that goes into writing a new book, besides only telling the story. Since Anty writes historical romance, she has to make sure that she has the historical details right, but not in a boring or heavy handed way. The love story is the center and the history has to come second to that, but still provide versimillitude. That is a big human word that means it has to feel right. Anty  has to get enough of the historical flavor to make sure the story fits its time and the people don’t think, talk or behave like modern humans, but still in a way that modern humans can understand and relate to them. Anty usually does have kitties in her books, and I am her consultant. I make sure the kitties are still kitties, because we do not change that much, no matter the time period.

Humans, though, are another story. I did not mean to put that pun in there, but i will let it stay. The humans who are in Anty’s stories…how should I put this?  They have problems. Personally, I think that if they  had more kitties, they would have fewer problems, but Anty says humans without problems are not that interesting. I guess she knows best, because she has books out and I do not, but I still think there should be more kitties. I hear there may be dogs in this book. I am not sure how I feel about that.

Yesterday, Anty spent a chunk of time figuring out how old the important humans in her story were. Sometims, Anty gets anxious about certain details. If she gets it wrong, does that mean the book is doomed? Is it too much detail or maybe to little? Is this marketable? Maybe she should write something more on trend (I have to remind her that is a very silly human concern, since trends in books are really about two years old when they hit the shelves, and that is slightly less than one third of my age. I say she should write the story and she says I am right and then she goes back to making clicky sounds on the keyboard and I can take another nap, because i find that sound soothing.)

Where was I? Oh, right, human ages. That involves numbers, and Anty does not like dealing with numbers. She would rather tell stories, but because her stories are historical, that means she is going to have to deal with numbers at some point. Anty likes to have clear boundaries when she writes. That means she needs to know how old her people are, what year it is, and things like that. Vague definitions make her fidgety, and I pick up on that, so really, if she wants a happy kitty, she needs to deal with this. Yesterday, she was on the glowy box, and her friend , Vicki, helped her figure out the ages.

Anty was having problems figuring out who was how old. Vicki is good at noticing when Anty goes into a loop (that means worrying about the same thing over and over again so that no writing gets done.) She suggested Anty look up the average age for first marriage of male heirs of peers during the era in which her story takes place. (Anty had already figured out the year the story has to take place by looking at historical events that impacted her people, so she knew when to look for this.) The answer was late twenties to about thirty. The hero in this book is a second son, so these figures did not apply to him, but it did apply to a secondary character, and Anty knows that the hero is two years older than that character, who is two or three years older than the heroine, so there was a lot of math involved, and talking about that is tiring me out, so I can only imagine what it was like for her.

Anty and Vicki agreed that it all depended on how old Anty wanted the heroine to be (Anty would say it’s not how old she wanted the heroine to be, but how old she is, because that’s the way people show up in her head, and you can’t go around telling people how old they have to be, because that’s not the way that it works. Plus, I think that would be rude.) and they could figure out everybody else’s ages from there. First round of numbers Vicki came up with, Anty shot down because everybody felt too old. So, Vicki asked Anty (Vicki has known Anty and the way Anty writes for a long time, so she is smart about things like this) how old the hero feels. Anty said twenty-seven, which is what Vicki also thought, so that meant the other human male was twenty-five and the heroine twenty-two or twenty-three. This is, some might be surprised to find out, not out of the ordinary for a woman to be that age at that time and not yet married. These are things humans find out when they do research.

Anty is giving me that look again, and I want a snack, so I will wind this up for now. If you did not get to read Anty’s post last week at Buried Under Romance, about how to pay tribute to a favorite author who has gone to Rainbow Bridge, it is here. If you are new to the blog and have not read her posts on remembering BertriceHuman, they are here, here, and here.

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

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

Until next week...

Until next week…