writing

Midweek Rambles and New Book, Take Two

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I dwell on love stories, on characters who struggle hard to become the best people they can be, who defy the odds to grab the brass ring of honor, and earn their way to a committed, healthy, loving relationship.

–Grace Burrowes

This isn’t the blog post I set out to write. I thought it was going to be, as my now-weekly Tuesday morning meeting with local writer friend, whom we shall call N for now, lit a spark, and when she asked if I knew what I wanted my writing focus to be this year, I didn’t even have to think about it. Her Last First Kiss, duh. I haven’t loved a story like this in a long time, and haven’t felt confidence in my own writing in longer than that. I was going to write about focus and purpose, and then I put fingers on keyboard and it all fizzled.

My first instinct was to apply a favorite bit of writing advice, and change my seat. In this case, that meant switching from words to images and photographing the notebooks and legal  pad I am currently using to work on this project. There were several pictures taken before the one I used, and no, you cannot see them. You cannot see the picture of my office desk that was fine, except for the jarring addition of two legs covered in light wash denim, because my computer tells me I don’t have permission to alter the picture I took with my own phone and emailed to my own account, so that I could crop it, but whatever, I will survive. You cannot see the beautifully arranged and edited shot of open notebook pages, which I really like, because that has text I’m not ready to share yet, and I am not opening my old laptop and doing the do-si-do of transferring the picture to jump drive, waiting for the old laptop to boot, blurring the text in Photoshop Elements, transferring that to jump drive and then uploading that. If I go through all that trouble to boot that machine, forget it, I’m playing Sims.

I am giving that serious thought right now, because I set aside all the resources I’d need to get the work I intended to do at the coffee house this afternoon done, and then left one hundred percent of them at home. D’oh. Including phone, for obligatory workspace picture. Double d’oh. Is it Friday yet? No? Phooey. I want Friday. I want Friday and a pizza and a bag of gummi bears as big as my head (the bag, that is, filled with regular size gummi bears, not one giant gummi, even if it is skull shaped.) A bottomless cup of Lapsang Souchong wouldn’t hurt, either. In short, I’m tired and grumpy. Best thing I can do at this point is to craw inside a good book and trust that I will un-grump in time. (Though the pizza really would help.)

I’m not sure how much I want to talk about Her Last First Kiss at this stage of the game. I’m not sure I’m ready to even “speak” my hero and heroine’s names here. That’s new for me. I’m a talker, and there is no surer way to kill a story than to not tell anybody anything. Not sure where the reticence is coming from here. Maybe they need placeholder names so that I can talk about them without talking about them. I may need to clear that with them first.

Both my hero and heroine have trust issues, and, as I often find true in my stories, there are a lot of identity issues for these two. Hero (will he let me call him Hero? He certainly doesn’t think he is one. He’s never done one heroic thing in his life. Really more the opposite. Not cowardly, exactly. He’s not afraid, in the usual sense of the word, but he does acknowledge that there isn’t a good reason for him to exist. He doesn’t matter. He’d like to matter. He’d like to belong.) and Heroine (Pfft. Heroine. Look at the romance writer, throwing around those fanciful terms. She’d think I would know by now, after the time I’ve already spent with her, that there aren’t any such things as heroes, of either gender. Heroes believe in things. Heroes have causes. All right, she has a cause, but it’s a moral obligation, not an ideal. There’s a difference.  She’s protecting her own. She doesn’t have any ideals. She wouldn’t know what to do with them if she did.)  collide in their first meeting, and the fallout is messy. It gets messier.

Hero and Heroine have, so  far, dragged me places I never thought I was going to go. The new opening, the one I raced home from my from last week’s meeting with N to furiously scribble with pink fountain pen, very firmly pulled one of my own personal triggers. Not the place I had planned to start a love story, but that is where the story starts. If this book has begun the way it means to go on, I am fastening my seatbelt. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. Which reminds me, I have a carriage accident scene to write.

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.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: New, Old, Hot and Cold Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is also Frozen Friday. Our furnace is down (oddly enough, it has nothing to do with fur, although “fur” is right there in the name. Talk about misleading.) and the Heater Human is down in the basement now, working on it. This has been going on for a couple of days (do not worry, he goes home and hunts for parts and things and does other jobs and then comes back; he is not a prisoner.) and we are all ready to be warm again. Although I have a built in fur coat (maybe it is called a “furnace” because it is for humans, who do not have fur, and therefore need an external source of heat?) the humans do not, so they are wearing layers of clothing, wrapping themselves in blankets and drinking lots of tea.

Normally, lots of tea makes Anty happy, and it still does, but it is better when it is a choice and not a necessity. Anty is used to having cold times once in a while; we do live in New York, after all, and Anty has lived in the northeast most of her life. Uncle is from California, so this is a little different for him. I think he will be happiest of all when it is warm again. Heater Human says that if he cannot fix things on this try, he will get another Heater Human to come and  help. Things will be back to normal soon, which is a good thing. While Heater Human is still on the job, he has to ring the doorbell when he wants in. The doorbell is loud, and I hide under the bed when I hear it, in case it is the catpocalypse. (That is like the apocalypse, but aimed specifically at cats. So far, I have avoided it.)

Snuggled under blankets, with a cup of tea, is a comfortable state for writers, especially those, like Anty, who write about times long ago. To them, this would be normal. Cold weather means extra layers of clothing, gathering around the fire (I am sure that kitties made certain to get the prime spots in front of the big fireplaces when there was such gathering to do) and telling stories, making music or playing games. Also art. Anty has found that waiting for Heater Human to report his progress is a good time to take care of tasks she can do with frequent interruptions (writing is not one of those) and not much brain power.

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One of those things is going through some art supplies she inherited from her papa and seeing what can still be used. These tubes are a kind of paint called gouash. They are older than me. A lot older. They should be a very thick liquid, but they are solid. Anty did some research and found out that gouache is a special kind of paint that stays alive even when it is hard, so she had to find out if that was true.

It took some boiling water and some patience, but most of the paint can still be used if she adds some water to it. Now, the challenge is how to get it out of the tubes. Maybe the humans at the art store can help her with that. Getting these paints to work mean that Anty has another thing she can use in her art. The orange page below is painted with gouache, and is now ready to have other things up on top of that.

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Anty is also trying out some pencils, both colored and the regular kind, that were in the same box with the paints and her fountain pen. She thinks of these things as buried treasures. They might have been created a long time ago, but she can use those older things to make new things, from her own imagination now. It is the same way with writing. Sometimes, an idea or a character that did not work at one time, but also did not go away, can come to life at a later date. Sometimes, they can be even better when rediscovered than they were when they were first put away.

Now I have a confession to make. I stopped a lot during the writing of this blog, to investigate the heater below the window seat. It smelled interesting. Very interesting. That is because Heater Human really is a super hero, and made the furnace work again. It is also something older that worked when something new was added to it, which fits with this week’s theme nicely. I could not have planned that better. Now we are toasty again, but I think Anty will still consume the same amount of tea.

That is about it for this week, so, until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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

A Handful of Dreams and a Blogful of Opinions

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I’ve been reading a lot of older historical romances lately, mainly those first published in the 1990s. Many of these are standalone stories, in the truest sense of the word, not parts of any series, so anything can happen, to anybody, apart from the HEA we are guaranteed by the end of the book. The  hero’s charismatic best friend isn’t exempt from villain status, because no, we aren’t going to need him to be the hero of book two or there, because there is none. One hero, one heroine, one HEA, off into the sunset, done and done. That’s how my story brain naturally works, anyway, and I’d been craving the big, thick doorstoppers I used to devour (and still can, because keeper shelves and UBSs and e-books, yay publishing revolution) so I dove into this subgenre once more, with overwhelmingly positive results.

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One of my best (but not surprising) re-finds was Barbara Hazard. I’d re-devoured her Georgian historical, Call Back the Dream, and wanted to dive into the sequel (I know, I know, I was talking about standalones only a minute ago, but bear with me; this is going somewhere) immediately afterward. I thought I’d packed that in the same box with the original, but then it would have been in the same bookcase. It wasn’t. Instead, there was A Handful of Dreams, also excellent, and completely unrelated.

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I didn’t remember too much about A Handful of Dreams, though I’d first read it when it was fairly new. I remembered the scene where child Sally catches a coin tossed to her by a British soldier on horseback, but didn’t remember if that soldier would turn out to be the hero or not. As I read on, I still wasn’t sure. I did remember, very clearly, the fictional Sally’s abusive first marriage, her return to her family of origin, and her placement as the companion of the daughter of a different soldier.

Let’s say that Sally and her employer’s daughter had different expectations of the relationship and leave it at that. I’m not sure if that might have been explored differently,  had the book been written today, and that’s something I will likely think about for some time. Sally’s employer decides it’s time for Sally to move on, and her situation, as it were, becomes a commodity.

A friend of the family, Harry, Lord Darlington, purchases the care of Sally, and his treatment of her didn’t -on either read- strike me as particularly heroic. He’s a cold father to his children from other relationships, including two marriages, even when Sally expresses her desire for the children to be part of the family. As a work of historical fiction, this works fine, and that’s how I read it this time around. There’s a friend of Harry’s, who also takes a liking to Sally, and there was a good portion of the book where I was thinking maybe I’d misremembered and he was the true hero.

Not going to give away spoilers, because there are two sorts of readers involved here; the ones that are going to track this book down o they can read it themselves, and those who will not, because old book, who cares, or they don’t read romance anyway. Either way, I finished this reread a couple of days ago, and, as much as I’d like to read another romance, my brain is stuck here. Lots of thinking.

Were I to publish this book today, I would class it as historical fiction rather than romance. Sally does find love, and that love is reciprocated. There’s even an acceptable heroic grovel on the part of the gentleman who fills that role, but, in the end, this is really her story and not theirs. I am okay with that. Romantic elements, yes, but this book is about Sally’s life, her struggle to find her place in the world, and the effect the cards she was dealt do have on what she can do.

Sally starts out Irish and poor, in the early nineteenth century. She’s also beautiful, exceptionally so, and that gets her noticed, not always for the right reasons. This is one of my favorite types of characters, where that beauty has its perils as well as its perks. There are those who don’t look below the surface, those who assume a certain set of facial features means a certain personality or mindset, when that couldn’t be farther from the case. Sally’s options are limited. She’s not educated, she doesn’t have a lot of power, but she is smart and she is strong, and she is a woman of her time. That’s important.

Some aspects felt  a little too neat to me, others a bit rushed, and. for a historical romance, there isn’t a lot of emphasis on the relationship that should be the center of the story. I’m not sure I would have chosen the same hero, were this my story to write, but it wasn’t. I’d love to talk to the author, but without contact information, that’s not likely, so some of these things are going to muddle around in my own mind for a while. Maybe some elements will transfer and transform in my own work, but for now, I’m still thinking

Plannering 2016

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Here we are, only two days away from a brand new year, and I do not have a planner yet. Neither do I have a wall calendar. I stopped using desktop calendars a few years back, because, well, I didn’t use them in the first place. I had grand ideas about using the daily pages in art, but I very seldom did, so phased those out, and don’t miss them.

Being without a planner, though, that makes me itchy. For the last two years, I’ve used pocket sized planners by Paperblanks. which are, hands down, the most gorgeous exteriors I’ve found on any planners (or notebooks, for that matter.)

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Green book is last year’s planner, black and silver was for 2015, and I would be happy to get another Paperblanks for this year, though I haven’t seen any at the Barnes and Noble where I usually get them. My original plan in going for the pocket sized planner was that I could then carry it around in my purse and/or computer bag, to have it at the ready at all times. That did not happen, either year. Each time, the book lived on my side table, next to my comfy chair, with occasional sojourns to my office desk. So, I’m thinking larger planner for this year.

Before I started with Paperblanks, I liked spiral bound planners with lots of images and quotes inside them. A New York themed planner turned into one of my first art journals, and an Irish themed planner, the last spiral bound (I think) one I purchased, is still waiting for its next use.  I’ve looked at a few of those this year, but haven’t found anything to my liking. The closest I’ve come is a Walking Dead planner, and even that registers meh on my planner scale.

Though I love Moleskine notebooks, and have an as yet unused hardcover (purple!) hanging around, I’ve never used a Moleskine planner, which may be something to consider. Thinking about Moleskines also got me thinking about their cousins, Markings and Picadilly, of which I have several hardcovers. Add to that the brave new world of the dot grid softcover Moleskine I like a lot more than I thought I would, and I’ve started thinking of potentially DIY-ing my own planner from one of those.

Do I have any idea how that would work? Not a clue, though if I’m going to DIY a Moleskine, I could as easily DIY a larger Paperblanks, thus getting the gorgeous cover. Problem there is that I’ve only seen lined Paperblanks, though the website says there are some unlined. With my lack of depth perception (truly, it could have its own show on the comedy network) I need some guidance if I’m going to mess around with the format of a page. The dot grid in the softcover Moleskine is perfect for that, letting me divide the page into whatever boxes I need for a particular use, while not cutting through the words and images (because I am learning to use images now.)

I’ve found I am far more visual than I had previously thought, and I really do need something going on with the page for my brain to stick with it. Much as I love the Paperblanks, if I do go with another of those, I’ll need to alter the innards in some way. Which means I get to tinker with my existing supplies and expired planners to see what might work. A light wash of color on each individual day, so my eyes can easily pick them apart should do the trick. We’ll see how that goes.

For now, I’m still in the discovery stage. Maybe this year will be a different sort of planner, a fresh start to which I can apply more layers. Maybe I will find a way to DIY an existing notebook into a planner (have any of you had experience with that? I’d love to pick your brains) and maybe I’ll find the perfect premade. While I am antsy that I’m not moved into a new planner already (a perfect tucked-away week activity if ever there was one) I’m also pleased that waiting until after the first of the year means getting exactly the same planner I could have purchased before Christmas, at a hefty discount. I have fond memories of the other Barnes and Noble we used to frequent (now closed) and the Moleskines we’d often find on clearance there. I have to admit I almost got a Peanuts Moleskine planner, on sale there, a couple of years back, but couldn’t commit to a whole year of Peanuts. If the planner is themed, it has to be something I love-love, not merely like.

As for wall calendars, I’ve learned that those often have to wait even longer. Last year, I lucked out early and found a calendar by a photographer whose work I admire (and frequently appears on Studio Oh! notebooks) but have not seen this year’s version, so no clue what I’ll eventually pick. Real Life Romance Hero has asked for an Old New York calendar for the kitchen, which Housemate and I both second (and third?) so that’s likely what we’ll be getting for family use. I’ve made some halfhearted attempts at making my own wall calendar from blank versions bought at craft stores, but have never made it past January with one of those, so not pinning my hopes on a homemade calendar this year.

Maybe this is all part of where I am creatively as a whole. I’m much more focused on keeping the camera, as it were, on the romance when I write, because that’s what makes me happiest. No matter when or where, it’s the love story that counts the most. Everything else has to serve that, from setting to tone to supporting cast. Getting to that point took me several years, and novels-that-wouldn’t, so maybe it’s the same thing with planners this year. Maybe it’s time to kiss a lot of figurative frogs before I hit upon The One this year. Maybe I’ll stumble into something I never thought about before, and find it’s a perfect fit. Kind of ironic (cue Alanis Morrisette) that I’m not able to plan my planner purchase this year, but it’s also fitting for the creative life, so I’m going to go with whatever comes and see where that takes me.

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Random Skye shot for readers (:cough: RLRH :cough:) who said they missed “the writing cat.”

Treasure Box

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We’re a few days into what’s usually my favorite week of the year, that tucked-away week between Christmas and New Year’s. Jury is still out on this year’s version. Normally, going to the Laundromat is a lovely pocket of time, and doing so during my tucked-away week would make it doubly so. This time? Not so much.

We’ll start with the fact that I had to put laundry in and take it out of four machines before hitting one that would actually h0ld everything and did not have any mystery detergent residue that would play havoc with sensitive skin. Add in a quick dash back home to collect more quarters, because I ended up using the industrial sized washer. On the plus side, clean bedding.  On the minus side, there was the person who asked me if I was taking the week off, and, when I said that was my plan, answered that they didn’t think that was possible. Since I work for myself, my whole life is apparently “relaxing” and I do whatever I want, whenever I want. Yeah, not the way it works, person. Seriously not. Add in another unwanted interaction,  and I was in a foul mood by the time I got home.

I’m not sure what drew me to the small cardboard box in the hallway closet, but I figured I could use some diversion. I knew it had some of my dad’s art supplies -now my art supplies- in it, and art time is usually a good de-grumper. I noticed the paint first, four small tubes of watercolors. Some pencils, of varying vintage and purpose, some tools that look like they’re for carving clay (can check with a friend whose husband is a sculptor) and then there was the pen. Which I may want to call The Pen.

 

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Rather plain at first sight, black cap and silvery barrel, but still a pen. I took the cap off.  Either a fountain pen or dip pen, though I can’t see where I could get the pen apart to check for where I’d refill if it’s a fountain pen. That’s when I examined the nib and found the words that caught my attention. Mont Blanc. Huh wuh? That’s a good pen, isn’t it? Quick check online and my suspicions were confirmed.

White snowflakey/star thing is present on top of cap and bottom of barrel, as well as the clip. “Mont Blanc” is on the otherwise plain nib, and “Mont Blanc Germany” is on the cap, below the clip. I’m not finding what model this is, and not sure where/how to continue the search, but when a fabulous pen falls into my lap, I’m going to take it. Whatever ink may have been in there at one time is completely gone now, and if it’s a dip pen (though I don’t see any evidence of Mont Blanc making any dip pens) then that would explain the lack of ink. This is going to require more investigation. The closest Mont Blanc store I can locate is in White Plains, which is a road trip in itself, but Westchester and tracking down the identity of a super cool pen? This may need to happen.

 

The paints, I think I like on their own rather than together, but this is only my smush them on the page and see what they do stage, so it doesn’t count. That’s still something hard to accept, that I can put something on a page, whether words or colors or shapes, and it doesn’t have to, and as a matter of fact, probably won’t be perfect the first time around, but treasure boxes like these are helping me deal with that.

It’s highly unlikely that I’m going to haul a box out of the storage unit and find it’s full of words, characters, plots, etc (apart from old manuscripts or boxes of books) but that same spirit of playing around, tossing something on the page and seeing what it does -What  color is this, really? What mark does this make? What happens if I get this wet? Can I scratch into it for some texture?- that can only infuse new life. Time to take a few risks again and see what comes out. There may not be gesso for the written page, but there is a delete key. First drafts are meant to be messy, same as laying down a background color; that’s only the base. Many more layers are yet to come before the finished product is ready to be seen.

 

Hypercritical Gremlin Interview, Part One

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Welp, four more days until Christmas, not nearly ready, but I did watch A Charlie Brown Christmas last night, so that’s a start. By Real Life Romance Hero’s and my reckoning, we have gone over one solid month with somebody in our family sick. Not always the same person, thankfully -there were a few days there where I was the healthy one- but mostly it’s been me, which is weird, because I am the Energizer Bunny, and tend to keep on going, no matter what. Which may explain things right there. Sometimes, when the brain won’t allow for a break, the body overrules and takes what it needs.

BUT IF YOU’RE SO BUSY, WHY AREN’T YOU RICH, OR AT LEAST HAVE A WHOLE BUNCH OF NEW RELEASES, YOU SLACKER?

That would be the voice of my hypercritical gremlins. They, along with my characters, live in my head (though in a much dodgier neighborhood) and are a talkative bunch. They have extremely high standards, keep excellent track of what everybody else is doing, and offer advice unsolicited. Today, they get blog space, because “blog entry” is next on my list, and I am determined to get everyday things out of the way so I can concentrate on Christmas preparations.

ALSO, YOU WANT TO PLAY SIMS.

:ahem: Yes, yes, I do. I assume you guys have a problem with that.

OF COURSE! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY THOUSANDS OF  WORDS YOU COULD POUND OUT IN THE TIME IT TAKES YOU TO PUT IN ALL THOSE FRIVOLOUS THINGS LIKE MODS AND CUSTOM CONTENT?

Probably not many, because I don’t work that way at this stage of the game, but I do usually have a legal pad next to my computer and jot down ideas and dialogue while I play. I find it relaxing.

SO YOU ADMIT YOU’RE A LAZY SLACKER!

No, I admit that I am finding what works for me. Sometimes, I’ve sketched out entire scenes while doing that or cracked character issues that had me puzzled before. Do you guys always shout everything?

YES!

Do you always shout it in unison?

YES! ! ALSO, YOU ARE BAD AND STUPID AND IRRELEVANT FOR NOT SEEING THE NEW STAR WARS. OR EVEN PLANNING TO SEE IT.

If Real Life Romance Hero wants to see it for date night, I’ll go with him, but I’m more of a Merchant-Ivory girl, when left to my own devices.

YOU DO KNOW ONE OF THEM IS DEAD, RIGHT? THERE WILL NEVER BE A NEW MERCHANT-IVORY PRODUCTION. ALSO, MOST HISTORICAL MOVIES ARE FICTIONALIZED BIOGRAPHIES THESE DAYS BECAUSE NOBODY WANTS OR CAN RELATE TO OLD TIMEY DRAMAS, YOU RELIC. HAVE YOU SEEN THE SALES OF HISTORICAL VERSUS CONTEMPORARY ROMANCES THESE DAYS? WRITE WHAT SELLS.

:drinks tea: Ah, the bunny trails. Okay, Richard Curtis, then. I saw About Time this weekend, and it was wonderful. Emotionally effective, intimate, made me cry more than once, and reminded me why I write romance, though it isn’t a romance (but there is a romance in it.) Also, Bill Nighy can do no wrong. He seriously can’t, at least acting-wise, though I am certain he has hypercritical gremlins of his own, who would tell me otherwise.

HE DOES. WE FOLLOW THEM ON TWITTER.

Gremlins are on Twitter?

GREMLIN TWITTER, WHERE WE CAN TALK ABOUT ALL YOU TWITS. WE NOTICE YOU DIDN’T ANSWER US ABOUT THE HISTORICAL VS CONTEMPORARY THING.

That’s because I am not having that conversation.

:HUFF: OH ALL RIGHT. THEN AT LEAST WRITE REGENCY. EVERYBODY LOVES REGENCY.

That’s not true.

YES IT IS!

No, it’s not. Regency is a very popular setting, yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s the only one out there, or that I am suited to write in it. Remember all that time I spent trying to write Regency already?

:CLINK GLASSES AND HIGH FIVES: GOOD TIMES!

No, not good times.

GOOD TIMES FOR US! WE ESPECIALLY LIKED ALL THE CRYING AND HEADACHES.

I didn’t.

WE KNOW! THAT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE AN OVERSENSITVE WUSS.

Really? You’re going there? I thought you had better ammunition than that.

EXACTLY WHAT ARE YOU IMPLYING?

Mostly, that you must not know me very well.

WE’VE BEEN LIVING IN YOUR HEAD SINCE YO UKNEW YOU HAD ONE. MAYBE BEFORE.

So? Look, I get that you guys probably aren’t moving out, anytime soon. You like the décor –

THERE COULD BE MORE ART ON THE WALLS. REMEMBER THAT TIME YOU SOLD ONE OF YOUR PURSES AND THE PERSON SAID YOUR HOUSE MUST LOOK AMAZING WITH ALL YOUR ART ON THE WALLS, AND YOU WERE ALL CRINGEY BECAUSE YOU DON’T HAVE ANY UP? NOTE WE USED PRESENT TENSE, AHEM.

–as I was saying, you mostly like the décor, the food is good, and you like petting my bookshelves when you think I’m not looking–

ALSO GOING THROUGH YOUR OLD PRINTOUTS AND FINDING GRAMMATICAL ERRORS. REALLY HAD A THING FOR GERUNDS THERE IN THE LATE NINETIES, DIDN’T YOU?

Okay, you guys need a hobby. Playing Sims is fun.

YOU DO KNOW THAT’S ONLY PIXELATED BARBIES, RIGHT?

I do know that the original game was pitched as a virtual dollhouse simulator, so what’s your point?

THAT YOU ARE CHILDISH.

Obviously, you haven’t been paying attention to my saved games, or any of my stories.

THANKS FOR THE REMINDER! YOU’RE NOT NICE, EITHER. WHAT ARE PEOPLE GOING TO THINK ABOUT YOU IF YOU HAVE CHARACTERS DO THINGS LIKE YOU DO?

Hopefully, that I can tell an emotionally compelling story. Are you guys about done now?

NOT EVEN CLOSE.

In that case, we’ll have to continue this conversation later, because it’s time for me to move along with my day. Any parting comments for this session?

YES. YOUR ART JOURNALING IS AMATEURISH AT BEST AND NOBODY WANTS TO SEE IT. COVER REVEALS, THAT’S WHAT READERS LIKE. ALSO, YOUR DISLIKE OF THE WORD, ‘JOURNAL’ MEANS YOU ARE NOT A REAL WRITER, IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING.

Actually, I wasn’t, but thanks for sharing your opinion. I need to go write and send off an invoice now, so we’re done for the day.

FINE. WE’RE GOING TO HANG OUT HERE AND PICK ON YOUR READING CHOICES.

As long as you do it quietly, knock yourselves out.

 

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Christmas Crunch Time Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for my regularly scheduled Feline Friday. Anty is feeling much better, but that also means she is very busy, because it is now one week until Christmas. Anty loves Christmas. Normally, she will spend the whole month between Thanksgiving and Christmas, getting ready for her favorite holiday. This year, she spent it being sick, or taking care of sick humans, or taking care of sick humans while being sick. That does not sound like a lot of fun, but some of the smells were very interesting. Well, probably only for a kitty. The humans are fond of a thing called Febreeze.

With only a week to actually get ready, Anty is winding up to go into high gear. First comes the pretending she doesn’t care and we can skip the whole thing at this point stage. (That is never going to happen, trust me.) Then there is the “there is no way we can do this” stage. That is a little scary, because I am used to being the most panicky one in the house and that is not always true during this stage, but then the next stage kicks in, and everything falls into place and she makes it happen after all. Sometimes it is fancy, and sometimes it is intimate. Uncle says that means small. I think Anty doesn’t much care; she likes Christmas, period.

There is wrapping to do, and mailing, and Mama is going to help Grandma get ready, and have their own celebration back where we used to live. Presents are starting to come together. I think I am getting cat food. I hope I am getting cat food. I love cat food. My humans know that my favorite toy is crumpled paper. Very occasionally, I will bat my catnip mousie (but I do not care about the catnip) if one of my humans throws it while I am already playful, but, really, I’m all about paper when it comes to toys. I am thinking about getting everybody mice.

What? Oh. Sorry. My mistake. I got all excited about Christmas (Anty will probably catch up with me soon) and forgot I am supposed to talk about Anty’s writing things first. Something big happened on The Big Bang Theory last night, and Anty is recapping it all at Heroes and Heartbreakers. It is here, and it looks like this.

SHAMY

This episode was about, um, something grownups do that also happens in romance novels, but it was also about getting expectations built up so much that it can affect the actual experience. This applies to Anty and Christmas, and to Anty and writing. Will she do something wrong? Will she miss out on something good? Is there something she could have done better? What if she does the wrong thing, and, because of that, it’s not fun for anybody? It is times like that when I am glad Anty is too big to fit under the bed (the space down there is kitty sized, not human sized.) because she might seriously consider hunkering down there with me sometimes.

As much as I would like to have the time with her, that is not how writing books work. If I, who am a kitty, know that, then an actual writer human should know that, too, but sometimes, she needs a reminder. Also, usually a notebook and a pen, because then she will want to play with them. Tea usually helps, and, this time of year, seasonally appropriate treats. Anty is especially fond of red and green gumdrops and cheese and crackers. (The cheese and crackers do not need to be red and green, in case you were wondering. Only the gumdrops. The cheese could even be blue. Anty likes it when the cheese is blue. Full of holes is good, too.)  Talking with writer friends definitely helps, and, most of all, (sometimes scariest of all) actually writing.

Oddly enough, Anty has not yet written a Christmas story. Maybe she will have to give that a try. If she starts now, she could be ready for next year. She says she needs to finish her current projects first, but I remember this is before she’s watched Love Actually, The Holiday, or Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol even once this year. The bug could still hit.

It is almost time for Anty to go meet a writer friend, so that is about it for now. I may have to fill in for Anty again if Christmas preparations (or writing) take up much more of her time this week, so maybe we will see each other before next week. Until then, I remain very truly  yours,

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

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

 

Past Present Future

annabowling 2 Comments

 How I Thought It Was Going To Go:

That magnum opus I pounded out on an electronic typewriter, in my dad’s living room, my old bedroom, and my first college dorm room, heavily reminiscent of the Bertrice Small epics I still adore, complete with fictional island nation, slaved over for years, was supposed to be The One. I had a chance to send the first three chapters to a big name editor, and I did. I remember sitting on the couch of Real Life Romance Hero’s and my first apartment, the letter in my hands, unopened, knowing that this would change my life forever. It did, but not the way I had expected.

Not enough action, nothing important happened, something else, something else, something else, probably something positive in there, but danged if I can remember any of it all these years later.  What was supposed to happen was that Big Name Editor was supposed to love this story as much as I did, want the whole thing, throw a big bunch of money at me and ask for more books. Never mind that I had no idea what those books were going to be, because that one was my everything at the time.  What I do remember is the crushing disappointment, the “proof” that I couldn’t do what I wanted to do more than anything else in the world. Totally skipped over the “send me something else” part, partly because I was that crushed, and partly because I didn’t have anything else at the time. This was meant to be the one that flung open the doors and got the party started. Surely, then, everything would come easy after that.

What Actually Happened:

I went into retail. The book went into the briefcase a family friend gave me for my high school graduation, and then into the back of a closet, eventually into a storage unit. I stumbled onto the path of retail management, but when the district supervisor called me in for a talk, to ask about where I wanted to be in five years, I said “writing.” What? I didn’t want to manage my own store? Umm, okay, I guess, but mostly writing. I ended up as assistant manager at that store, and I discovered fan fiction, where I wrote. A lot. Where I learned a lot through that writing. Where I made friends who also wrote. We taught each other. We experimented. Belly flopped. Blinked in astonishment when readers asked for more. Provided more. Learned how to hawk our wares at appropriate venues, used the heck out of the USPS to stay in touch, fumbled through the early days of the Internet together, and, sometimes, met in person.

Through one of those meetings, I found a local writer’s group and was invited to join. I did. Week after week, we met and wrote to prompts, in timed exercises. One of those clicked, and kept going, eventually becoming My Outcast Heart. My first shot at a historical romance since that book where nothing happened. I queried Awe-Struck Publishing, sent in a partial, and sent in the whole thing when asked. Less than a week later, I got The Email. A real, live publisher wanted to buy my book! Um, yes, please. Then when one of the editors started his own boutique publisher and asked me for more, I sent more. I wrote two novellas and another novel, and all went out into the world and found homes.

Then life happened. I became caregiver to three relatives at once. Two passed away, while the other and I learned to manage the conditions newly discovered. There were matters to settle, a move to be made. My own depression was in there somewhere, along with some anxiety, and more miscarried manuscripts than I care to count. Not my favorite time, and sure, I wish I’d done some things differently. Sold  a few books, that would have been nice, but I’ve written articles and blog posts and not going to lie, I’m proud of those. I kept writing books. Not all of them made it, and that’s probably a good thing, but I kept on going, finding things that didn’t work and looking for things that would.

How It Goes From Here:

You’re asking me? This is the person who cried when the survey showed up in her mailbox. The one who grumped about not wanting to go to the meeting, but I had to because I was part of it. Everybody else is more successful than me and what right do I have to walk in the midst of them, so leave me here in my pile of sludge to die. Which is A) pretty much what it felt like, and, B) shines a light on how  much I want this.  Seeing as how I did tick a few boxes, I think I’m doing okay.

I’m still here. I’m still writing. I’ve been getting some good rejections on a novella, and “loved the voice and characters, but…” is a far sight better than “nothing happens.” I got a workshop I love out of lessons learned from all the fanfic I wrote and edited in those post-rejection days (which, to be honest, were all historical romances in disguise anyway) and, as my mother told me often, the year I broke my right arm (and, disappointingly, did not learn how to become completely ambidextrous during the healing process) broken bones heal stronger.

Write, finish, submit, repeat. Old advice, still works. If I get one new release this year, by traditional or independent publishing, I will indeed reach the fifth release goal. With a whole year ahead of me, and a novella in search of a home, this could happen.

We were asked, during the meeting, to make a list of our goals for the year. These should do.

20151214_113536-1_resized

Okay, I made specific writing related ones, too, but it’s been  a rough weekend. Feeling good about these so far.

Heroines (real life edition)

annabowling 2 Comments

The more you do, the more you’ll want to do.
-Erma Pesci Carrasco (aka Mom)

December ninth can be a hard day for me. I remember being fourteen years old, my dad waking me, and not understanding why he wouldn’t let me get out of bed. Then it sunk in. Mom was gone. The cancer won. Dad wouldn’t let me go to school, though I wanted to. He went to work, and , as I found out later, did not inform coworkers why that day was different at the time.  I spent part of the day at home with a family friend, then the rest with a neighbor.

December ninth is also the birthday of a favorite aunt (family friend sort, not parent’s blood sibling sort,) who served as second mom at key points in my teenage years, and who greatly influenced my choice of career and genre. I always wondered if it dampened her birthday celebrations in later years, that her special day was also the day she lost one of her dearest friends, but could never bring myself to ask. This year is the first Aunt’s Birthday after Aunt’s own passing, and anniversaries like this are…interesting.

My mother never got to read any of my books, though I like to think she would have. She never got to know I would write articles and blog posts (or know what a  blog was) or teach workshops.  Since my first exposure to the historical romance genre came from stealing the books from her nightstand and sorting through the books her sister, my Aunt Lucy, brought her, I suspect she would not have any issues with my choice of genre. I never got the chance to find out what Mom’s favorite settings, tropes, plots or authors were, but I do remember that, every time Aunt Lucy visited, there was a grocery bag full of big, thick historical paperbacks with art that captivated me, and back cover blurbs that fired my imagination. All that adventure, all that history, and all those happily ever afters…pure bliss in a brown paper bag. That hasn’t changed.

My aunt had read at least some of my writing, though I’m not sure how much, and her advice remains invaluable. She gave me books to read, letting me know which were the good ones, and was firm but fair with her input on my own writing. I remember, as a teen, that her advice to live life first before attempting to write about it, irritated me, but, all these years later, yes, she was right. I’ve lived. Some of the stuff, I would have rather skipped over, but it really is all grist for the mill.

From an early age, Mom’s publicity pictures, and a newspaper write up or two, preserved in a scrapbook, dazzled me. There was a long while when the fact that I got kicked out of robe choir, in front of the whole class, for having “a bad voice,” (teacher’s own words, sadly; I remember those, too) or the endless wait to see when her bone structure would make itself known in my own face vexed me greatly. My dad confirmed that I was adopted when I was twenty-two, but I’d figured it out by then.

I am, however, Mom’s daughter, and Aunt’s niece, without a doubt. Every year, at Christmas, I channel Aunt in a way that still gives me the heebie jeebies. This year, I may go all out and bust out the Robert Burns grace even if we end up ordering Chinese delivery for Christmas dinner. The decorations, the way presents are organized, that’s all Aunt, and, at this stage of the game, I think it’s safe to say those things are going to stick.

As will the advice Mom gave me, driving me to elementary school one day. I don’t remember the time of year, though I want to say it was spring. I wanted to stay home sick, and she didn’t think it was needed. As one who works from home now, myself, I do understand the need for a peaceful workspace and the room to breathe when the others have left for the day.

I was still fairly young, as I was in the back seat, and still angling to get my way. This was a short day (we had one of those a week, I think, at that time of year) and Mom remained firm. I didn’t even have to do a full day, only a shortened one, and I’d be fine once I got going. “The more you do, the more you’ll want to do,” she told me as we pulled into the parking lot, and, at the time, those words were the last thing I wanted to hear. She was right, of course, and, if saying it here counts, yes, Mom, I get it. I don’t remember anything about that day, but I obviously made it through.

Sometimes, especially on tough days, it’s tempting to say “nope” and retreat. Some days, that’s needed. Other times, though, the best thing to do is get dressed, get out of the house, and go do the work. Show up. Open the file. Change seat if needed. Put something down on the page and make it pretty later. I think Mom and Aunt would both approve of that.