writing

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.

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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)

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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.

 

 

 

 

Back in the Saddle

annabowling 2 Comments

Monday again, and the first time in two weeks that I am sure enough that I will make it out of this cold alive. Semi-normal day yesterday, which left me tired but accomplished, so time to see about getting back in the creative saddle again. This is both an exciting and daunting project.

Let’s take that one at a time. First, the excitement. Not coughing, not leaking sticky goo from my eyes, and not having a throat made of sandpaper (well, most of the time. Cherry cough drops, I still love you.) are all things I highly appreciate, as well as the ability to concentrate for more than ten minutes at a time, and I have missed my daily trips into 18th century England and one very complicated romance between two unlikely lovers. I finally get to start preparing for Christmas, my very favorite holiday. Tomorrow,  I get to combine a trip to the pharmacy for Real Life Romance Hero with a writing session at Panera, and, best of all, a twilight walk through the park, which is lit up for the season, and I can take pictures. Were we not between ovens, I would be churning out batches of cookies in celebration. Absence does make the heart grow fonder when it comes to writing, and I am very eager to get back to that.

Even so, there’s the daunting aspect. I’ve been away from active work on this book (okay, these books, as work on two novellas also fell by the wayside) for two weeks. Ugh. I am insanely grateful I don’t count words at this stage of the game, because I would probably give up in disgust, and the mere thought of miscarrying yet another novel is more than I want to even think about if I want to get back in the groove. It’s easy to get discouraged when friends have cover reveals and new releases and new sales and I’m staring at a blank page and wondering if I have ever met these story people before. Add to that the fact that ‘not enough layers’ and ‘clean sweep’ can apply to the same project at the same time.

On the one hand, that doesn’t seem entirely fair, and on the other, the thought of a fresh, blank document excites me. The fact that this is not the first time on the same project makes me want to punch things (I suggest keyboards in this instance) but if it’s going to make a stronger story, and a stronger writer, well, okay then. I’d tell anybody else that it seems perfectly normal and natural to have been knocked back a couple of paces by that much sick time, and that it’s not time lost.

Perspective is always a good thing. During that time, I read, and did art journal work that helped me see that, when a scene (or project) isn’t working, it’s likely one of those two things. Kind of like a sketchbook for writers. The only thing I actually sketch is boxes at the time, and even those aren’t something I want to show around, but all those layers of playing “what if” and “how about X” and saying “yes, and” to myself do sit in my mental crock pot and simmer together into something I might not have put together if I were actually looking to do so. Alchemy, that’s all I’m going to say.

That, and permission to trust myself. Still working on that one, and it’s scary. If I keep the story in my head and in my head alone, then I can’t fail. The story and the characters, and the writer herself, get to stay safe and protected. Nobody can hate them. Nobody can not “get” them. They can’t stumble and fall. They can’t grow stronger. Nobody (but me) can love them. I know these characters well enough to know that they aren’t going to stand for that. The last two, really.

So, I keep what I have, and I open a new document, set up my bullet points and blorch onto the page, as many layers as the substrate will hold. Spew it out now and make it pretty later. That’s what subsequent drafts are for, after all. Reading a friend’s ms and talking to writer friends on the internet reminded me of the joy to be found in storytelling, which is as important as the craft and discipline. It’s a balancing act. That sneaking away to scribble down the movie in my head is the first step toward a finished ms, a new sale, a cover reveal, a great review, and all of the rest. The story has to happen first. Nothing else can happen without it, and none of that can happen without me. Daunting and exciting both, that.

Typing With Wet Claws: Art Journal Therapy Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Typing With Wet Claws. Anty is still battling her very bad cold, but she thinks she is getting the upper hand on it, at last. I will keep you all posted.

When Anty finds it difficult to concentrate on writing but still wants to be creative, she can spend time with her art notebooks (most people say art journals.) Even when Anty finds putting words or images on the page too much  for her brain, she can still put down backgrounds, which is what she spent some time doing this week.

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This spread is only gesso and watercolor, but she still finds it very interesting. The page with different colors on it is leftover paint from other backgrounds brushed on top of gesso, and the page with only gray on it is gray watercolor painted over gesso into which she scratched lines into while it was still wet. I could have helped her with that. I have claws.

These pages are also backgrounds, or the starts of backgrounds. Anty does not have to know what is going to go on the page in the final version, but only concentrates on what feels right for what she is doing in the present. Sometimes, that means putting down a mask, to keep part of the page the original color while she puts other colors on top of it.

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Cropping is hard when you have paws…

mask and spray ink
beneath the mask

Anty has learned that, when an art page is not working, it is due to one of two things:

  1. Not enough layers
  2. Clean sweep

Either Anty has not added enough things to the page for it to look right, or she needs to start over, completely fresh, with a clear idea of what her focus should be. Maybe she wants to see what kind of mark a pen or brush can make, or what she can do with a particular color of paint.  As you can see in the picture above, she has ripped out a few pages in her time. Sometimes they cannot be saved, but, usually, they can, by turning into something else.

Any really really loves a calendar she had a few years back, from PaPaYa! Art, so she wanted to use it as an altered book and add in her own art. One of the first things she thought she would do would be put a coat of gesso over the calendar pages, to make a new background. That was a good idea. What was not a good idea was to do all of them at once, and “protect” the wet pages by putting scrap paper in between them.

Well. She knows, now, that she needs to use wax paper when she does that. Back then, she did not know. To make matters worse, the pages she used were very very very bright blue. They had things printed on them, and she thought it might be interesting, once she figured out that the pages were now adhered to the calendar pages, to see if she could treat it like a gel medium resist and gently rub away the blue paper, leaving the words, and incorporate that in the art. That was not what happened.

What happened was that the warm water that dissolved the blue paper also dissolved part of the page beneath it. Some pages had to be torn out altogether, but, since they were already total losses, then she could use them to experiment with other techniques. Which often turns into something else she really can use, like this:

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The watercolor went over the parts of paper Anty could not rub off differently than it went over the parts of the page that were plain gesso, and even the part of the page that came off at the top could be interesting as a part of something else. Anty can use this page as part of a bigger page, or she can cut it down into smaller parts and use some or all of them as parts of several other pages or projects.

If you think this is where I remind Anty that this advice can carry over into writing as well, you are right. If a scene is not working out, either there are not enough layers, or it is time for a clean sweep. Go back to the idea at the heart of the scene and start over, with the heart of the idea in mind. Usually, one of those two things will do the trick, and she can fill the page with whatever it needs, then move on to the next.

My nursing duties call, so that is going to be about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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

Daily Pages and Rambling

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Beautiful grey, rainy day here in upstate NY, and I am stuck inside because, yes, cold is still hanging in there. Real Life Romance Hero, aka Patient Zero, is back at work, and I am making a stab at doing the same. If I can be half as productive as my immune system, I may be able to make up for lost time, or at least babble incoherently.

The notebook in today’s picture is from Punch Studio, as is the small notepad propped against the monitor. Yellow sticky notes are plain Post-Its and get tossed as soon as I’ve dealt with whatever is scribbled on them (the note to buy Kentucky mints -the kind with jelly inside- has been there for far longer than I would care to admit. Must deal with that soon.) This notebook is for my version of morning pages; two pages, one sitting, as soon as I can in the day, all by myself, no stopping, no censor. Two pages, rather than three, because a) achievable goals, and b) the interior pages are printed with two-page spreads in four different designs. I’ve been doing this since October 26th, every weekday, and so far, so good.

One good thing about being sick is that staying home gives me a better perspective on how I use the space in my home. Going into the office, closing the door, and breaking out pen and paper feels like an indulgence, far more than flipping open my laptop and pounding keys. It may be convenient to flop in the recliner, put the lap desk on my lap and make with the clickety clack, but the alchemy happens with paper and pen. Being around my art supplies (which really need more organizing, when I am done with all the drippiness) also helps remind me that, while there is discipline needed for a productive writing career, there is also a measure of creative indulgence.

Right now, I’m making a list of historical romances that take place at least part of the time in Russia. I’ve had a passing interest in Russia since one of my dad’s ex-fiancees (yes, plural,  and yes, only one at a time; my dad still had it far into his later years) and there is a lot of Russian interest/influence in ballroom dance, which I also love (strange life lesson learned; if you’re at a dance show and the Russians get up and leave before intermission, the show is bad.) but it wasn’t until the heroine of Her Last First Kiss told me she was half Russian that I knew I had to get farther into the zeitgeist of eighteenth century Russia. Not that my heroine would know much about that, as she’s never been outside of England, nor seen her Russian father since she was seven, but I need to know these things.

For some, maybe most, this would mean stocking up on biographies of real life historical figures. I do not work that way. I have tried, but it’s Sony and I’m Beta or the other way around (or whatever the distinction was; technology and I have a complicated relationship.) While I don’t advocate using movies and other works of fiction as sources of factual research, for me, those things have what I need even more. The feel of the time and place. Yes, I know that’s interpreted through writers and editors and actors and directors and set and costume and la la la I can’t hear you.

I’m not writing scholarly texts. I’m writing love stories that take place in a certain time and place, and, to the characters living this story, they don’t live in Historical Period X. They think they live in Now, because, to them, they do. They don’t know who’s going to win the war, or if the long-awaited royal baby will be male, female, stillborn, or healthy and whole. With the state of communications (as I tell RLRH, they didn’t have Twitter in the eighteenth century) unless my characters already live near Court, they aren’t going to know about the goings on until they are went-on-a-while-agos. Whole different mindset.

Annnd I’m rambling. Which is fine, because rambling is still writing.  The post is still here, and I’ve stayed more or less on topic, so I am going to call this a win. I’ve gone through an entire box of tissues, have a big dent in my second bag of cherry cough drops, and am feeling up to actual food for lunch. It takes my mind longer these days to wander off, which I count as a good thing. Characters, however, are still prone to do whatever they want as soon as they hit the page, but it works better that way. Easing up on the iron grip gives them and me both room to do our thing, and if this cold from beyond hell had any hand in making that happen, then I will accept that purpose without too much complaint.

 

 

In My Blanket Fort, Coloring Furiously

annabowling 2 Comments

Well, it’s Monday. Time for Monday’s post. Not sure what I’m going to write here, because even I am sick of reading me write about being sick. Not sure what else there is to say on that front, except that the cold seems to like it here, and I am impressed with the sheer volume of mucus my body can produce. I do not want to know where it is all coming from, but at least that’s progress?

Cherry and licorice cough drops have become a food group for me, and my favorite foods at the moment are those that do not have corners. On the plus side, I sound almost human after I’ve had ice cream, and I am staying well hydrated. Ice skulls are lifesavers (I do have a roll of actual Lifesavers, but have not yet opened them.)  By which I mean small novelty ice cubes in skull shaped molds I brought home around Halloween. Perfect size to pop in my mouth and cool things down without being unwieldly. Plus, they’re skulls. That has to count for something.

The way things are going, I’ll take that. It’s easy to get discouraged. Last week was going to be the week I made up for the week before’s loss of writing time, and then look what happened. Look at it. Not only did I not get things done, but it feels like things I did get done, got un-done. I would like to retreat to my blanket fort and color furiously. Yes, I used an adverb. Want to make something of it?

Right now, I’m grumpy. I’m tired of being sick, tired of being tired, tired of not Getting Things Done. Tired of not having brain enough to get a lot of reading , much less writing, done, but one thing I’ve been able to keep focus on for the last couple of days is art. In my office, on the floor, with paper and pencils and paint and assorted ephemera, it’s a different brain space than trying to make English work in a brain that only wants to take a nap (but knows that it can’t, because getting horizontal seems to be my body’s version of putting in a request for a long coughing fit that leaves me even more exhausted.)

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This spread took me a couple of days to create, no plan in mind but to use stuff I could get without having to look for it. So, liquid acrylic paints, gesso, an almost-dried-out paint dabber, fortune cookie fortunes, and gel medium.

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The page with the blue background was the page I gave some form of thought to, mainly to finally use the fortunes I’d been saving. Get those down on the page, arrange in pleasing manner, then paint around them with the blue paint. The arrangement of the fortunes suggested boxes, and primary colors seemed to fit, so yellow boxes came next, then the dark red boxes, and I may do some doodling with silver Sharpie or white gel pen, but I’d need to pick up a new one of those, as the old one now pines for the fjords, despite my best efforts.

I’d always planned on using the fortunes “someday.” These particular paints are free samples of some of the good stuff, from the art store, again, saved for “someday.” The day I’m good enough. The day I somehow intuitively know how to paint like Elaine Duillo by sheer osmosis. The day life calms down. The day, well, there’s always something, isn’t there? That day (don’t ask me when, they all blend) I decided, enough. It’s that day. Put the fortunes on the page. Paint around them. What’s next? What’s after that? Well, that, apparently. Who knew?

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The facing page was somewhat of a cheat; random smushing and/or swiping of stuff, mainly to clean my brushes, and, in the case of the black dots, to see if the paint dabber was still worth saving. It kind of is. Not what it used to be, but not too far gone, either. I can deal with that. I have no idea how my phone camera got rotated, but as I took the picture in the middle of a coughing fit, that may have something to do with how that turned out. I’m going to call it good enough, and/or a new perspective.

Are either of these pages done? Maybe, maybe not. Time will tell. What I do know is that playing with arty things like this calms me down and lets the story part of my brain free-float and work things out, away from the hypercritical gremlins that like to look over my shoulder when I’m pounding keys. (Gremlins aren’t quite as vigilant when writing longhand, thankfully, but they come back when it’s time to transcribe.) Sometimes, I have music on in the background, or a movie or TV episode on the DVD player. Sometimes, it’s quiet, with only the voices in my head.

Sometimes, I have a plan for these pages, and sometimes, I don’t. Sometimes, the best pages come from when I think I’m only cleaning my brush or playing “what marks does this make?” or “what color is this, really?” Some mindless noodling with color and line and shape, and before I know it…art. It can be the same with writing. Was once, before I let the rules drill in too deeply, and it’s a place I am learning to find again. There are going to be some messy pages along the way, some that get torn out and we will never mention again. Others, though, others come together in such a way that it feels more like discovery than creation. I’ll take that, too.

Making a Valiant Effort

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I have no idea what I’m doing here. It’s Wednesday, so blog day, but any idea of what I was going to write here is long gone. My cold is hanging in there, and Real Life Romance Hero’s warranted a trip to our local Emergency Room. Never fear, Real Life Romance Hero regenerated, after stopping the ambulance to leap out and save a bus full of nuns, school children and rescue puppies. He is now resting comfortably at home, despite the rigors of attempting to teach me how to use video chat on our phones. He is a brave, brave man. (He also made me write the part about the bus…um, I mean because that is what really happened and not at all because he knows my passwords. He is also very, very handsome, makes a mean cup of tea and will not be doing glitter beard, but many thanks to those who have suggested he give it a try. He is also quite sure that, despite the fact that I do possess a supply of glitter, it is not nearly enough  to even make the attempt. His beard is magnificent. )

Before our adventure, I’d planned to take my tablet and retreat into a nest of blankets, and give the cold brain its head. It already has mine, so that wouldn’t be too difficult. Well. That is not what happened. (The nuns and children and puppies are thankful, though.) I am a planner. I like lists. I like schedules. The only thing better than making a list is prioritizing the list, and the only thing better than categories is subcategories. You get the drift. I am all about the color codes and the sticky notes and getting my ducks in a row. This was not one of those days.

I also love holidays. Thanksgiving is a big one. Second only to Christmas. At various points in the last few days, we have considered A) Cracker Barrel, B) Denny’s, C) finding a locally owned restaurant open on the holiday, D) skipping the holiday, E) ordering Chinese delivery (that was shot down with a withering glare, as Thanksgiving must have Thanksgiving food, or it’s only Thursday. We will revisit the delivery idea on Christmas. Unless Housemate makes her spaghetti sauce. But not with spaghetti, because spaghetti is pasta worms. Suggest rigatoni or ziti instead. Or lasagna. Lasagna would be good. Also some garlic bread. And meatballs. With sausage.) At this point, we have gone with another option, involving a last minute trip to the market and winnowing down the original traditional Thanksgiving menu to a microwavable version, because this family is two people down, and I am a diehard holiday nut. Microwaved turkey is better than no turkey.

Our family will never forget the year we, and Housemate’s mum, had to have turkey sandwiches at Denny’s, because Denny’s had, for some unfathomable reason, taken the turkey dinner off the menu that year. We have a history with Denny’s Thanksgivings, though all of those were in a state that is not New York, so it may be safe to try again here. Except for the whole Martian Death Cold thing and spreading germs and all. Which is why we are braving (when I say we, I mean either Housemate and myself, or Housemate by herself, with me on standby via phone, but not video phone, because A) it’s weird, and B) all Real Life Romance Hero got was my grumpy face and intense closeups of my fingers, without any sound. We will text. Nobody wants to see my sick grumpy face.) It all goes to show that, if we want something badly enough, we will find a way to get it.

It’s the same with writing. Not a huge day for that, not that I’d meant it to be (and I am endlessly glad I did not NaNo this year, because yesterday’s sick day and today’s chaos day would have sent me into anxious despair spiral.) but here we are, at the tail end of another blog entry. I got in there, started with what I knew for sure, and ran with it. Is it perfect? No. Is it written? Yes. Even with all the ick and chaos, I can still tick “blog entry” off the list. Now for the grocery run.

 

 

Sickos and RIP, Varsity Blue

annabowling 2 Comments

Real Life Romance Hero and I are both down with the same cold. A friend suspects we might actually have the flu. Neither one of us has the presence of mind to figure out which one it actually is. RLRH thinks he may be on his way out of this mess, while I am only beginning the adventure. At present, we are both lumps of energy in the living room, paying varying amounts of attention to the TV. We have blankets and sweatshirts with hoods pulled up. He has NPR on his phone, and I have my list of minimum daily tasks to still feel accomplished, even though my brain is wont to wander off after a few minutes of concentration. Short breaks of reading, lots of liquids, and a strong temptation to nap have been the order of the day.

Skye Kitty has been playing nurse to both of us, sticking close and sending out love beams. She is not fond of the coughing duets RLRH and I sometimes engage in, and trying to follow us both at the same time when we happen to be in different ends of the apartment presents a challenge. I think she’s holding up fairly well, despite the added duties.

This morning, I woke with that feeling, that telltale “yep, I’m sick,” malaise. I dragged myself to my office so I could figure out what I could realistically do. The temptation to forget everything and crawl into my comfy chair with a blankey is strong and probably advisable, but I’m miserable if I don’t have a clear plan.  If I’m sick, I’m going to be productively sick (no, readers in the medical profession, not that way. Okay, that way, but nobody wants to read about that.) Morning pages at the very least, and get those ideas for the next chapter down before my brain wanders off.

My morning pages, both general and story-specific, are done in longhand. For Her Last First Kiss, the Paperblanks book above, is the book where I keep notes, ideas, etc for easy reference. This morning, in the middle of the last sentence of the first of two pages, my ink ran out. :sob: I use a Pilot Varsity disposable fountain pen in this book, blue ink to match the blue book cover. I still had another page to write. With no ink. This is a problem.

First, I tried an R2 Rollerball, but that was too wide, and the color too different. Then I remembered I’d moved my Microns to a particular purse, to go with a particular notebook that lives in that purse. One of those Microns is blue-black, close to the ink of the Varsity, and about the same width of stroke when it hits the page. I adore Microns and don’t use them enough. Got that out, tried it on a couple of words, and there I was, back in the groove. Still want to get a new Varsity, and I am, at some point, going to have to bite the bullet and get a refillable fountain pen (and learn to refill it) but I think I can make do with the Micron for now.

Even when my brain is prone to wandering off, I can fill two facing pages. The glide of fountain pen or Micron on super smooth paper helps, and it always feels like unlocking a treasure when I open the two metal clasps on my large Paperblanks. I’ve written on envelopes and napkins and scraps of whatever (there are lengths of kraft paper in my office closet, ready for some free form idea mapping) but using a special pen on special paper, that’s enough of an incentive to sit down and fill a couple of pages. Doesn’t have to be perfect, only has to be written.

Same with today’s blog entry. Rambly, but written. One more thing to check off the list, and then I have earned some Sims time.

 

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Maxi Mouse Edition

annabowling 4 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. As Anty made me promise, I have to talk about her writing first, before  I can talk about anything else. She has a brand new post at Heroes and Heartbreakers, about the big reveal on last night’s  The Big Bang Theory. Can you feel the Shamy love? Anty can, and she wrote all about it. Her post is here, and it looks like this:

 

SHAMY

Now that I have that out of the way, we can move on to something that will be interesting to humans and kitties. We have a new mouse. Not the furry kind, unfortunately, but one that Anty uses on her glowy box.

Yesterday, Anty went to three stores before she could find a mouse she could use to replace her dead mini mouse. (I did not kill this mini mouse, though I have done what kitties do with mice when we lived in our old home. We do not have furry mice in our current apartment.)  This is not a mini mouse. I would say it is a maxi mouse, but Anty  saw one at one of the stores that is even bigger than that, which I do not care to contemplate. Here is a picture of the new mouse.

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It is big, and not as portable as the mini mouse, but Anty says she can manage with that, even if it does not fit in the pocket of her computer pouch. To be fair, her computer does not actually fit in her computer pouch, because the laptop she has now is smaller than her old laptop and there is a lot of extra space. Maybe she can use some of that space for the maxi mouse. Mini mice, it would seem, are in scarce supply.  She may order one online, because the portability factor is important.

The first store Anty looked did not have any mice with tails (Anty calls them cords.) A helpful human who worked there said he did not recommend the tailless mice because they need batteries. Anty does not want to deal with dead batteries when she needs to use her mouse, but what bothers her even more is that the thing she would have to plug in for the tailless mouse to know what was going on is really teeny and she would probably lose it. Nobody wants to see that happen. So, tailed mice it must be. There were some smaller mice, with and without tails, but the prices were bigger than Anty would like. Those must be very talented mice, but they are not for Anty right now, so it was on to another store.

That store was pretty much the same thing, so Anty and Mama went to other stores. There were helpful humans there as well, but no mini mice that Anty liked. In the end, the maxi mouse came home. It is big and black, not tiny and pink, so not exactly what Anty wanted, but it is better than trying to use the touchpad. There are a lot fewer bad words floating around in the air now. That is good for everybody. Dealing with many domestic tornadoes this week means that Anty is behind on her writing goals, so  having a machine that works right is a big help in getting back on track. She expects things will be, if not easier this coming week, then at least better managed.

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

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Until next week…

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