writing

Wednesday Night Blabber

annabowling 2 Comments

Some days require a lot of gummi bears. I have some gummi bears. Make of that what you will.

I’ve started this entry multiple times, tried some inspirational quotes, erased them, started again, more times than I am comfortable confessing, but it’s Wednesday, and Wednesday’s post needs to go up, because discipline is important. I need the structure. Without it, I’m going to wander off and spend the entire afternoon rearranging my TBWI crates. That’s To Be Written In, which means notebooks, and yes, I have more than one. If the zombie apocalypse does come, I will be all set when it comes to notebooks, but I will also probably be the one who leads the raiding party on the Moleskine store in NYC. I have my priorities.

:time warp:

7:37 PM

Still Wednesday. That is a good thing. I’ve recently joined Habitica, which combines two of my favorite things: list-making and gaming. I am in serious Sims withdrawal, due to the moribund nature of my old laptop, the inability of new laptop to handle the game, (which is okay, as she was purchased to be a writing machine in the first place) and still planning on a desktop that I can use for gaming. Sims Freeplay is fun on my phone, but it’s not a game-game, and I am feeling the lack. Okay, back to the point. Normally, I would say that some days, the stuff doesn’t come, oh well, go watch Ink Master and give myself a break. Still sound advice, but…I’m in a party, and when we all meet our goals, we all reap the benefits, and when one of us falls behind, we all feel that as well. Or that’s how I understand it. I’m still new. At any rate, being accountable to others gives me the push to knuckle down and get it done. It’s still the same day, I know how to write, so this can still happen.

Real Life Romance Hero texted me from the park during this writing session that wasn’t. I asked him to come hang out. He suggested we play hooky and let the brain free-float, in hopes things will fall into place. It seems to have done the trick. A change in perspective, some filling of the creative well, and we’re back in business. Also, there are fireworks. I do not know why there are fireworks, but I am highly in favor of fireworks I can see from my comfy chair.

Picture above is what my computer sees most days. Me, staring both at the screen and at the story world (for fiction) or into the recesses of my own mind (for nonfiction. Pen in mouth is optional, but earphones are not. Notebook is at hand for the scribbling down of miscellany, making lists and crossing things off as I complete them. Some days, the words come faster than I can get them down, and my fingers tangle, trying to stay current. Other days, like this one, they need to be wooed, with seasonally appropriate beverages, the occasional baked good, a walk in the park, maybe go out for a movie, curl up with a good book, or listen to the same song on repeat for an hour or so. Possibly some abstract doodling.

It’s different every time. Which, in retrospect, is probably a good thing. This may be a late night, and that is okay. I’d rather get things done earlier in the day, but, today, that’s not what happened. Today was a full house day, with errands to run. Tomorrow will have a more normal work schedule for everyone, including myself. In the meantime, adapting is, if not always fun, a challenge. What do I need that I don’t have? Do I not know the characters well enough? Did I hit a historical snag? Is the tone of the piece wrong? Do I need more gummi bears? (Okay, that one is almost always yes.) Maybe I need to go to the movies; not merely watching a DVD, but immersing myself in the whole experience, popcorn and coming attractions and all. Come to think of it, the answer to that one is almost always also yes.

So there we are. still Wednesday, I’ve had time with Real Life Romance Hero, and also with Housemate, devoured dinner, now checking things off my list with Master Chef on the TV and evening emails to answer. Not the best or most profound entry, but, as Real Life Romance Hero reminded me earlier, they can’t all be gold. But they do have to be written. That, I can do.

Inside (and Outside) My All Purpose Notebook

annabowling 4 Comments

Art is about honesty. It’s about an individual’s expression of her own, unique vision. You don’t tell another adult what she sees. She stands at a different vantage point from you.

–Judith Ivory

First hot tea of the season at my favorite coffee house, all purpose notebook in my computer tote is going to need reinforcing with packing tape (which will then need distressing, because packing tape, while sheer, is also crazy shiny, and I  may give myself eyestrain merely looking at the taped cover. Using this notebook has taught me two important things: One) I love the smooth, unlined paper in PaPaYa! (the exclamation point is part of the name) notebooks, and, Two) cahier style notebooks are not made for sticking in computer totes if one does not want serious wear on the covers of said notebooks.

For those who are new to Typing With Wet Nails, notebooks, for me, are Serious Business. When I find one I like, I hold onto it, get others of its kind, and, as soon as humanly possible (unless there is a natural waiting period, as there sometimes is) figure out exactly what I want to use that particular book for, what sorts of inks, in what colors, go with it, and if it’s going to be in my purse, tote, next to my chair, bedside table, etc.  It’s both an art and a science. I have gone so far as to seal a notebook in a Ziplock baggie full of baking soda for a week in order to save the book from permanent damage from what we shall call pet odor. So, really, there are not a lot of things I won’t do to preserve a notebook. As with this one.

cover scuffage

cover scuffage

Keeping an all purpose notebook, for me, is essential. While I have several notebooks, each dedicated to a particular project, the all purpose book is the workhorse of the bunch, travelling with me every day from house to Laundromat to coffee house, on the road, etc. I like the cahier style for portability -slim, light, I can bend the cover backward an flex it in my hand when I need to fidget. The gorgeous PaPaYa! art makes me drool, so this was a natural choice. I wasn’t sure, at first, that I was going to like the unlined pages, but they do elicit a different way of writing than lined or gridded pages, and I have come to accept that they have their place in my repertory company of notebooks.

The binder clip is a must. Notebooks coming open in purse or tote drive me bonkers. They have to be closed-closed, and stay that way until I open them. Binder clips work for either cahier style or spiral bound notebooks. The hardcover books I favor tend to have a built in elastic band and stay closed that way. As does the softcover Moleskine I have in reserve, a lovely teally turquoise number with very faintly dot-gridded pages. I haven’t tried that one yet, as it’s not yet that book’s time, but it will come when it comes.

Notes from CRRWA meeting with guest speaker Karen Rock

Notes from CRRWA meeting with guest speaker Karen Rock

Binder clips are also excellent for holding said cahiers open when I need to refer to a two page spread at once. Pages above are from Saturday’s CRRWA meeting, with guest speaker, Karen Rock, whose fabulous presentation on maintaining quality under deadlines is definitely pertinent to my interests. I picked up the tip about drawing a frame around an unlined page to make it less intimidating, which dramatically changed the way I use unlined pages. This also works on gridded pages. I haven’t tried it on dot gridded pages yet, but that will happen soon. The frequent changes of ink colors is a newer practice, but keeps my magpie brain happy. I used to change colors with only each session of writing in a particular notebook (unless it is a one pen only notebook – we will look at those later) but, recently, I’ve started changing colors with each topic which my brain has apparently taken as a signal to go faster.

20150914_152851~2

Sticky notes are a must, in any notebook, and yes, they do need to be color coordinated. Artist’s kid here. Color palettes are important. If the colors don’t agree, I feel restless. For a long time, I thought this was being picky, but it’s part of the way I work. If the colors work together, my brain is at peace and I can concentrate. The all purpose pen I have with this notebook is a promo pen, picked up at a conference. It’s clicky, which is good, but it’s also white. White goes with my laptop keys, and the cord from my headphones for the laptop, but I recently rescued a pink promotional pen from an already filled spiral bound notebook, and that needs to be moved over, because pink pen goes with pink laptop, which goes with pinky purply cahier with pinky purply sticky notes inside it. Putting sticky notes directly in the notebook, permanently on a page so that I can get them directly there and not have to fish around in my purse or tote for same, is another game changer. Choosing what stickies go with what notebook helps me bond with the book, as well as makes it easier to employ said notes. I employ a lot of them.

One of the things I like best about having an all purpose notebook is the freedom to jump in and muck around, do whatever feels natural at the time, whether it’s drawing frames on the page, or switching inks, figuring out where the sticky notes go, how the paper feels, how it performs under heavy or light use, etc. I’m at a place where, rather than trying to chase down a method that works for me, I’m going to do what I do, and, when I’m done, figure out how I did it. The fact that it means I get to play around with pretty paper onto which I throw my brain droppings is a plus.

Typing With Wet Claws: Ancient Art of Ti-ming Edition

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Hello all, Skye here, for another Feline Friday. This week has gone by very fast, and a lot of interesting things happened. I will tell you about some of them. On Saturday, Anty spent most of the day getting ready for our company on Sunday. I have never seen her haul an entire bookcase through the apartment before, but, on Saturday, she did. The bookcase did not put up much of a fight. I think it knew Anty meant business. She put the bookcase in her office (which I still do not go into, if you are keeping track of these things) and then took a bunch of books from a cardboard bookcase (like they have in stores; Anty used to work in a bookstore, and they let her take some of the cardboard bookcases home so she could store her books in them) and spent some time arranging the books in it. There are still some spaces, which she will fill with books from the storage unit, when she can go back to where we used to live and retrieve them. Playing with her books makes Anty very happy. So does reading them, which she is doing when she has time.

She does not have a lot of time. Besides blogging here (I help her out by taking Fridays for her) Anty also writes a weekly discussion post for Buried Under Romance and writes about romance novels and tells people who kissed on TV (the start of the new season will be busy for her, I think. Lots of TV people kiss when new seasons start) at Heroes and Heartbreakers, and she sold her second article to XOJane.com. That is like a magazine on the computer. It is the same place where she wrote her article about clearing out her papa’s house. This article will be about what it was like to take care of three grownup humans when they were all very sick at the same time. This happened before me, as I was not even born yet, so I cannot make any comments. The family kitty at the time was Olivia, who went to Rainbow Bridge. I came home three days later, because the family needed a kitty really really badly, and I needed a forever home. I think it is working out well.

Telling people things that really happened is not Anty’s main focus, though. What she loves the most is making up stories. Right now, she is working on two books, one by herself and one with my Anty Melva. She has not had a chance to do much on the book she is writing by herself this week, which does make her cranky, but she is happy because Anty Melva put together the chapters on the book they are writing together, and they are ahead of schedule. Anty figures she will do better on the other book soon and is trying not to stress about it.

This is what Cranky Anty looks like. It is fearsome.

This is what Cranky Anty looks like, in case you have forgotten. I never will.

Another thing that is taking some time this week is that Uncle needs to see some more people vets. Anty has to go with him. I assume she has to help get him in the carrier and make sure he does not bite. I do not think he will need a cone of shame, but one never knows. Anty is glad to be there for him, and she is also glad that the pharmacy where she gets his pills sells gummi bears. That may be one of the reasons she goes. If she has gummi bears, she is less cranky. If she looks like the picture above when you see her, please give her gummi bears and do not make any sudden movements. Playing Snow Patrol should also work. Or Tired Pony.  Basically, anything with Gary Lightbody in it. “This Isn’t Everything You Are” is Anty’s favorite song of ever, so that should work best.

Anty loves the video, too, and is only slightly freaked out that this video was released when she was first working on her time travel with a ballroom dancer heroine. That book has to rest for a while, because Anty got far too confused writing it and went down too many dead ends to keep on going the way it was. She still loves that story and especially those characters, but it was not the right time for that book to happen. Something was not right, though she does not know what the root of that could be. Too many other humans put in their ideas (she is still trying to figure out why one human could not understand why there were historical parts in a time travel. Even I know what time travel means, and I am a kitty.) so that Anty could not get to hers anymore. That was sad, but it is not over yet; the learning process is still underway.

One of the things Anty loves about the video for her favorite song is, besides the dancing, that there are a lot of different stories going on at one time. The three verses are each their own story, but each pair of dancers shown have their own stories, too. She likes the grittiness and the sadness mixed with the encouragement to hang in there, all things that are true in her book as well. Finding out what she likes, specifically, about things she likes, in general, and why she likes them, is very interesting to Anty, and helps her figure out how to tell her own stories, better. If you think it would be fun, watch the video and then leave a comment about what stands out about it to you. Anty would love to know.

It is about time to get Uncle ready for the people vet (Anty may try putting some bacon in the carrier to see if he will go in on his own) so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain, very truly yours,

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

Until next week...

Until next week…

PS – “the ancient art of ti-ming” phrase is from  a very funny human named Steve Martin. Anty did not make it up, but she did remember it.

Back to Old School Season

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Post Labor Day Rambles and Georgian Unciorn Chow

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Monday’s post on Tuesday does not count as late if Monday was a holiday. Not sure if a holiday counts as such if it’s as disgustingly hot as this one was, but I got to spend Sunday with my good friend, Mary W, and her hubby :waves hi: so that definitely gets holiday points.

In preparation for the visit (and because it had long since fallen into ‘high time’ territory) I hauled a mostly unused bookcase into my office and busted my special keepers out of the storage box where they’d been since the big move and got them out on display.

Shelfie!

Shelfie!

Getting these old favorites out of mothballs and out where they can see them gave me a jolt of energy. This is why I read and write romance. If some of these books look well-read, it’s because they are, studied as much as read for pleasure. Those Valerie Sherwood books? Saved my bum in a pre-Revolutionary history final in college, where I needed to detail the contributions of three ethnic groups other than the English, that were essential to the survival of the colonies on an economic level. First two that came to mind were easy; indigenous and African, one group here already, and the other not here by choice, but both contributed much. Then my mind skidded to a halt. Sure, I’d studied, but could I remember any of that? Nope, what my brain wanted to  hang onto was that scene in Bold Breathless Love, where the heroine escapes her abusive husband by ice boat on the Hudson Riv…waaaaait a minute. Creepy abusive husband dude was Dutch, and so was the ice boat, and ice skating, and those were pretty darned useful, because otherwise, there is zero river commerce during the winter months, and then how are we going to get goods from producer to consumer, hm? Ice, ice, baby. Bonus points for those who know the legal name of the gentleman who popularized that phrase is Robert Van Winkle.

There’s a lot to be said for getting in touch with one’s bookish roots, and it’s a practice I highly recommend. Though I haven’t been reading a lot of current historical romances lately, merely seeing these books on shelves made my reader heart go pitter-pat. I want to reread that one and that one and that one, and ooh, that one. The array of settings and eras here dazzled me then, and it still does. 19th century Russia? English Civil War and Restoration? Georgian England? Colonial America? Yes, yes, yes and yes. This is a shelf full of unicorn chow, and I couldn’t be happier to have it out in the open again.

The book I’m holding in today’s picture is Call Back the Dream, by Barbara Hazard. It’s the first book I ever wrote a fan letter after reading, and I still remember being gobsmacked when Ms. Hazard actually sent back a personal reply. Not light reading, by any stretch of the imagination, and those brave enough to crack that gorgeous Elaine Duillo cover are going to need Kleenex and possibly counseling, because man oh man, the emotions here, and they are directly dependent on the historical world in which Camille and Alexander, the lovers depicted in said illustration live.

No rubbing of elbows with the movers and shakers of the time, but two star crossed lovers from different classes that society has decreed do not mix. Camille is the daughter of a vicar, Alexander the son of an earl, and those readers with some familiarity with the way things worked in the middle of the eighteenth century know this is not going to be an easy road. It’s not, and that’s what makes it a darned good story. Marrying other people? Well, duh. Secrets and lies? Um, yeah. Matters Need to Be Dealt With because those crazy kids and their radical ideas do not jibe with the Way Things Are Done. There’s breeding to consider, in both senses of the world, and the road to happily ever after takes Camille and Alexander fifteen freaking years to traverse. Yeah, baby.

Make no mistake, they make it to their mountaintop, but there are Ramifications, which Ms. Hazard further explores in the sequel, The Heart Remembers, which puts Camille and Alexander’s natural son, Jack, in the spotlight, after he finds out the way his family tree is really rooted, and he does not take it well. I’ll be rereading that one after I reread Call Back the Dream. I did write Ms. Hazard back and ask if there was going to  be a third book, to bring certain events full circle, and, though she allowed I was right about certain things, wasn’t sure if the book would be written. To my knowledge, it has not, and, believe Ms. Hazard is not currently writing, unless it is under a pseudonym. If so, I want to know what it is, because I will read those books.

These books get unicorn chow points because, double-digit years after first reading them, I remember, vividly, specific scenes. Camille’s first appearance, doing laundry on a hot and humid day, the books (Pamela, by Samuel Richardson) Alexander left for Camille to read in secret, The Fire. Those who have read this book know what I mean, and those who haven’t, you’re in for a treat.

That’s the kind of book I want to produce, so that’s the kind of book I need to make sure I’m taking in, as often as possible. Reading these books reminds me why I’m doing what I’m doing, and makes me want to do everything I can to earn my own books a space on that shelf. Ms. Hazard, wherever you are, I’m leaving a light on for you and setting a place at the table.

Typing With Wet Claws: Back to School Edition

annabowling 4 Comments

Hello all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is September now, even though it has been very hot all week, and will still be hot for a few more days. This is not ideal for those of us with built in full length fur coats, but Anty and Uncle assure me that things will cool down after that. I will remember they said that, in case they are wrong. If they are, I will give them baleful looks. I am very good at giving baleful looks. I practice by watching Anty when she is grumpy.

Anty is not grumpy right now, although she has her moments. It is back to school time for young humans, something we cannot ignore, as we live in a neighborhood where lots of almost-grown-up humans live while they go to school. Anty and Uncle met when they were almost-grown-up humans, in a school very far away, in a place called California, where it is summer all year long. I am glad they escaped. Anyway, the start of a new school year does not mean that only students get to learn new things. It is for everybody, as I am learning (see what I did there?) from things that are going on this week.

While Anty loves planning and organizing, sometimes she can get a little too into it and cross the line into micromanaging, which means nothing actually gets done. She is learning now that sometimes, stepping back and seeing where and how things would naturally happen can make planning how they should go, that much easier. Like today. Usually, Anty is all “go, go, go” from the minute she gets up. Wolf down breakfast while checking email and trying to cram too much into one day because things have to get done, pinpoint what she most wants to avoid…whoops, I was not supposed to say that part. Sorry.

Anyway, today is different, and I can take credit for part of that. This morning, I found a new place to pee, while Anty was in the bathroom. If you are new here, I should mention that I was born with special paws, which means I do not climb, which means I do not use a litterbox. I have a pee place, and that is normal for me. I do not often change it, but today, I did. Anty looked all over to see where I had peed, because it was not in my regular spot, but then she did find it. I had peed right in front of the bathroom door, on the linoleum. She said I was a very good girl because that would be easy to clean. While she was doing that, I pooped, also on the linoleum. Suffice it to say this interrupted her planned routine. You are welcome.

Due to that interruption, Anty needed a break. She made some tea and read a chapter in a book. Then she played a game on her phone. Then she started making notes about her day, only this time, she’d had some time to think (and some tea) before deciding what to do, when. Besides writing, we have company coming, so she has some domestic things to do. She has found if she switches off writing and domestic things, she can think about one while doing the other, and it creates a comfortable rhythm, without too much pressure. This goes along with her releasing the stranglehold on how writing should go and finding out how it actually does.

While that is all good for the writing process, it is unsettling for a kitty, because Anty is moving things around. She is even going to move a bookshelf today. I will probably hide, especially because that shelf is going into her office. Her office looks like a tornado hit it right now, but it will be better when things are in the places where they actually go. She will share pictures of it then.

Anty says that is all the time I get to blog today, because she needs the computer now, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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

Until next week...

Until next week…

Shying at the Jump?

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Wouldn’t you know the one time I leave my phone at home, it’s the time I bust out the super cool printed legal pad? That’s why, instead of a picture of my workplace, you get a picture of what my workplace sees. Apparently, I now have a signature taking-pictures-with-the-computer pose. Could be worse.

So here it is, Wednesday, time for Wednesday’s post, which was meant to be a) a late version of the Top Ten Tuesday post, and b) a video blog, but life happened, and so you get this. I almost chickened out of today’s post for a handful of reasons. It’s stinking hot out, which makes me crabby (I will spare you an encore of crabby me picture, because you get air conditioned me, which is much less likely to cause harm to self or others.) Yay for comfy coffee house in the nice, cool, brick-walled basement of a historic building. I’m tucked away at a new-to-me table in the back, close enough to my favorite seat to still count as being in the general area, with the added benefit of not being directly in the glare of the sun. Comfort, check, can see screen, check, tasty and seasonally appropriate beverage, check. Also important is presence of people who do not share my address, but are not trying to talk to me while I am writing.

Normally, this time of day on a Wednesday, I’d be having a regular chat with Critique Partner Vicki, but, apparently, she has a life or something, so I am on my own. Were I home, I would be singing the Song of the Lonely Extrovert. Real Life Romance Hero is pretty sure that whatever the words are, it would be backed by Kenny G. He’s probably right. Thanks to the internet, though, there really isn’t such a thing as alone, and since there are now over 400 of you who occasionally pop in here (had to count the zeroes there) it does give me the impetus to get something up here, even if all I do is babble. Since babble generally ends up going somewhere at some point, I am okay with that. I wasn’t always.

They don’t call it a writing process for nothing. Critique Partner Vicki and I started having these talks to help pull ourselves and each other out of the slough of despond and get real about why writing got so hard that we were avoiding the very thing we love to do the most, and figure out what we can do about fixing that. One thing I’ve noticed is that things can be going fine, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, I become amazingly skilled at avoiding working on a certain project. The usual modus operandi in the past was to continue avoiding, scamper off to something new and leave a trail of broken stories in my wake. That’s kind of not conducive to a writing career, oddly enough. That means I need to face what I’ve been avoiding. Face that sucker head on, see what it wants from me, and figure out if we can come to some sort of agreement.

This week, it was Her Last First Kiss. Oh, I was good at this. Work on other projects, do housework (a sure sign of avoidance, but it’s needed and I like doing housework; it counts as organization, and things are nice and clean and in order and…yeah, yeah, back to the book. I get it.) pay assiduous attention to social media and the like. We’ve all been there. If you haven’t, wait. We’ll save you a seat. I’d ripped out the first scene, made notes on how to fix it, which means the whole first section, aka everything I have written, had to be ripped out and redone. I did not want to do that. Needed, but didn’t want to.

Okay. Fine. Since I now accept that I do have to write in layers, it’s less scary to look at a page and know that something is missing. That’s fine. Time to make the literary baklava. What else does this scene need? In this particular scene, my heroine is super-focused on this hurricane of a man (not that she’d know what a hurricane was, but that’s okay, this version of stuff goes down exactly the way it comes in my head, modern idioms, comparisons the characters wouldn’t know, etc. I can fix all that later.) tear through her nice, orderly world without even noticing she’s there at first. She hates that. Still, there’s that even more disturbing fact that she does not mind the view, not one bit. Which is bad for this chick, oh so very bad.

Mmhm. Methinks she’d prefer I not know that, not only does she notice this person she’s never met before can barge into her sanctum and start spreading wet papers all over everything, even moving her stuff -and nobody moves her stuff- but that he’s pretty darned nice to look at, even soaking wet and tracking water and mud on her floors? Okay, we’re going there. This is going to involve more than skating on the surface. This is going to involve putting on the metaphorical scuba gear and diving down deep. What, specifically, does she notice about him? The fluidity of movement? the fit of his clothes? That it’s really none of her business what color his hair is when it’s dry, but she still wants to know? That’s good for a start. I can feel her sweats and fidgets now, which is a sign I’m headed in the right direction.

Every writer is going to have their own ways to deal with these things, but as with horses (and my entire experience with same is limited to always picking the black horse on carousels, a few toys and a seriously strong crush on Black Beauty dating back to preschool) sometimes, we shy at the jumps. When that happens, we have two options. Go back to the barn and figure jumping isn’t for us, or take another look and devise another approach. Get some more momentum. Come back and try it again. For me, that’s babbling, either to another writer, or on paper. Earlier today, I went through my legal pad stash, to see which one felt the most like this project. Sure, I have notebooks, three of them, and still use those, but a legal pad feels more open to the free form rambling that lets me get to the place I need to be to get the details. Maybe it’s visual. :shrug: Anyway, that’s where I am now. Climbing inside my heroine’s skin, and seeing what she sees, rather than sitting back and telling her what to do. Like she’d listen. Characters are funny that way.

It works for reading, too. In my morning pages, I started listing things I’d been avoiding. Apart from books for review, I’ve been avoiding historical romance in general, and avoiding the Bertrice Small reread I’ve wanted to do since February. One guess what I’m doing with my TBR and keeper shelves later tonight. Get back in there, Missy. There’s no crying in Romance. (Well, except in mine. There is crying in my books. Also a lot of my favorites. I am an angstbunny from way back, and as long as there is that guaranteed Romance HEA, may as well have some fun along the way.)

Allrighty, Liebchens, back to Century Eighteen I go. Talk to you soon.

Another Week, Another Journey of Discovery

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Another Monday begins another week. This one is going to have some logistical challenges, and that’s okay. Still battling the cold sore here, temperatures are going to be hovering near ninety degrees for at least a week (no, the weather does not care that it is practically September) and today is a full house in Stately Bowling Manor, all humans with some degree of crankiness, so this could get interesting. Already, I’ve wrangled with getting a carefully photographed shot up here, which was not working out for some reason, so we adapt. Go with the all purpose Typing With Wet Nails banner, which I love, and on with the show.

Today, I am ensconced in my office, travel mug filled with ice water at the ready, disposable straw stuck in it to minimize contamination. First things first, and today, that’s getting a blog post up before noonish. Any idea of what to talk about? Not yet. Let me consult the scribbled notes on the page from my paper mousepad.

Lists are always good when stuck for something about which to blog (yes, I do have to be grammatically correct; my blog, my rules.)  Top Ten Tuesday, which I only figured out was a thing in the last few days, is tomorrow, though, so that’s probably going to be that, which may do double duty as a unicorn chow post.

There’s the matter of handling a sick day as a writer (hint; it’s like any other day) and the fact that I still haven’t reread any Bertrice Small novels since her passing and the acceptance that I am flat out not ready yet. When I do, it will probably be a single title, though, instead of an installment in one of her series. I did not do a lot of reading this weekend, though I’d planned on it. Instead, I wrote most of the time, which really is relaxing for me, as long as I do it my way, and shut out the shoulds..

What my way is can change from time to time, and it’s by doing a lot of that writing, that I can see the shifts in patterns. Right now, I’m not as concerned with finding one perfect method to get things done, as I am with getting things done and then figuring out how I did them. I am not ready to turn in my plotter hat entirely (the black netting does marvelous things for my complexion) but I have come to accept that I am more of a puzzler. This goes along with something that surprised the heck out of me when I was in college, studying early childhood education (the biggest surprise was that I did not like early childhood education, which is a big part of why I am not doing that right now) While I had always thought I would learn best (and what I was told by pretty much all of the grownups in my life up to that point) was that, because I liked to read and write, that I would learn best by reading. Following written instructions and all that.

Good in theory, but not in practice. What I found out, while supposedly learning how to enlighten very young minds, was that I fit better in what’s known as kinesthetic learning. TLDR version – I learn by doing. Let me get my hands dirty and mess around and in the messing around, I will figure things out. Discovery learning, some  call it, and I like that term. Sitting outside of the story and telling the characters what they are going to do doesn’t work all that well for me, although I spent far too many years trying to make it be so. Darned old shoulds. What works better is knowing who my story people are, and then putting them where they need to be and letting them do what they do.

In a way, it’s like playing Sims (which I really really super miss, as my gaming laptop is making ever faster circles around that metaphorical drain, so I don’t play as often as I’d like.) One of my favorite things to do, besides legacy play (following one family through several generations) is to make an asylum. One dwelling, with specified resources, a certain number of Sims, but I can only control one. The others will pick what to do, depending on the traits they were assigned. Sloppy Sims don’t care if they’re giving off green stink fumes and the house is littered with dirty dishes, where neat Sims will become very unhappy in the same circumstance and ignore their own needs to get those dishes done. Shy or antisocial Sims won’t like being in close quarters with that many other Sims, while outgoing Sims will be thrilled by having all the company and want to talk to everybody, even if their energy is in the red (very very very tired.) Get the drift?

Once I’d figured out that Her Last First Kiss had started in the wrong place, and I dumped the major players in one room and let them do what they do, then things got interesting. My heroine like things planned out and in order, and the story now opens in her most sacred and personal space, into which the hero bursts in with all the force of a tropical storm, drenched to the skin and spreading out papers that are vitally important to him on every even remotely flat surface, while all heroine sees is the huge mess he’s making. Pretty indicative of how things are going to go between these two, and it also solves a quandary I’d had about how heroine is going to come into possession of one particular paper hero really would rather not have anybody, especially her, see. I knew the paper had to get from him to her, but smashing my head against a brick wall trying to figure out how that could happen didn’t work, but letting them do their thing did.

That came about, not in precise typing in any program, but messy, free-form scribbling on a legal pad (which still gives me the willies that it doesn’t have margins, so definitely switching) and it didn’t even feel like work. That was pure play, but darned if it didn’t get all those ducks happily in a row and me knowing exactly what has to happen next. Which means a new scene and POV switch, and, y’know what? I’m fine with that. Onward.

Typing With Wet Claws: Begin as We Mean to Go On Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. This week, I have on my metaphorical nurse hat, as Anty is not feeling well. She did not do a video blog this week, although she wanted to, because she got a cold sore the night before she was going to make her video blog. Cold sores are not very pretty, and they make Anty cranky. This is probably because she cannot have tea or pizza or wear lipstick (I have built in permanent lipstick. It is black, which goes nicely with the creamy fur around my mouth. I also have built in eyeliner. Anty says I am lucky that way.) and because she has to replace all lip products that touched her mouth for two weeks before the cold sore. On the plus side, this means she gets to buy new lipsticks, so that is  the good thing in all of this. Anty loves to get new lipsticks.

This is what Cranky Anty looks like. It is fearsome.

This is what Cranky Anty looks like. It is fearsome.

The rest of it is not as fun. It is very bright and sunny today, so Anty has even less energy. She will probably spend more of the day in her nice, dark office or go to the coffee house, which is in a basement and has brick walls. It is also very cool in there on summer days, so it is a plus. Either way, Anty will probably be bringing legal pads, because she is at the legal pad stage of things.

The legal pad stage has begun...

The legal pad stage has begun…

Anty first discovered legal pads while she was helping Uncle, her papa, and her own anty while they were all sick at the same time. She did not always have room in her lap to hold a notebook open, and legal pads fit nicely in her tote bag. Anty likes pretty legal pads. She will use the plain yellow ones if she has to, but the color is not good on her eyes, and plain white is glare-y. She thought neon colors would be too harsh, but with the right pen, they are actually soothing. Paper, in general, is more soothing to Anty than looking at a screen, especially when she is already feeling less than her best.

The day before yesterday, Anty talked to Anty Vicki, her critique partner, on the computer, about how the book was not moving along the way it should (I think it is because there are no cats in it yet, but does she listen to me on this one? No. I do not understand humans sometimes.) Anty Vicki said that it was because the story did not start in the right place.

Anty did not like that answer at first. She already wrote the opening scene. It gets important information out there, introduces the hero’s conflict and his goals and his backstory…and Anty was avoiding it. One thing Anty has learned over her study of her own creative process is that, if she is actively avoiding something, then she knows she has made a wrong turn and does not want to admit it. That is okay, though, because she has friends like Anty Vicki. Anty and Anty Vicki can tell each other when they are not doing the best thing for the story, and not get offended or upset by it. Which is why, when Anty came to Anty Vicki with a sneaking suspicion that the story did not start in the right place, she already knew, deep down, that she was right.

Anty Vicki asked Anty what was going to happen next after that first scene Anty has been avoiding. Anty told her the next scene, and went on for a  while about how that had to happen and it feels like that’s how it should..aha. Anty Vicki knows that when Anty hits a should, what Anty needs to do is punch it in the face (they actually say a different body part that only boys have. Not-fixed boys, that is. I do not know if all shoulds are actually boys, though,  so I will say face.) and do what is best for t he story. This is still a hard lesson to learn, because when Anty has written something, it has been written, and she would like it to stay there and be part of the book. (I told you she was cranky.)

Things do not always work that way, especially for writers who work in layers, like Anty does. Anty Vicki told Anty that no writing is wasted. Yes, Anty did work hard on that scene, and it did happen, but it will come out in a different way. Instead of the readers being there first hand, the hero can tell his version of it when he bursts in on the heroine’s calm, orderly world, while she is having an important conversation with another character. Anty Vicki says this also gets all three sides of the triangle in the same room in the first scene and gets the hero and heroine interacting right away. Anty admits that Anty Vicki is right about that one, so she is now taking the old opening out and putting the new one in. That is going to affect chapters that come after, which is a lot of work, but it is not as much work as avoiding the whole book, so it is okay.

This week, Anty also discovered the Discover Weekly function on Spotify, and found some new songs that she very much likes that way. This one, “Welcome To Wherever You Are,” by Bon Jovi, is going on her Go To Work playlist. She says it is appropriate for what she has learned this week. What do you think?

Anty also gets cranky when I use the computer for too long. I had better give it back to her now. Transcribing the new scene should make her feel better, and we all want her to feel better soon, so that is about it for this week. Until next week, I remain very truly yours,

Until next week...

Until next week…

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

Rambly Ramblings on Writing, Reading and Feeling Like a Unicorn

annabowling 2 Comments

“Trying to write about love is ultimately like trying to have a dictionary represent life. No matter how many words there are, there will never be enough.”
― David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary

Not sure what I want to talk about today, so you’re going to get a freeform ramble, and I am going to trust that I am going to make some sort of sense by the time I’m done. This has been not exactly a domestic tornado day, but it has been a day with a full house, interrupted by Real Life Romance Hero and Housemate heading out a deux on a grocery run. Insert Rant of the Lonely Extrovert here, because even though grocery shopping with the whole household (minus Skye, who stays home because she is smart and also a kitty) can make me crabby at best and anxious at worst, it’s still out of the house and being around people. Alas, being sun-sensitive won out, because it is blindingly bright out there for those of us (aka me) who are pale and not suited to summer, so I am rambling from my favorite seat at the coffee house down the block from our own abode. It’s nice and dark here, within the exposed brick walls, I have an iced smoky chai in front of me, am functioning remarkably well for someone who has been Mentos-free for over a week and it’s time to take a look at the week ahead and what I am going to do with it, writing wise.

At the moment, I’m at the “staring at the twenty-foot high blank white wall” stage, which is not at all uncommon for a Monday, and I know that it does, indeed pass, so not going to stress about that. Note to self: writing about things that do not bother me all that much does not make for sinctillating interesting reading. If I am making myself yawn reading it, then it’s probably going to elicit the same response from readers. Which is not at all what a writer of commercial fiction wants, by any stretch of the imagination.

Had a train of thought there, but lost it. I hate when that happens. I am going to blame the upset to routine. My ideal method of attack is to make a list over breakfast, prioritize, then do all the things, crossing them off as I go. That did not happen today, and I am feeling the lack. I am also feeling vaguely unsettled that three passes through the main library’s romance section did not yield anything I had to take home with me right that second, but I was able to cull an armful of fresh voices and intriguing situations from the YA shelves in a matter of minutes. Under one, actually. I wasn’t counting. After devouring the realm of possibility and, earlier, How They Met, and Other Stories, both by David Levithan, which were a master course in romance (even if some of those romances don’t end well) and emotion, I had decided I’m going to have to devour everything he’s ever written and see what I can mine from it. If this guy can tell a love story entirely through dictionary entries, that definitely counts as innovation.

That innovation was what I found myself hungry for when I scoured the romance shelves. Historical romance is still my genre. It’s still what I love to read most, and what I love to write, and, at the moment, it has me somewhat itchy. Not sure what this is, but acknowledging this itchiness is important. Today, looking at the shelves, I saw, with the exception of older titles, almost exclusively series. I get the popularity there, I really do. There’s a built in following for many writers that way and many readers like the comfort of returning to a known community with familiar characters and such. I do follow some series, but not because they are series. There has to be something else. When I write, I naturally think in standalones, which can make me feel, at times, like a unicorn.

I see a lot of Regency settings. I’ve tried to write Regency. It did not end well, for anybody involved. My critique partner, Vicki, summed it up best. “You hate writing Regency.” She’s pretty smart that way. I do. Perfectly fine historical era, but where other writers get excited about Almack’s and, um, Empire waists, I get nothing. Dial things back a couple of decades to the Georgian era (yes, yes, I know, the Georgian era technically goes up to the coronation of Queen Victoria, but my blog, my rules) and we’re talking a whole different story. Wigs, high heels, embroidered satin, painted fans, makeup that would make Kat VonD jealous, and then there’s the women.

The historical fiction shelves (and boy howdy, do I love that our library system has a special sticker for book spines to designate historical fiction) get my interest from time to time, but my problem there, and I do love historical settings best of all -plop me down anywhere from the end of the Wars of the Roses to the end of the American Revolution and I am one happy camper- is that fictionalized biographies are a very hard sell for me. (Unless the topic is Anne Bonny, in which case, give, and back away slowly, mama’s reading) I’d rather read about original characters living in that world than the actual figures, though the actual figures can serve in supporting roles. I saw a few titles that looked mildly interesting, and I do know that some older historical romances of a few decades past have had second lives repackaged as historical fiction, as have some of the authors of such, but…

…that’s where things get unicorny. I want something new, within my favorite genre. Give me one hero and one heroine, in a fully realized historical world, make them people of their time, take me on an adventure and deliver on that big happy ending. Along the way? Carte blanche. (Yes, yes, I know, technically Regency term. Refer above; my blog, my rules.) The best way to make that happen, I know, is to write it myself, and I’m working on it, but there are days when I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to stab things with my sparkly horn for a while.

This may have been one of them, but that’s where the discipline of routine comes in. Monday’s post goes up on Monday. So, here it is. It’s okay if I ramble, because rambling will take me somewhere that stewing will not (and also, I hate cooked carrots, which stews often contain.) I don’t think I’m done yet, but I do have a date with my plotting board and some sticky notes, so wrapping things for now. See you Wednesday,