writing

Critical Mess

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You just write everything down that you can dream up about the story. Don’t worry if the early drafts don’t make sense. You need to write and write until you understand the characters and what wonderful and horrible experiences they’re having, as well as what their relationships are like and how all those things change their lives. Once you’ve nailed that down, start revising so that the scenes unfold in a logical and satisfying order.
-Laurie Halse Anderson

Monday morning is here again, and that means another week of wrangling the big fuzzy mess of what’s in my head into some semblance of order. Today’s quote speaks to me deeply, because that’s where I am in the writing of two different projects. Characters and relationships and backstories and settings and people and places and things and all of that good stuff bubbles around in the cauldron of my mind, the characters begin to trust me enough to tell me that they’d really rather not X, thank you; they’ll Y instead, and I get an urge to put all of this mess in order. I’ve only recently discovered Laurie Halse Anderson, first through her amazing YA, The Impossible Knife of Memory, where teen heroine Hayley has to navigate her way through her single dad’s PTSD after he returns from military service, and, from the first page, I was knocked flat on my back with her use of language and emotion. Definitely stuff I would like to have flavor my own work. Finding out that she also has historical fiction, set in a period adjacent to the events of Her Last First Kiss both excites and frightens me a little, so I am only going to peek at those books on the library shelves through my splayed fingers for a while.

Shoulds are formiddable enemies. We don’t always know where they come from, but we know the stark terror they can bring about in a writer, the paralyisis, and even the death of perfectly good characters, plot points and even entire books, because, well, things should go like ABC, and this thing I’m working on here doesn’t, so…yeah…better put that away. Be a good little do-bee and follow the crowd, because all those publishers and all those readers and all those industry insiders must be right. I’m not sure if Shoulds are more like walkers from The Walking Dead or white walkers from Game of Thrones (maybe both? I’m only now getting into GoT; late adopter, I know.) They tell us we have to follow Big Name Writer’s process to the letter, when, really, we don’t, because we aren’t Big Name Writer. Maybe we’re not even in the same genre. We don’t come from the same place, geographically, psychologically, or what have you, so, really, it’s a ridiculous assumption to say that one size fits all. It doesn’t. I keep saying that because I keep needing to hammer it into my own head. Tough lesson to learn, but an important one.

This past week, the heroine for HLFK revealed something about herself that I hadn’t taken into consideration, but it makes perfect sense, makes her more interesting and makes writing this book feel a lot less murky. I think this might be my week for my hero to make a similar relevation, and I hope he does. That would make my job a lot easier. Though I’ve usually said I’m a plotter when asked if I’m a plotter or a pantser, I have learned that I need to take a third option. I’m a puzzler. Everything comes at me in one big blob of stuff, and I scramble to get it all down. In the past, I’ve felt I should have all my ducks in a row in my head before a single word hits the page, but now I know that I don’t work that way. I need the mess. I revel in the mess. I thrive in the mess.

I’ve been afraid of the mess, because it’s big, and, well, messy, and I like order. Which is okay. I can let the mess reach critical mass, then step back and start sorting it into some logical sense of order. Events fall into chronological order, which means a timeline will probably be useful, and actions have reactions, which spawn more actions, and on and on until we reach the end. The most useful piece of writing advice I’d recieved for many years was that a story can be defined as a character’s journey from wanting something to either getting it or realizing that they will never get it. When one of those things happens, then the story is over. Since I write romance, that usually means my hero and heroine are going to get that thing they want. Even if they don’t, they get something better, and, of course, they get each other. If they have each other, they can get through anything.

This is the part of the process where the magpie has most of the stuff in her nest (most of it; there will always be gathering) and now it’s time to put it all in order. I won’t lie; I wish I could get an idea and bloop, put it all on the page, exactly as is, in a set number of words per day (because, man, is that a hard Should to shed) but that’s not me. I need to splash around in the shallows, grab some of this and some of that and what-am-I-even-doing and oh-that’s-what-I’m-doing and there comes the moment when all falls in line, and yes, that’s right. Now make story.

Will do, brain. Will do.

Typing With Wet Claws: Learning Curve Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. We are closing in here on the first full week of Anty being able to use her office. So far, so good. She still has some things left to do, like see if the printer will work with her tablet (I suspect that will be noisy, if it does, so part of me hopes it does not. On the one paw, Anty would be happy that she could print things, but on the other paw, she would be able to print things. I am not yet sure what I think about this possibility.) The camera cable remains missing, so I had to put up one of my greatest hits pictures today. I will enjoy this reprieve as much as I can, because once she does have a camera cable agin, she will be back at taking pictures.

She has tried taking my picture with the tablet camera, but that did not turn out very well. Part of that is the fact that Anty has trouble with depth perception. Part of it is that Anty has trouble with technology. Part of it is that the camera is in the front of the tablet, and it is difficult for Anty to see what she is trying to photograph unless she is trying to photograph herself. Even then, she generally gets pictures where her face is very big or she only gets the top of her (or my) head. She did manage to get all of Mama’s head in one picture, but she was not trying to take a picture of Mama, and Mama did not want her picture taken, so that did not turn out well for anybody.

This coming week, Mama will be going to where we used to live, to help Grandma at the people vet. This means that I will stay home with Uncle and Anty. I am still not sure I want to go into Anty’s office, even though that is where she is spending most of her weekdays now. This is a dilemma for a kitty. On the one paw, I want to be near Anty. On the other paw, there is carpet. Did I mention that the carpet is rather me-colored? I have to take that into consideration, especially combined with Anty’s lack of depth perception. I am sure we will figure something out. For now, she is working in the office with the door open (except when Uncle is around and she really needs to concentrate; then it is closed) and hoping that I will get curious as to what she is doing in there.

I think she is curious about what she is doing in there, too, but it seems to be working so far. Some humans say it takes twenty-eight days to make a habit, other humans say it is more like sixty, and still others say that it is best to take it one day at a time. What Anty is doing is remembering the way she knows works best for her – jump in and figure it out from there, then start mushing everything into order. Mama has started asking Anty to make lists for her, which is probably a good thing. Making lists makes Anty very happy, and making sure that I could post my blog today was part of Anty’s list for the day.

Most days are starting to work something like this:  Anty has breakfast with Mama (Uncle gets up later, because he works later and goes to sleep later) and then goes into her office. She will usually do some free writing in her notebook with the vampire on the cover. This does not mean she is writing about vampires (she tried to once; it did not go well.) She likes the picture on the cover, the paper inside is smooth and has roses on the corners, and she can use a fountain pen on it. Free writing means she puts down whatever is on her mind at the time, usually two to four pages, and then she makes her list for the day.

this sign goes on the door when Anty *really* does not want to be disturbed.

this sign goes on the door when Anty *really* does not want to be disturbed.

Writing tasks have to go on the list first, as writing is her job and she has to treat it that way. She used to put things like “write” on the list, but that was too vague, so now it is more like “outline the scene in Her Last First Kiss where Heroine first meets Hero.” Now that she knows what she was missing from this story, that means she needs to rip apart the outline she already had and make a new one but it will work out better (though I do not think there are any cats in this version, either, and the dog gets a bigger part. Hmph. Maybe there will be cats in the next book.) She has her plot board and sticky notes out, so I know what she is going to do tomorrow, when Mama and Uncle are both out hunting. She is making noises about printing pictures if she can get the tablet and printer to talk to each other. It is a good thing the office is on the other end of the house.

Anty also puts down when she has to read books that she has to write about for Heroes and Heartbreakers, and sets a specific time or amount of chapters she has to read. Sometimes it takes her a little while to get into the rythym. of reading a particular story, but once she does, then she can read it faster. She likes to read fast. Reading that she has to write about counts as writing, too, so that is also important.

After that, is reading things written by humans she knows, and telling them what she thinks about it. Humans call this critiquing or beta reading. There is a difference, but it is hard to explain to kitties. Anty is currently doing that for two writers friends, and needs to send one of them something that she is writing. She should probably do that soon, before she talks herself out of it. That is what she does when she gets nervous. That is probably because she cannot fit under the bed, like I do.

Well, that is about it for this week. Anty needs to write more about the dog part, so she will need the computer back. Until next week, I remain very truly yours,

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

Until next week...

Until next week…

Paddling Along (and avoiding toxic Shoulds)

annabowling 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Juggling Chainsaws

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“Running, always you have to keep going. You need to die running.”
-Hyvon Ngetich

My morning pages today began with “I have a lot of reasons to not like this day.” It’s true. One, I am not a summer person. June is unaguably summer, though the calendar says we’re still in spring for nineteen more days. Today is gray and cool and rainy, though, so that is one thing in today’s favor. Pictures may be greatest hits for a while, unless I can master the art of the front facing tablet camera, or you may need to settle for views of what my work area is looking at (aka me) instead of the other way around. We’ll see how that goes. Domestic tornadoes continue to blow through our family, and I am adding another phrase to the ever-expanding lexicon: juggling chainsaws.

That’s what it feels like at times, one disaster or irritation (and some things can be both at the same time) piling up and me wondering how I’m going to get everything done. This weekend brought a few of those, and since my track record of getting through interesting times seems to be one hundred percent so far, I can only assume it’s going to continue, and so the best thing to do is carry on.

Those who know me well know that the only thing better than making a list is prioritizing the list, and the only thing better than prioritzing the list is checking things off the list, and the only thing better than checking things off the list is checking the last thing off the list. So, that’s how I started my day. For some things, the only way to handle them (maybe these would be the chainsaws with the safety gaurd on) is to haul out my favorite Polish proverb: Not my circus, not my monkeys, and carry on. Those are the things I can’t control, or that are somebody else’s job. Not worth my time and energy, because I am needed elsewhere. The things on my list are the things that I can make a difference on, and, thankfully, most of those have to do with writing.

After a stretch of years (longer than I would care to count) when the thing I love most, writing, was the hardest thing in the world to do, it’s good to love writing again, and that’s where I want my time and energy to go. There’s a note torn from a pocket Moleskine on my fallen bulletin boad in my getting-a-lot-more-comfortable office, that says “You’re in the factory. Make the product.” This comes to me from somebody else, through somebody else, rephrased by me, because the original thing had something about making words and “making words” puts me in a mental muscle cramp, so I don’t do that. I tell stories. Yes, because I write books and blog posts, words are involved, but the focus for me isn’t the individual words, but the stories, and the characters who live in them.

In Anne Lamott’s classic Bird by Bird, she talks about using a one inch picture frame to focus on one aspect of a big job at one time. The whole thing doesn’t matter right now, only this one thing. I find that useful, because making order out of chaos is A) something I’ve found I am suprisngly good at doing, and B) it’s fun for me. So, lists. Notebooks. Sticky notes. Even now, my blood pumps a little faster at the thought of taking down the bulletin board that’s been there for months, with the same “I don’t know what I’m doing right now” stuff tacked up on it, because, well, writers should have stuff tacked on their bulletin boards, right?

Eh, maybe. Maybe I need to look at the blank space and the order will present itself. What I do know is that the frame around my time has gone into place. From nine to five, I am at work. Today’s quote comes from Hyvon Ngetich, not a writer, but a runner. Her body gave out during the Austin marathon, with two tenths of a mile yet to go. She was offered a wheelchair by medical personnell, but refused it and crawled, yes, crawled, to the finish line on her own. She came in third. Not too shabby there, madam.

Running and I are not friends (gals who are, um, bountifully endowed, as well as non-athletic people, you know what I mean) but I admire the heck out of this woman for her perseverence. I want that. I need that. I take that. I put it in a one inch picture frame and focus on that to get the job done. Wriitng is a curious combination of fancy and practicality, which I find more curious by the day, and that only makes me want it more.

Today, I get to dip into several worlds in turn. I get to write a review of a book I got to read before it goes on sale, which already feels like a special privilege, and share why it’s awesome. I get to make concrete plans to begin work on my first collaboration in years, with a writer friend I’ve wanted to work with for over a decade. I get to push everything else aside and spend time in Georgian England with a hero and heroine I love like crazycakes, and I get to research romance novels that tap into the legendary romance of Robin Hood and Maid Marian (any favorites, guys and gals?) Not bad for a day’s work, I’d say.

See you later, because office hours have begun.

Typing With Wet Claws: Loud and Cordless Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. My picture is very dark this week, because Anty misplaced the USB cord that connects her camera to her computer and has to rely on pictures she has already uploaded until she can replace or locate the cord. I do not blame her much, because this week has been a big one.

On Tuesday, Landlady came to the house with Handyman, to make sure that the apartment was ready for a state inspection for loud buzzy things. I do not know why the state wants us to have loud buzzy things in our house. Anty says it is because those are smoke alarms and will help us if there is a fire. I can understand that, but did that mean humans had to ring the doorbell that much?

When a human who does not have a key wants to come inside, they press the doorbell outside, and it rings inside. It is loud. It is a metal thing that bangs against another metal thing and it makes a buzz we can feel in the floor. It scares me, and Anty and Uncle and Mama do not like it, either. On Tuesday, it rang a lot. Uncle sometimes sleeps during the day because he works hard in the evenings. I sleep whenever I want, because I am a kitty. The doorbell woke us both up, and then strange humans came inside. One of them changed all the buzzy things to new buzzy things. He had to get on a ladder to do that, and then had to make the buzzy things buzz to make sure we would know when a fire happens.

I thought that was going to be it, but that was not it. Landlady came back on Thursday, with a different human she called Inspector, to check all the buzzy things again. This meant more doorbells, but Inspector only looked at the buzzy things. He was smart enough to know from looking at them that they would work, and he was as quiet as he could be so that Uncle could rest and I would not be too scared. I still went under the bed, to make double sure.

Anty has found this week a challenging one for work. For one thing, when she wants to clean the apartment, it is best to get out of her way and let her do it. She says that her story people talk to her when she is doing that kind of thing, so it is kind of like working, but she gets impatient and would like to have all that stuff written down (I wonder if she could dictate to me, since I have my own computer now. Maybe once the keyboard gets fixed at the computer vet. I am already fixed. That happened at the regular vet, before I got adopted.) Then there were the afternoons spent waiting for the inspection related things and it did not help that she misplaced the USB cord. Losing essential things like that makes her cranky. Without the cord, she can take all the pictures she wants, but she cannot edit or upload them. She cannot share pictures of her work area, ducks, books, or me. I can see why that would make her cranky. She chased me around the living room with the tablet this morning, trying to get a picture of me with that. It did not end well. All she got were some pictures of her own face. She is not sure she wants to share those but one never knows.

Reading can go a long way toward making Anty un-cranky, so she should do more of that.. Since it is that time of month again, she shared her best read of May over at Heroes and Heartbreakers. A lot of other bloggers shared their favorites, too. Maybe Anty should try some of those books as well, because she still has some un-cranking to do. The post is here and it looks like this:

H&H Best Reads of May

H&H Best Reads of May

Yesterday, after the inspector and Landlady left, Anty wanted to work on her book, so she headed to the coffee house. Things did not go as planned there, either, as Scrivener would not work for her at all, and that is where she is writing the book, which meant that was a problem. She would have searched online for a solution, but, in keeping with the rest of the week, her laptop would not hold onto the wifi signal. She was not happy with that and wrote on something else in Word for a while, then came home and took a nap. She is making grumbly noises today, too, which makes me think another nap may be in order. For me, if not for her.

One thing that makes Anty happy today is that Twitter has two special hashtags to focus on historical romance: #WhyIReadHistoricals and #WhyIWriteHistoricals. If you already follow Anty, you may have read her entries already. If you do not follow her yet, you can do so here.

That is about it for this week. Anty wants to give Scrivener another go, so I will sign off for now and see you next week (maybe sooner if Anty is too cranky to blog on her regular days.) Until then, I remain very truly yours,

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

Until next week...

Until next week…

Orphaned notebooks

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When I walked away from the table, there were bruises on the unheard lyrics of my yet-to-be-born songs.
-K’naan

Today, we are experiencing technical difficulties. I had a photo of orphaned (and one not really) notebooks all set to go, but my usb cable has gone rogue (or stayed in the coffee house when I left yesterday.) I think that’s rather fitting. I’ll add pictures when I retrieve or replace the cable, but the pictures aren’t the most important things.

Today’s quote comes from Somali-Canadian renaissance man, K’naan, and speaks of a record deal that didn’t work out. I first saved the quote to go along with the post on stories that wouldn’t make it all the way, but it’s here with the post on orphaned notebooks, because I can feel the loss of the words that won’t be on those pages. Maybe they will be on other pages someday, but the books remain, some pages filled, more pages blank. Each one was picked or recieved as a gift with great joy, started with the best of intentions, and then…

…well, if I knew what happened then, I could probably find a way to leverage that into something financially successful, because I would pay to figure out how to make that not happen again. The connection between a notebook user and their notebooks is a special one. Non-notebook people may not get it, and that’s okay. More notebooks for us. Sometimes, it’s the feel of the paper that calls out for a specific story, or the cover, the binding, the maker, the need for something calm and practical or fancifully wild. Whatever the draw, even the draw of finding something out later, every notebook is wanted, at first. Those that find their way to me, but are not a good match, I like to rehome to someplace they will be loved, or at least used. . Some, I alter, some I leave as is.

But the books. I know. This would be easier with pictures, but, in a way, the lack of pictures works. It’s an ephemeral thing, this connection to notebooks, and not always easy to identify. I do know some; the magenta bonded leather Markings gridded notebook, which I’d been beyond excited to get, to succeed its black, burgundy, and tuquoise predecessors as my all purpose book, is among those. Life events happened while I was getting ready to get to know this notebook, and I haven’t been able to unattach them. Bad juju, as some might say. That happens. There’s an older historical romance, by an author I admire, with a setting I love, that I had to put aside because of a life event that happened while I was reading halfway through, and I know I won’t be able to go back to that book and finish. It’s tainted. Regrettable, but it happens. Will I go back to the magenta notebook? Maybe. I’d like to think so, but it’s not time yet.

The black Picadilly cahier, I went into with high hopes, as Picadilly has sturdy paper, is great for everyday use, and if I could find 5×8 cahiers, my then-go-to all purpose format, in a much lower price than Moleskine, that would be great. It would, probably, except that I can’t get used to the slick covers of these books. One of my favorite things about the Moleskine cahiers is the cardboard covers and the way they feel in my hands. Sorry, Picadilly. Even hacking this book with a paper band to fool my hands (it didn’t) couldn’t make me love this. I try, now and again, but I know it’s not a Moleskine, and it feels like it’s, well, trying too hard. This does rather tie in with things I’ve learned about my own writing, so I get it. Probably as much psychological as tactile.

There are notebooks in which I started stories that I realized I was writing because I wanted to prove something to somebody else (oh silly younger me) or because I “should” be writing X, Y and Z, but the fact remained, I didn’t want to, and so the connection wasn’t there. So, I stopped. I used to feel like a failure when I got to that point, when a perfectly lovely notebook got put to the side because I wasn’t feeling it anymore, but now, I see things differently. Knowing when to walk away is part of the creative process. It’s not failure. It’s identifying something that doesn’t work. As my MIL says, “I’ll know not to do that again.”  Wise woman, that one.

So why keep these orphan notebooks around, if they didn’t work the first time? One of my reasons is my resolve to use what I have. Solves the problem of storing unused (or partially used) notebooks and the temptation to overspend on new ones. I have these. I can use them. Maybe not for the reason I initially thought (and that gives me knee-weakening tremors in some cases) – like the Studio Oh! book I thought would be my blabber book for Her Last First Kiss, but now, clearly, is not. I don’t know what it is now, but I know it’s not time to put it away, so it will be something. The best thing I can say is that their journeys aren’t yet over. Their times, their purposes, are going to come, and I’m not going to force them. Forcing doesn’t get anything accomplished.

Blank pages don’t have to be blank – many of mine come with grids, frames, lines, even watermarked images. Even those that come pristine from the printer, though, are already filled with possibility. I like to page through them now and again, and imagine the stories or notes that will someday be written there. The voices aren’t dead. They’re only resting.

Stories That Weren’t (or were they?)

annabowling 2 Comments

I find I have to work on something, even if it’s the wrong thing, for the right thing to come to me. I have what I call nurse-log novels. A nurse log is a dead tree from which new saplings can take root in all that rich decomposing soil. A nurse-log novel is a dead novel, one that I’ll never publish, but that gives life to sapling books.
–Gayle Forman

Somehow, writing Monday’s post on Tuesday doesn’t bring as much guilt if the Monday in question was a holiday.  That’s good to know, and an important part of this whole figuring out what I’m doing as a writer thing. I’d never heard of a nurse-log novel before I read today’s quote, but as soon as I did, it resonated, because I do that as well. I’ve learned that I need to be telling some story, or I’m going to drift off into open water, out of sight of land, and nobody wants that to happen. Some might say that it’s counterproductive to work on something nobody else (or only a very few select people) will ever see, and at one time, I would have agreed, but now, I don’t.

random view from my current seat

random view from my current seat

Most weeks, I don’t set out with a theme for my blog entries, but when I hit on today’s quote, it fell into place. I will accept that gift. Over the last few hectic years, I’ve started book after book, and they all, at different points, peter out. Doesn’t matter how many words I count (I have since understood that’s not how I work in the draft stage) or how long I bash my head against the wall in pursuit of some “should,” if the book doesn’t have life in it, it’s not going to live. Some stories are not viable, and that’s that. Sad thing for any writer to admit, but true, and, I would argue, necessary, though that doesn’t mean that the non-viable story was wasted.

I’ve learned some valuable things from these books-that-wouldn’t. One, Regency is not my thing. I tried. I really, really tried. The whole plot of I Would Know You fits with my brand. Star crossed lovers make it work out in the end, even though they both think the other is dead, and with good reason. There’s a creepy villianess who loves her brother too much and not in the right way, my heroine has a passion in life other than the hero, the connection between them is strong, the plot makes sense…but it felt like moving popsicle stick puppets around a cardboard box stage. As long as I was with my lovers, I was on fire. Regency things come into play, and it was like dumping a bucket of lukewarm water on that fire. A longterm critique partner, finally having had enough of my “why won’t this book worrrrrrk?” whining finally gave me the answer. “You hate writing Regency.”

:blink blink:

Umm, what? Nononono, Regency sells. Regency is the most popular setting. Agent who shot down my medieval said write a Regency and send it to her.

“But you hate writing Regency.”

We had a few rounds of this, with decreasingly vehement protestations from me. She’s right. Regency is  a perfectly lovely and popular period, but it isn’t for me as a writer. If that ever changes, fine, but I am now under stern warnings to Not Try To Write Regency or critique partner will come after me with bladed weapons. This story will still happen, though probably in the Georgian era, which seems to be my current default, or possibly Edwardian if I want to try something different by that time.

other random view from current seat

other random view from current seat

Then there’s the Time Travel That Has Had Many Titles. :long exhalation of breath: I describe this as the book where it and I glare at each other from our separate corners, come together in the middle, beat the crud out of each other and retreat to lick our wounds and glare again until the next round. Maybe I’ve created a supervillian (or hero?) here; I don’t know. What I do know is that I let too many voices into my head here, tried to please everybody and ended up losing my hold on two characters I love like very few others. (Yes, I do have favorites.) Still waiting for the toxins to drain from that one so that I can revive it, which will likely involve chucking everything I previously wrote and starting from scratch. (Those in the know, that scene will stay, though. It’s essential.) It’s not a contemporary romance, it’s not a fantasy novel, it’s not a romantic suspense. It’s a time travel. No, not the hottest subgenre at the moment, but that’s the story the way it came to me, so that’s what it’s going to be.

the *real* Mother Goose? (and bebehs)

the *real* Mother Goose? (and bebehs)

There are others, more of a mulch pit than a nurse log. The American Revolution novel that rebelled against me, because I had my hero on the wrong side. I tried, I really did, and it would have had a home, but no matter how glad I am to be an American, my hero wasn’t, and I couldn’t make him. (Honestly, I think they’d both probably rather stay in the islands than go back to that mess.) If I ever were able to master real-life time travel, I’d go back and rescue two collaborations that fizzled due to other life committments, because I do love those stories, and I think, maybe someday…. Who knows? Maybe. Stories started in genres I decided not to pursue go in that mulch pile. Short bits of things written during writing group exercises, an unfinished fanfic that I stopped in midstride because it really wanted to be a historical romance. Okay, a few of them. Writing fanfic helped me accept that historical romance is my home, and I am grateful to it for that.

I keep an index card file now, soon to be more than one, with bits of mulch that I can combine to properly fertilize the stories that will go out into the world. This, too, is part of how I work, and the books that do make it will be all the richer for it.

blah blah symbolism, baby ducks, conquer the day, go write...

blah blah symbolism, baby ducks, conquer the day, go write…

Typing With Wet Claws: Recalibration Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. We are all catching our breath here, because it was a very big week for the humans. Anty and Mama had to go to where we used to live, to see Mama’s mama, who was at the people vet. The people vet says Grandma is doing well and she does not have to wear the cone of shame. That is a big relief. Also a big relief is that a big challenge that came up this week got resolved. Anty says thank you to those who were concerned and asked how we were doing.

Even when Anty goes on the road to take care of nonwriting things, she still wants to get some writing done. She may need to make a couple more trips before things are settled-settled (or Mama may go on her own if Anty is needed here) so getting a travel version of her home office (which in itself is in flux; that is a fancy human word that means things are changey) is essential. She took both computers with her this time; her regular laptop and her tablet (which is really more kitty sized than human sized, and I could have used it to talk to her while she was gone) as well as some notebooks.

i1035 FW1.1

this one is for freewriting

Note the frames drawn around the unlined pages. Anty found that trick on a notebook website when she was not sure she could use unlined pages. Then she read the tip about drawing a box around them, and now she likes them very much. She sometimes draws boxes around lined pages and then makes a big colored band on the outside of the box. This time, it was only a box and no color, and she wrote down what she was feeling about what was going on in life. That helps keep her brain from getting jumbled, so the stories have a clear path. At least, that is how I think it works.

Anty had a new post at Heroes and Heartbreakers this week, recapping the newest episode of Outlander, “Wentworth Prison.” It is here and it looks like this:

not for young viewers

not for young viewers

Some people do not like things like the scenes Anty had to recap in this episode, but Anty says they do not make her scared. She finds them interesting, and likes to see what it is that makes humans get through tough times like the humans in Outlander do. My Anty Mary (Mama and Anty got to visit Anty Mary while they were on their trip) reminded Anty that Anty needs to get the first season of Game of Thrones, because Anty will find that very interesting. Anty would like to, and she would also like more hours in the day, but they would probably get filled with laundry and things like that.

Anty also likes when books have people go through interesting things, so she is always glad to find (and write) books where that happens. She was very happy to find some books like that in the storage unit when she went to look for something else. She has read the books on the left and right before, but wanted to have them on the shelf in her office, and she had been looking for the book in the middle for a long time. Finding it in the middle of a tough day made her day a lot better.

I was named for one of these books...

I was named for one of these books…

Now that Anty is back home, she is making lists and seeing what needs to be done to get back on track. There is some talk of a new desktop computer arriving in the not too distant future. We will have to see how that affects me. I suspect that it will be scary at first, but then I will get used to it, and Anty will do more of her writing at home. This will probably require me to make some sort of peace with the office carpet. I suppose we all have our challenges.

Until next week...

Until next week…

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

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

Okay Not to be Okay

annabowling Leave a comment

Once in a while, life drops a bomb on all of us. That’s what’s happened in our family this week, and I’m not sure how much I want to write about it here, because this is a writing blog, and this isn’t a writing thing. It impacts my writing, of course, as time spent wrangling family stuff is time spent not writing, but it is also, as everything in a writer’s life, going to end up in a story someday. But writing about the thing itself? Ehhhh, don’t know yet. It’s still fresh. Still dealing with the things-that-need-to-be-done-now and making plans and considering contingencies and and and and and…

…there are a lot of ands. A lot of ifs, a lot of maybes, a lot of we could trys, a lot of I don’t knows. Life can be scary sometimes, and it looks like this may be one of those times. Even so, writing remains my happy place. Going into the story world and closing the door behind me isn’t so much an escape -the other stuff will still be there when I come out again- but more of a respite. It’s some time away that fills em so that I am better able to deal with what’s going on when I’d really rather be writing.

One good thing about writing in the midst of chaos, besides the respite, is that it crystallizes things. I want this. I want to keep writing the main focus of my life.  I will gaurd it and chase it and hunt it down with a club when I need to, because I need it. There’s a power in knowing this is why I am here, and this is the genre I love and I have stories yet to tell, so what other people call “real life” is going to have to calm down and take a seat so that I can get down to business. Sometimes, that will mean I can hunker down with laptop and go clickety clack on the keys for hours. Sometimes, that means I can scrible in my pocket notebook or on an index card or jot something down on the back of a receipt or napkin and keep on going with whatever else the day has demanded of me, but the main thing remains. I can’t turn it off. Not even if I wanted to, and I don’t want to, so I won’t.

Which brings me to the title of this post. There are going to be times, in life and in writing, when things are going great. There are going to be times, in life and in writing, when things are going the exact opposite way and crawling under a rock sounds like a good idea…but nothing gets done there. What I’ve had to tell myself is that it’s okay not to be okay at times. Let the feelings do their job, but don’ t dwell on them. Feel what it feels like to be angry, afraid, confused, exhausted, exhilerated, at wits’ end, triumphant, defeated, whatever it is. Feel it. Remember it. This, too is grist for the mill, and because we write, because we read, we know the black moment comes before the resolution. If things are at their chaotic-est, that’s probably because it’s the middle of the story.

To be continued…

Office Hours, aka Day Camp of the Mind

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On my own, I found my place outside the lines.
–Kathleen Bittner Roth

Sometimes, a writer has to bust out. This morning, I escaped the loving bosom of my family and headed for the park, to set up a temporary office on the picnic table beside the lake. I’ve learned that I need to know what I’m doing, and that writing things down means I can put the giant jumble of ideas in my head in some sense of order and then prioritize. This all made sense out in the open air, looking at ducks between bullet points, but now that I am inside and should be able to focus, my brain wants to wander.

got all my ducks in a row...

getting my ducks in a row…

One of the reasons I’m here right now is that I am committed to blogging three times a week, and if I put off posting until the weekend (after Skye’s post tomorrow) I will be fried. That’s not going to do anybody any good, so I will probably talk all around Robin Hood’s barn, as a high school English teacher used to say (ignoring the fact that Robin Hood did not have a barn; he was an outlaw who lived in the woods, ahem. Maybe he had a barn back at Locksley, but he’s over that now, and it wouldn’t have been one of his priorities, anyway. Now, where was I?) before I get to the point, if indeed there is one. Until then, there are waterfowl. My trip to the park yesterday netted me a peek at the first babies of the season. The Canada geese have spawned, three fuzzy yellow bebehs. The parents wasted no time in letting me know that picture time was over as soon as I got this shot.

Goslings!

Goslings!

I hadn’t expected to make such a connection, but as I settled in at the picnic table, with notebook and pen (after finding out that the sun made it impossible to see much on my tablet screen) it hit me why I liked working from the park in the morning as much as I do. It reminds me of day camp. Odd connection to make, but there it was. Maybe it was the travel mug full of Diet Coke talking, or maybe it was the chance to be seated on weathered wood, under the shelter of shady branches, immersed, as I often was during those long-ago day camp summers. I hated sports, largely because I was A) sun sensitive (still am) and B) nearsighted (still am) and I never fit in with most of the other kids. There was Them and there was me, and no matter how much I wanted to join in, I could never quite make the edges of the puzzle come together. Either I’d hang with the counselors (I was always more comfortable with adults, even as a kid) or I’d stay by myself.

If I couldn’t fit in with my real life peers (though, really, were they?) then I would create them in my head. I didn’t know that was writing, then, and I was surprised and perplexed to learn that not everybody did it. I loved Barbie dolls because they were, to me, tiny actors who never objected to my choice of costumes, roles or situations. Finally, a way to give faces and bodies to the voices in my head. I still remember my parents’ befuddlement when the first thing I did with my Jane and Johnny West action figures (12 inch, fully articulated cowgirl and cowboy) was make them reenact the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. (Signs your kindergartener will grow up to be a historical romance writer for one hundred, Alex.)

I didn’t bring dolls to day camp; I knew enough to do that, but when our counselors took us to the outdoor sunken basketball court and explained their variation on Red Rover, involving an orgre who lived beneath the blacktop and could come out of the storm drain, I soaked that like a sponge and created a princess who wanted to escape the ogre’s clutches, and what was supposed to be normal kids-running-around stuff became a mix of Nordic myth, various fairytales (not the sanitized Brothers Grimm version, not this girl) and probably some mix of whatever cartoon had held my interest at the time. When it came time to head to the pool for swimming, there were mermaids or a trip to Atlantis. A good deal of the time, I didn’t notice when the other kids didn’t want to play because I had friends who lived in my stories. Best of all were the times when I’d find a kindred soul and could entice them to play along.

It’s somewhat like that now, when I head to the park. The characters in my WIPs tag along, and, if I’m meeting reistance in a scene or a concept, it’s usually that I’m trying to force the characters to do something they wouldn’t. While we take a loop around the lake, in search of waterfowl, sipping a cold drink from our travel mug, or set up shop at the picnic table, the restraints fall away. The walls come down, as it were. I’m not sure if this is because the great outdoors is a good equalizer, and more familiar to my historical people than a recliner or ergonomic chair and blinking cursor on a blank screen, but I can’t discount it.

Even in those day camp years, my default story setting was the long ago and usually far away. I can’t explain it, other than the fact that I’m hardwired for historicals. The British Isles thing, I can maybe explain; our closest neighbors when I was little were a lovely Scottish couple, and my mom’s best friend was a British expat.  I soaked in the accents and the mannerisms, the folk tales and other bits that I’m sure I didn’t even realize, and they became part of me, part of the worlds I created when the physical one didn’t fit. Some things, I am happy to report, never change.

'ello, ducks...

‘ello, ducks…