inspiration

Typing With Wet Claws: Reading Rambles Edition

annabowling 4 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is now almost exactly two weeks until Christmas. Anty has hopes the tree will be up before then (so do I; I do not climb it, like some kitties do, or sit underneath it like my predecessor, Olivia, did, but I like to look at it, because it has sparkly lights and shiny balls and I can imagine what I would do if I could get to it.) but Anty and Mama put the white lights around the doorways to the dining room and Uncle’s office, so it is starting to look festive around here.

It is also starting to sound very clicky around here. By clicky, I mean the sound the computer keys make when Anty pounds on them. With her fingers, that is, not a baseball bat. She only does that in her imagination when she is frustrated. That happens sometimes. The end of the year is coming (one week after Christmas, so that is soon) and that makes Anty want to clear her desk of writing obligations for 2016. She is already working on goals, especially regarding fiction. She would like to be both reading and writing more of it, which means I will have more to report on my days to blog. I like to be useful, so this is a good thing.

Before I go any farther (or is it further? Ha, ha, fur-ther. That is funny, because I have a lot of fur. Maybe that joke is funnier for kitties than for humans. Oh, well. Can’t win them all.) I need to tell you where you can read Anty’s writing this week. Her latest Buried Under Romance post is all about reading rituals. Do you have any reading rituals you observe? I highly recommend having a super fluffy kitty sleeping peacefully nearby, preferably with a full tummy from food and treats. That always makes the reading experience better. Especially for the kitty. If you would like to read Anty’s take on the matter, the post is here: http://www.buriedunderromance.com/2016/12/saturday-discussion-reading-rituals.html#comment-9267  and it looks like this:

 

burritual

What are your reading rituals?

 

 

Anty’s binge on Matthew Quick novels continues, as you can see in her review of The Silver Linings Playbook (only of the book; she has not seen the movie, and now is not sure if she wants to, because she researched the differences and she knows what they changed. Word of warning, do not get her started on the movie version of Paper Towns cutting out her two favorite parts, because she is never going to be over that. Trust me on this one.) here:

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1832682800?utm_medium=email&utm_source=rating  and it looks like this:

grsilverlinings

Anty is now over halfway done with Love May Fail, which is told in four different parts, in four different viewpoints, all combining to make one story. Anty likes that kind of thing, and she very much likes the author’s voice (that is his writing voice, not his speaking voice, which she has never heard, so she cannot talk about that) and the kinds of stories that he tells. She would like to be reading more historical romance, and that will come, because that is still her favorite, but when she gets one of these urges to gobble everything by a new to her author, then she will follow that. Mr. Quick often has love stories in his novels, but because they are not genre romances, those love stories do not always have to end happily (but they can, and some of them do; the point is that they do not have to) nor are they always the focus.

In a genre romance, the love story does  have to be the main focus, and it does have to have a happy ending. That does not mean that the humans who fall in love never have anything bad happen to them ever again (that is a pretty naïve outlook, if you ask me; I have seen things) or that their story is over-over, and nothing interesting ever happens to them again (Anty and Uncle have been in love a long time, and interesting things happen to them all the time. For instance, they have a cat who can blog. I think that is pretty interesting.) What it does mean is that, no matter what happens in the future, the humans who are in love will have each other. They are together and happy to be that way. Believe it or not, that is the only requirement for a romance novel. The only one, seriously. That is why it puzzles me (and Anty) when people who do not read romance think that all romance novels are the same. That is not even close to being true.

Since Anty has been reading and writing romance for a long time now (three cats’ worth, including me; five, if we count Michelangelo and Francesca, who did not live with Anty, but whom she cat-sat on a regular basis) she is pretty familiar with how a romance novel goes. This year, she has been reading a lot of Young Adult fiction and general fiction by authors who also write Young Adult, because she likes getting some fresh voices in her head, and because she likes the edge many of these stories have. She would like to harness some of that and put it into her historical romances. (Note: I have been right there while she wrote the initial daft of Her Last First Kiss, and I think she is on the right tack for that particular goal.)

Suffice it to say (that is fancy human talk for Anty wants the computer back) that things are going to get very interesting, story-wise, around here, as Anty analyzes the books she is reading and takes from them things she would like to put into her own books. As a dedicated Mews, I will be sure to stay on top of this (figuratively, that is. I am a floor girl.) and let you know what is going on. I think there may be some surprises in store.

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

skyebye

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

Does That Mean There Is Quietermilk?

annabowling 2 Comments

Days become weeks
Weeks become months
Months become way back when

      -Kait Kerrigan and Brian Lowdermilk, “Holding On”

During the weekend, I had an idea for this blog entry. Do not ask me what that idea was, because I do not know anymore. I am not even going to try and take a wild guess. Not even a stab in its general direction. That ship has sailed, so what you get instead is blabber, because “blog entry” is the next thing on my to-do list, and sleep was not that great this weekend, which means my mind is a muddle. Which means it is time to impose some order on chaos. Which means making lists and prioritizing.

Today’s quote is from the musical, Tales From the Bad Years. No, I’ve never seen it, but I have been listening to many of the songs from it repeatedly over the last couple of weeks. I haven’t played any Christmas music yet, which is unusual for me. I mean nothing. Seriously. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada. I’m not not-in the Christmas spirit, but it hasn’t kicked in yet. Maybe that’s because the decorations are still not up. Fingers crossed for tomorrow. Maybe then it will feel real. We’ve had sickies in our house for the last…three weeks? Four? Maybe that has something to do with it. I have Christmas books at hand, and have not cracked the covers on any of them, either.

No, wait, that’s not right. I am reading For Christmas, Forever, by Barbara Samuel, originally published under her Ruth Wind pseudonym, on my phone. I don’t read a lot of category romance, but I would read Barbara Samuel’s grocery list in a heartbeat. Pounce on that sucker like a starving hyena, I would, and that might be underselling my theoretical behavior. We need to make that clear at the outset. Still, I don’t read a lot of category, and the combination of intrigue and Christmas has me in uncharted territory, but the voice is still there, and that’s what I wanted (besides the whole Christmas angle) so that balances things out. Combine that with my devouring of Matthew Quick novels (be forewarned, I may get whiny when I finish the ones I have on hand, because then I will have read all currently published ones; why do I keep doing this to myself, again?) and rationing Dark Champion, the second of Jo Beverley’s medieval historical romances (I do sorely wish she had written more medieval, but there are loads of her Regencies and some of her Georgians I have not yet read. She is, sadly, another one who has left us, so when I am done, I will be done. At least with reading new to me titles for the first time.)

But back to the music. I wish I could say how it was I stumbled across the Kerrigan-Lowdermilk team, but I am going to say it was either Spotify or YouTube. I like to follow bunny trails, of things I might like, based on things I already like, and I’ve been using both of the above frequently as of late, so it’s probably one of the two. When an authorial voice catches my attention like that, I like to hunt down as much of it as I can. When that voice belongs to a songwriting team, and said songs are in the realm of musical theater, that makes my blood do a skippity skip, because that means that there are, somewhere out there, a plethora of different interpretations of the same songs, by different performers.

I love that kind of thing. I can find Actor A’s performance of Song X, take that in, find what I like about it and what I would direct them to do differently, then take in different takes on the material by Actor B, Actor C, Actor D, etc. Gender flipped, with or without changes in pronouns, solos divided into duets or multiple singers, and vice versa. Stage performances, cabaret, concert, professional, student, etc, etc. Bring all of that stuff right on over here, because it goes straight into ye olde creative well.

On the official page for Tales From The Bad Years, (find it here: http://kerrigan-lowdermilk.com/shows/tales-from-the-bad-years) the blurb about the show concludes with “There’s no doubt that the bad years make the best stories.” That resonated with me, and reminds me that it was the very title, Tales From The Bad Years, that told me this was something I had to investigate. I’m glad I did. Though I haven’t seen the show, or read the script, I’ve listened to the available songs, so, if I had to shelve it in a genre, I would put it in New Adult. Again, not a genre, in the contemporary fiction sense, with which I have any degree of familiarity, apart from the Going The Distance series by Lark O’Neal (http://www.larkoneal.com/) -who is also Barbara Samuel, go figure- but I very clearly got the “Yes. That.” reaction, so I’m listening. A lot. Rolling it around in my head, and letting it seep into my heart. We’ll see what sticks, what combines with all the other things that are in there already, and what else is going into the tank at the same time.

Writers are, by nature, omnivores. If it waves a tentacle at us, and if we grab onto that tentacle, it’s going into us. Becoming part of us. Coming out again in some other form that is our version of that. Calling us to come to a higher level. Making us want to be that good. Work that hard. Make something that has the same effect on somebody else, we would hope. We don’t always know what it’s going to do to us when we recognize it, but that moment when we know that yes, that new thing we like, it’s ours now, that’s something we need to hold onto and see where it takes us

The lines at the top of this entry are one of those things that stick. The inevitable passage of time, the reminder that my track record for getting through stuff has been 100% so far, so odds are that’s probably going to continue. Not smooth sailing all the way, because how boring would a story like that be, seriously? The knowledge that a current stressor will one day be a story to tell, of something that happened “way back when,” that’s encouraging. I can work with that.

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Successfully Extended Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. I think that I would probably be blogging today, even if it were not Friday, because Anty is in a mood. Anty did not sleep that great last night, and she had to make two trips to the Laundromat this morning. It was almost three. When she came home from the second trip, she noticed right away that there was a particular aroma. That aroma was my um, stuff. A big stuff, actually, right near the apartment door, and exactly where Anty’s foot went when she took her first step inside. Anty leaves her outside shoes on the landing, so she took that step in her stocking foot, and her step turned into a skid. Uncle says he cannot describe the sound Anty made, but he knew it had to be something interesting. He was right.  Anty had to do some creative walking to get to the bathroom so she could put her dirty socks in the next laundry bin, and get my scoop so she could get rid of my stuff. Then she fed me, so it all worked out okay in the end.

Before I talk about anything else, I need to talk about Anty’s writing first. Her most recent post at Buried Under Romance is here:
http://www.buriedunderromance.com/2016/11/saturday-discussion-making-a-reading-list-and-checking-it-twice.html

and it looks like this:

bur

Anty also posted a review of a book that had a big effect on her, Every Exquisite Thing, by Matthew Quick, on Goodreads. If I ever get a turtle brother (I do not think that is likey, but one never knows) Anty says his name will be Unproductive Ted, because of a turtle that is a book that is in this book. I did not mistype that (even though I have special paws) – there is a book inside this book that is special to the main character and her friends. Anty had to hug this book after she finished reading it, and she went right back to the library, to get two more books by the same author. Those had a similar effect on her, and she will probably talk about that more, later. For now, her review is here:

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1823317233

and it looks like this:

goodreadseet

 

Anty is going to find more books by this author, so she can figure out what she likes about his work this much, and how she can incorporate it in her historical romance writing. One of his books, Silver Linings Playbook, was made into a movie, and it won an Oscar, which is the award for really good movie things. Anty is going to watch that movie, too, but she does not know when. She has a lot going on these days, especially now that she and Mama got the wifi booster. The booster worked, and now Anty can talk to the interwebs from her office. When she goes into her office to work, I either wait outside the door, if it is only a little time she is in there. If she is in there a longer time, I will go sleep by her recliner, because I know she will go there eventually. Yesterday, she wrote a chapter for her book with Anty Melva, and got it all done in one go, because she was able to concentrate. Anty said that felt super good. I still think she might want to consider getting rid of that carpet, because then I would spend more time in there with her.

Christmas decorations are slated to go up tomorrow, but it is not out of the question for things to get bumped back a little further if something unexpected comes up; Anty loves to get her decorations up as soon as possible, but she is also a realist. Sometimes, things happen. The decorations will get put up in plenty of time for Christmas, so there is no use getting all concerned about it. In the same way, the books are going to get written, and they are going to find their ways into the hands of readers, so there is no use in getting worried about that, either.

As long as Anty keeps moving forward with both books (and with her posts for other sites) then she will, probably before she knows it, find herself at The End. Then it will be time to write more books. She has to remind herself to focus on this book now (actually these books now, because she is working on two) but that does not mean she cannot make notes and file them away for later. That is actually a good thing, because Anty does best when her tank is filled, and she knows what she is doing. The more she knows before it is time to start writing the story, the easier the writing goes. Anty says the view is pretty good from up there, back in the saddle.

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

skyebye

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

 

 

 

One Way or Another

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This morning, I finished filling my fifth morning pages book, so I think it’s safe to say that I’ve found something that works to keep me writing every day. Even on days when morning pages are the only thing I write (and there are some of those, especially when in the grips of the Cold That Will Not Die) I have written two pages, first thing in the morning, and my mother was right – the more I do, the more I want to do.

Yesterday, Real Life Romance Hero asked me what I was planning to do for the day. My first answer was “figure out how far behind I am, and make a plan on how to get current.” My second answer was “That or watch Netflix from a blanket fort.” RLRH said something along the lines of “you can’t write anything if you’re dead,” which I took as a vote for the blanket fort. In the end, I split the difference. No Netflix was watched, alas, but I did have a nap, and I did write. I also found out that the options for getting Internet connection on my office computer are:

 

  1. Move the modem.
  2. Move the computer.
  3. Get a wifi signal booster.

 

The first two options crossed themselves off the list in an astoundingly short amount of time:

  1. This house was built around 1890, when the Internet was not anybody’s top concern, because the Internet did not exist. Therefore, there are a limited amount of outlets, which means the next available outlet to which we could move the modem was :drumroll please: about five feet in an office-ward direction, but also took it out of the living room, where all the rest of the devices get the majority of their use, and it made absolutely no difference in the signal in my office, which is to say none.
  2. Moving the computer would defeat the purpose of having the computer in my office, which is where I want to be doing the majority of my work. I prefer using my desktop for big chunks of work, in my comfy office chair, behind my closed door, because family knows that closed door = working. Also, my poor, beleaguered eyeballs are much happier with the big monitor, and, with the closed door, I am far less likely to fall prey to distractions. The only places I could move the whole setup to, if I had to move it, under protest, would be A) the dining room, and B) the living room. Dining room could be possible if absolutely needed, but there is the matter of prewar ceilings and burned out overhead lighting. Also, the dining room is tiny and has only one outlet. Living room would put me in the same middle-of-everything spot I am with the laptop, so no.

Clearly, the wifi booster is the obvious winner here. Part of me is curmudgeon enough to want a plan B, in case my office truly is a dead zone and even the booster doesn’t do the trick. As a once-upon-a-time friend once said, I would need a tech manual to operate a butter churn. I am not the most technologically minded person on this (or probably any other) planet. I am also reminded of a writer’s workshop I once attended, where the presenter asked everyone in the room who considered themselves an optimist to raise their hand. I was literally the only person who did not do so. So, the presenter asked, would I identify as a pessimist? I took a third option: realist. A thing might work, or a thing might not. Both outcomes are possible. If I plan for both outcomes, then I’m prepared for either. In this case, the booster will pinch the pocket a bit, but I will be able to do everything I want behind my office door (Virginia Woolf really was on to something with her whole room of one’s own thing) or it will be a noble experiment, and I will find some way of moving the entire setup into the dining room when I want Internet.

The realist in me does not mind either outcome. I’d prefer the former, but if it’s the latter, then so be it. Whatever gets things done, gets things done. Those who have been reading this blog for a while know I’m ansty. Getting back on the horse can be one hell of a ride in and of itself, but, when one is finally back in the saddle (mine happens to be a very lovely office chair) one wants to actually have something to show for it. In my case, books.

I’ve called my office my Hobbit Hole in the past, and that still pretty much rings true. Get inside, shut the door, music on, notebook or computer file (or both) open, and watch me go. it took long enough to get to this place that I want to stick my flag in it and go full steam ahead. If that means moving machinery around, then that’s what I’m going to do. I’d prefer not to have to do it, but if that’s what it takes, well, okay, then. Hero and Heroine, and Guy and Girl want to meet all of you, and the only way that can happen is if I write (or co-write) their whole stories.

One of my favorite memories of my From Fan Fiction to Fantastic Fiction (now called Play In Your Own Sandbox, Keep All the Toys) was when one student shared her experience of co-writing her long form fic with a friend who lived 200 miles away. Every Friday night, she would dismantle her big early 80s desktop computer (this was long, long ago, obviously,) pack it in her car, drive 200 miles to her friend’s house, where she would unpack it, set it up there, and she and her friend would spend the entire weekend writing. Then reverse the process, go back home and do the responsible adult thing from Monday through Friday night, and do it again the next weekend.

I don’t know what happened to that student, though I hope she’s still writing. What I do know is that if she can do that, I can do this. The walk from my office to the dining room is not as far as the journey from sobbing my guts out because writing wouldn’t come. Tomorrow, i start my sixth morning pages book, interestingly enough another copy of the same book that inspired me to start writing morning pages in the first place. Kind of feels like leveling up, in a way, with both of these things happening at the same time. This spring, I will be co-presenting a workshop on blogging. I am writing one book I love, and co-writing another. I have a nice queue of posts for Heroes and Heartbreakers that I can’t wait to share, and we are in the Christmas season, which is my favorite-favorite time of the year. All pretty decent, all things considered.

 

 

 

I am a Weeble

annabowling 2 Comments

First things first: I do not have high hopes for this blog entry. My cold has officially entered week two. I am currently wrestling with in-store pickup for a purchased item that told me I would have it by the 23rd. It is now the 28th. I very strongly want to show up on the item’s one-weeki-versary with a cupcake and balloons, perhaps party hats, and insist on taking a selfie with the worker who “guaranteed” it would be available on Saturday. Item is in store, but being “processed.” Um, long process, dudes. There will be feedback on this one, oh yes there will.

Today, I have made myself get dressed, put on makeup and head to my favorite coffee house, because the need to do normal things is overwhelming. Note that I did not list “do my hair” in the preparations to leave the house, because I have honestly forgotten what  one does with face framing layers, and it’s only one day post wash. Yep. Been in the house too long. I forgot to ask the barista for my customary splash of skim milk, which means my tea now has a splash of the community half and half. Cookie is less because I am getting down to Serious Novel Writing, and more because I have not had lunch and did not want to cook. One look at refrigerator full of delicious Thansgiving leftovers, and nothing but nope. I am dealing with my laptop’s touchpad, because I was too tired to pack the mouse, and wrangling with the mouse cord is not worth the aggravation.

Yesterday, I inhaled Every Exquisite Thing, by Matthew Quick (Skye will provide the link to my rambling review on Friday) and am now emotionally eviscerated. Also mourning a fictional character, and would compare the events of that character needing to be mourned with events of a similar nature in another book whose title and author escape me, but I think I can take a reasonably good stab at the author. At any rate, there’s a similarity in the circumstances, and I’d like to see if I could work that into a historical romance at some point in the future. EET was YA fiction, and the other book, hmmm, I’m going to say horror. Maybe. With YA elements.

This all makes me want to spend more time on historical romance, and I have high hopes for my next few historical romance reads, as well as a clearer focus on returning to the next scene in Her Last First Kiss, so that’s all good.  I also owe half a scene from the Beach Ball, which I hope to get done in the next couple of days, because a) my collaborator, Melva, deserves a reward for her legendary patience, and b) I want this story to progress, because there is more yet to come.

Earlier this week, I’d braved the elements (and Black Friday crowds) because certain things had to be done, even if what I wanted to do was watch Netflix from my blanket fort. As part of that outing, I had lunch at a favorite establishment with Housemate, and talk turned to work. Specifically mine. I asked her how she’d describe my author brand to someone who had never read me before. Since this is a fairly large people group, this question is extremely relevant to my interests. Her answer involved the phrase, “getting back on the horse” and moving forward (even with setbacks) in the face of adversity, in fiction as well as nonfiction.

“So, basically,” I said to her, when she was done, “I’m a Weeble?”

The gist of her response can be whittled down to, “Pretty  much.”

Okay. I can live with that. Seriously, what’s the alternative? Not getting back up after life knocks one down? Not going on, even if it means dancing on phantom limbs or heading off in a slightly or completely different direction? Yeah, no. Not going to do that. That’s not in me. I tried. It didn’t work. It’s not in my characters, either; not in my heroes and heroines, no matter when or where they lived. Apple trees can only grow apples. I want to grow as many apples as I possibly can, and make them into a whole smorgasbord of dishes.

So that’s where I am on this fine Monday morning, now firmly in the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Decorations at Stately Bowling Manor would have been going up directly after Thanksgiving dinner, but sick me, so tomorrow is the next projected date. As much as it’s irritating to have to wait for things like that, they payoff is worth it. That moment when Real Life Romance Hero and I tell Housemate to turn off all the lights, and we get that first glimpse of the living room lit by nothing but Christmas lights, that’s where the magic is. Every year, we call it the best tree ever, and, every year, it is.

That’s what I’m shooting for when I type (or co-type) the end on HLFK and the Beach Ball. Best books ever. Well, mine (and semi-mine) at least. That’s all any of us writer types can aim for, with each new endeavor. Make this the best one. Fall down? Yep, going to happen. If it hasn’t, then it only hasn’t happened yet. Fall down? Get up. Get back on the horse. Keep going. I guess it’s my inherent Weeble-ness that keeps things going at times, and I am okay with that.

 

 

 

 

Sick Day

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Sandpaper throat, foggy head, low energy, and coughing fits that make me fairly certain it is indeed possible to cough up one’s own internal organs can only mean one thing. The traditional Thanksgiving week (or at least late fall/early winter) cold has arrived. Yesterday was also the first snow of the season, the holiday lights are up in the park that is literally five minutes walk from my front door. I had planned to walk through said park and take in the lights, while drinking hot cocoa from my favorite coffee house, but that, obviously, is not what happened.

What happened was that I woke on Saturday with that feeling that something was off, but we had Saturday stuff to do, and I am a big old stoic, which meant power on through it. About halfway through errands, well past the point of no return, my body had some choice words for me. As soon as we got home and put groceries away, I flopped. If there is one thing taking a sick day or two is good for, it is sneaking in some extra reading time. I have now officially read all published Bertrice Small historical romance novels.

bowlingfallbackintime

This is both a good and a sad thing. On the one hand, I have now read all published Bertrice Small historical romance novels. On the other hand, I have now read all published Bertrice Small historical romance novels. For new readers (hello, and welcome) Bertrice Small is the reason I got into historical romance in the first place. That moment of cracking my purloined copy (from my mom’s nightstand) of The Kadin was pure magic. Destiny, some might say, or calling. All that I know was that I, even at far-too-young-t0-be-reading-that-book, knew there was something mine in those pages.  One guess as to the topic of my next book report. Bless Mrs. Potter for rolling with it. Also for the A, and asking if I wanted to be a writer, because yes.

Strong heroines, heroes worthy of them, and love stories played out against the pageant of history, that’s what grabbed me then, and what I still love the very best now. Since I’d been saving the very last book I had not yet read by the author who sparked my love for the genre for a special occasion, a sick weekend seemed like the ticket. So, that’s it. Now what? Reading-wise, that’s not a question. I have a stack of library books, a fully loaded Kindle, and fully stocked TBR shelves, so I am not lacking for books to read.

There’s that pang, though, that this is it. I’ve read all there is to read in this genre by this author. I want to live with that for a while, roll it around in my brain as I continue on. Thought processes while brain is sick-fogged are probably not ones fit for public consumption, but there’s something in there. Bertrice Small has been an influence, absolutely, and, while our books are not exactly the same (she’s written and sold a heck of a lot more, for one thing, and the content is a little, ah, different in certain areas) there was a seed planted when I snuck that book off my mom’s nightstand, and I am forever grateful. I don’t think it’s any accident that it comes at the time it does.

I’ve passed a milestone birthday, first snow of the year, frustrated at being sick when I want to be doing stuff, and yet – there is always an “and yet”- this fits, somehow. Writer people who know the  Hero’s Journey also know that the mentor can never make it all the way to the end. There comes a point where the hero (or heroine) has to go the rest of the way on their own. They’ve been taught all the mentor has to teach, and now it’s their time. A new chapter begins.

Right now, I’m sitting here in my recliner, bundled in pajama pants and hooded sweatshirt, looking out at gray clouds that are not yet done sifting snow down up0n us. This, again, will not be a walk through the park evening. It will, however, be a bundle under the blankey evening, with a good book or two (or ten) and, maybe, depending on how industrious I feel, a legal pad, because the voices in my head don’t take sick days.

Origin Stories

annabowling 1 Comment

This weekend, I missed National Fountain Pen Day, and squeaked in under the wire on #FallBackInTime. The first holiday is rather self-explanatory, and we’ll get to that one, but I want to work backwards today. #FallBackInTime comes each year at the day we set our clocks back, and readers and writers of historical romance are invited to post pictures of themselves with a favorite historical romance novel and add a comment about why we love the genre. This year caught me by surprise.

Part of that is because it was a hectic weekend, and part of it was because I was in a crappy mood from said hectic weekend, and had to have go-out-and-do-stuff therapy on Sunday afternoon. I got home, feeling much better, but bone-tired, and checked my phone. Those are a lot of hashtags from my fellow historical romance people. What’s up with that. Oh. #FallBackInTime. Umm… :looks around, weary body at war with desire to participate: I grabbed the nearest book (Kindles are kind of tricky for shots like this) and snapped a selfie.  This is not, for those interested in such things, my favorite historical romance novel; I’ve only recently started reading it (and stay tuned for highlights of my rant on lack of reading time in recent weeks) but Bertrice Small is the first genre historical romance writer I ever read, and the one who got me into this beautiful mess in the first place.

bowlingfallbackintime

I read and write historical romance because falling in love is always an adventure.

One of the things I like most about talking with SF/F writers is that most of them have a specific origin story; that a-ha moment when they first connected with Asimov, Bradbury or LeGuin. That never happened to me, at least not with those authors, but I know that moment. I found parts of myself in Small, Sherwood, and Woodiwiss. Though galaxies far, far away never called my name (on occasion, one would aim a friendly wave from a polite distance) the long ago part, that had a big, sparkly sign with my name on it, jumped up and down and waved its arms to beckon me over.

Those centuries far in the past felt like home right from the start, and they still are. When I wrote fan fiction inspired by SF/F franchises, even those stories were pretty much historical romances with blinky props. Even with the modern setting of the Beach Ball, which I am co-writing with Melva Michaelian, it’s set in the world of historical romance publishing. Historical romance isn’t as much a what-I-do as a part of who-I-am. For those who think the genre is only about wallpaper history or girls in prom dresses, or that it’s all about the sex, I say oh no, no, no, no, no, no. In historical romance, the woman always wins. The woman gets to tell  her story. She gets the guy, yes, but more than that, she gets the right guy. One who respects her and cherishes her and considers her wants and needs as important as his own. Shoot, she gets a guy who likes her. He’s not all she gets, either. She gets what she’d have wanted even if he didn’t exist. She gets a say in her own future. She gets to use her talents, speak her mind, win the war.

When I was eleven years old, I stole my mom’s copy of The Kadin, by Bertrice Small, set in sixteenth-century Scotland and the Ottoman empire, and read it under the brass bed in the guest bedroom. Right away, I knew I’d found what I wanted to read and write for the rest of my life. So far, so good.  I may have been on the young side to get the romance part, but I’d always loved the fairy tales with romance in them best, so I figure I was hardwired for that stuff. The world of the story blossomed around me, and watching the heroine, Janet (later renamed Cyra) grow and change and fall in love, that lit a fire within me. I wanted to learn how to write stories like that when I grew up; still working on that one, but I like to think I’m making progress.

Trends in publishing are ever-changing, and romance is a huge, huge umbrella. Big, sweeping historicals with bold heroines and epic timelines are still my favorites, though there are countless other variations, but historical romance is my home. If I received or discovered any super power under that brass bed, when I fell into the voice and the history and the time and the place and the characters and the story, it was the ability to come as close as mere mortals can to traveling in time. It’s been said that we are each the result of a thousand loves, and that holds true for historical romance novels as well. Each love story is a moment in time, when two people find a part of themselves in each other; who they are, who they want to be, who they always were, but never had the courage to declare. When a family, whether it remains only those two people, or becomes the start of a dynasty that spans centuries, takes its first breath. Play it all out against the pageant of history, and I’ve found my happy place.

Why read and write historical romance? For me, it’s only natural. I kind of like that product of a thousand loves thing. Let’s go with that.

Post-Birthday Post

annabowling 2 Comments
French Onion burger
Real Life Romance Hero

 

Sometimes, it’s the smallest changes that make the biggest difference.  Monday’s post is on Tuesday this week, because this particular Monday can best be summed up thusly:

 

I love my birthday. Like really, really love my birthday. Birthdays in general, but October 24th is all about me. Thankfully, I have progressed past the announcing of said date to random strangers (okay, I think I grew out of that when I was about five, maybe six) I do not sleep in a tiara, as the risk of poking Real Life Romance Hero in the eye is too strong, but the sentiment is basically the same. The time leading up to the actual day had some ups and downs, because the number attached to this birthday has a zero in it. We will not dwell on that, because the time machine is broken, and I can only move forward from where I am at present, the anniversary of being a one-day-old.

While I am not a medical or psychological professional, I did study early childhood education (the fact that I now make up stories and tell people who kissed on TV may let you know how good of a match that turned out to be) and I think it is safe to say that a large part of a one-day-old’s thought process is devoted to (pardon my language, gentle readers) “WTF?” There they were, minding their own business the way they’d always done, then the walls closed in and oh so much pressure, and then light and sound and touching and hey it’s cold out here and what are you doing with my cord, doctor person? Okay, there’s milk, and blankets are nice, and these other beings generally seem pleased that the new person exists, but there is a bit of a learning curve going on here. Little patience with the new kid, okay?

Today is a little like that. Since Real Life Romance Hero had to work on the 24th, we celebrated together on the 22nd, which was cold, rainy and grey. In short, my favorite weather besides snow, so bonus points for that. We had lunch together, hung out for the afternoon, and I could not have asked for a better day. Cold day, hot date, hot lunch. Perfect combination, left me feeling very loved.

Real Life Romance Hero
French Onion burger

 

This left the actual day free for celebrating with Housemate, who knew me well enough to suggest trips to two separate libraries. This is why we are friends. That, and neither of us can afford the blackmail. She also gave me the lovely lap desk in today’s picture, or, for a better shot of it without the laptop and friends in the way, this:

 

lapdesk241016

I’d had my eye on this one for a while, though the old lap desk still technically worked. It was a flat surface. It fit in my lap. Okay, the not-very-convincing woodgrain contact paper type of covering had begun to split and peel, the cushion had deflated, and the loop that was intended to let me carry the desk from place to place was now more of a tab. In short, long enough. Time for something new. Time for getting down to business. This one has two wrist rests. The wooden bar between them keeps pens from rolling off, and there are not one, but two places I can park my phone while making with the tappity tap.

How big a difference did this make? Pretty darned, actually. Last night, while I chatted with H, I worked on a scene.  Things were going all right, though this was not coming as smoothly as I had hoped, but okay,  moving forward. Typing with wrist support is a whole other experience, everything in the correct place, no need to be part Cirque de Soleil performer while keeping everything in reach. Until, that is, my jump drive blinked at me. I knew what that blinking jump drive meant. Bad stuff.

Sure enough, a couple of seconds later, the computer let me know the jump drive was corrupted. Click this handy button to fix things. That always worked before, so I did. Computer said drive was okay now. Great. Go back to document. My scene is gone. Closing in on two thousand words, gone. Not there. Big ol’ zero. I calmly inform H of this. H joins me in expression of shock and dismay. Was I sure? I was sure. Blank page, right there. Maybe being actually comfortable had something to do with it, or newfound maturity, or both, but I checked my backup, to see if I had saved an earlier version.  I had.

Okay.  Call up earlier version. Discover earlier version is half the size of scene I lost. Half. Inform H of this. H agrees it stinks that I lost half, but, maybe, this is for the best, and I can write it even better this time. I agreed that was probably true, but I was done for the night. I took out a new jump drive, obtained for the distinct purpose of taking over for the other one, and transferred the file in question. Then it was bedtime, because entire scenes vanishing can do a thing to a gal, especially on the first day of a year ending in zero.

So. Far over the  magic seven hundred, comfy in my chair, with my lap desk, wrists fully supported, handwritten “everything I can remember about this scene” pages in place, and forward I go, a one-day-old once more. Only, this time, I have cupcakes.

cupcakecravingsbyrachel

apple spice, brown sugar frosting

Typing With Wet Claws: Uncle Photobomb Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty only meant to take a picture of me for today’s blog, but she did not know Uncle was right behind me. I made her keep him in the picture because he is super handsome (even if you can only see his hands in this particular picture) and great and my favorite.  Also, he often comes home smelling like fish (he works in a restaurant that specializes in fish) so that is a pretty big bonus if you are a kitty.

While Anty agrees with me on how great Uncle is, she also reminds me who it is who feeds me all day, and the agreement we made about what we talk about, and when, on this blog. That means I have to tell you where you can see Anty’s writing this week, besides here. First, as always, Anty talked about seasonal reading preferences over at Buried Under Romance. That post is here:

http://www.buriedunderromance.com/2016/10/saturday-discussion-time-of-the-season.html and it looks like this:

 

bur21oct16

 

Then Anty got to do one of her other favorite things, and get a look at a book she really really wanted to read, before humans can buy it in stores, and then talk about it. That is her First Look at Baron, by Joanna Shupe. You can read that post at Heroes and Heartbreakers, here:

http://www.heroesandheartbreakers.com/blogs/2016/10/first-look-joanna-shupes-baron-october-25-2016  and it looks like this:

 

 

handhbaron

Anty very much likes books set in Gilded Age New York. Maybe she will write one herself, someday, but right now, she is writing two books with different settings, and that is enough for her. Part of this whole getting back on the horse thing (I have not seen any horses around the apartment, so I think Anty might mean metaphorical horses) is learning what she can handle and still produce the kind of work she wants to share with other humans. This means saying no to some things, like NaNoWriMo. That works very well for other humans, but, for Anty, it feels like too much pressure.

What works better for Anty is to dive into the story and kind of live there for a while. Without distractions is best, apart from any peripherals that help her stay in the story world. That would include her story playlists (the Beach Ball still does not have a playlist of its own, so she will listen to either her Go To Work playlist, which she listens to when writing nonfiction, or the songs she dumps on a general playlist because she likes them, but does not know what story they go with yet) any reference pictures and/or notes, and sometimes even a scented candle. Some scented candles make Uncle sick, so Anty does not burn those when he is around. Sometimes, she will keep the unlit candle around and give it a sniff when she needs to smell that smell.

Sometimes, Anty likes to get out of the house, like when she meets with Miss N on Tuesdays and when she goes to the coffee house on some afternoons. Earlier this week, she wrote on the old desktop (it does not have internet) for a while because Uncle was home, doing Uncle-y things, and Anty needed to get the work done. She was surprised how well that worked. For one thing, the big screen on the monitor is very easy for her eyes to focus on, and, for another, I know where she keeps the gummi bears. I do not eat gummi bears, because I am a kitty, but I know where she keeps them, and being near the gummi bears when writing seems to work rather well.

None of that is really news to those who have been reading this blog for a while, but Anty has a new document going because she is on a new draft, and she does not think that is very interesting to anybody but her. While she likes Scrivener for some things, right now, she is focused on building her story layers, so she is going to try moving everything to Word. That will let her do more work in her office. It is her happy place. She is pretty much splashing around in the shallows of this whole writing process thing, as one’s process can change after big life events (and she has had a few) and, when she finds something that clicks, sticking with that. I am glad that letting me blog for her on Fridays is one of those things. I do take my mews duties seriously, and I will do anything for my Anty. Except enter her office, because I do not like the carpet in there.

Normally, I would say this is about it for the week, apart from Anty being excited because A) The Walking Dead season premiere is Sunday, and B) her birthday is Monday, but it has come to my attention that the picture at the top of the page does not actually include Uncle. I am going to try that again, in case there is something picky about the size of the featured image.

20161021_090720

Photobombed by my Uncle. Best day ever.

 

There. Now, you can see Uncle’s hands above my head and behind me. That is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

skyebye

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

Only a Little Burned

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There’s that moment when a writer has two thoughts that are simultaneous, true and alarming. Thought one: work on this book is going pretty well right now. That is awesome. Thought two: the oven buzzer should have gone off by now. That is not awesome. That is alarming. Set aside papers and laptops, plot route that does not involve tripping over cat (who does not understand the reason for the sudden haste) and make tracks, as quick as possible, to the kitchen. Once there, heave sigh of relief that oven is not engulfed in flames, and imagine the disappointment and cautioning words firefighter friends would have to say on the matter of unattended ovens.

Wrench open oven door and cast a glance at timer that is, sure enough, blinking “over” because that really helps when I am at the other end of the house, nose-deep in the eighteenth century and filling in the blanks of exactly where it is Hero goes when he throws himself out of his brother’s house (not going to lie, that was a moment when I fell a teensy bit more in love with Hero, because, really, who hasn’t wanted to bail on a family argument, when the same relative brought up the same issue for the millionth time? Go, Hero.)  Not that I am advocating recklessness with fire and/or electrical wiring, or throwing things in the oven, willy-nilly, before traipsing off to a prior century. (Or current or future, or alternate universe; fill in whichever applies to the individual) I am not doing that, but I am still working on the whole baking-is-good-for-the-writing-process thing, when both baking and writing require a certain amount of concentration. This time, I think I did okay. Still waiting for the bread to fully cool to find out if the level of crispy critteredness to which I subjected it while off playing with Hero is still fit for human consumption. I hope so, because the kitchen smells amazing.

cinnamonbread191016

Only a little burned, and that’s excess anyway, not the actual bread.

 

Right now, I’m keeping one eye on the clock, because Housemate will be home any minute, and I need to get this entry up, so further HLFK work may get nudged over into the evening, when the house is quiet again, and that is okay. One, I will (hopefully) have cinnamon bread to snack on while tending the story, and two, I got this. For a writer who has been through a total lack of confidence, to the point of creative paralysis, this is heady stuff. I can do this. Look at me go. Granted, some of that going isn’t always in a straight line, and I am probably going to come out of this particular draft with a few metaphorical skinned knees and burned baked goods. Book brain is a real thing, and, after climbing out of that particular black hole, I don’t think I’m ever going to resent it ever again.

Still roughly two hundred words and change until I hit the magic seven hundred. I’ve had to put my copy of A Certain Age, by Beatriz Williams, at the other end of the house, because I’m almost at the end, and if I can get my mitts on it, I am going to inhale that sucker like it’s water and I am dying of thirst. Even though Williams is shelved as fiction, her books are so packed full of so many things I love, and have, in many cases, been missing, in historical romance, that I want to absorb them into my skin and figure out how she does it. “Unusual” historical eras? (this one is 1920s NY) Check. Period feel so real that adjusting to 21st century life when I close the book feels wrong? Check. Black moments that are more like black hole moments, because we are working on negative hope here, but then, bam, HEA after all? Oh check yes. That. I want to do that. I want to be that.

acertainage

Guh. This book.

 

Thing is, I want to do my version of that. Ms. Williams writes in the early twentieth century. Right now, I am writing late eighteenth, and, by the time I type The End for the last time on Hero and Heroine’s story, I have no doubts my feet will get itchy to explore some other time and place. I will know what I need to know, when I need to know it. Right now, I have HLFK and the Beach Ball, my Heroes and Heartbreakers posts  (new one today, by the way, gushing all over Joanna Shupe’s Baron; go look: http://www.heroesandheartbreakers.com/blogs/2016/10/first-look-joanna-shupes-baron-october-25-2016) and this blog, which fills my plate nicely. From here, it’s left foot, right foot, etc, until I have arrived at my destination. If I arrive only slightly burned, I will consider that a win.