miscellaneous

Antsy

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I’m ansty today. Part of it is that this is, technically speaking, Monday’s post on Thursday (how did it get to be Thursday?) if Wednesday’s post was indeed posted on Wednesday. If not, and it was Monday’s post, then this is yesterday’s. The fact that I am spending time on figuring this out is all part of the whole antsy thing. Do I have any idea where it came from? Not a clue. Strange hunger still doing its thing, which most likely means something is going through some sort of a change, but I did not get the memo on exactly what that something might be, so I get to try and figure it out as I go along.

That is not always a fun thing. I like knowing what’s going on, and I like having a plan to get those things done. Antsiness goes against that, in a big way. I like structure. I like road maps. All right, intuitive road maps, but my goal here is to get today’s babble done with, hit the magic seven hundred, and then reward myself with a short break. After that, I get to run away to the eighteenth century, and probably get out of the house while doing so, because A) making notes on printed pages can be done anywhere, and B) the waterfowl in Washington Park are doing this:

duckz

That’s an upside down Canada Goose in the middle of all that splashing. I like how calm his mate is, like “George? He does that all the time. No big deal. Got breadcrumbs?” I did not, in fact, have breadcrumbs (actually , frozen grapes would be better for goose and duck tummies) but I sat on that bench for a while, notebook and legal pad still inside my tote, because writing was not happening. Nope. Some days are like that. Some days, a gal has to go rogue and watch waterfowl get their weird on for an hour or so.

The gander (whom we will call George, because he seems like a George) had himself a fine time splashing about in the shallow water, and he did that for quite some time. I hadn’t expected him to go all feet-up like that, and, at first, thought that he’d hit that position by accident. I’ve never seen an upside-down goose before, and, who knows, that may be a George thing, and the other geese talk about him when they think he isn’t looking. Considering that he’s the big dude that threatens passersby, dogs, and tree limbs that look at his woman funny, maybe they don’t do it all that often, but still…feet. In. The. Air. Rolling about like I don’t even know what. I mean, what kind of goose actually goes around doing things like that? Right in front of the humans, too.

Maybe George is onto something. Maybe George was ansty, too. Maybe he’s got itchy wings and wants to head down to  Boca for the winter already, but Wilma (we will call his mate Wilma, because she looks like a Wilma) thinks the goslings aren’t ready for such a big trip yet, even though they look full grown to the humans. Then again, what do humans know? Maybe going upside down is something geese do all the freaking time, and this is only the first time this one human, personally, has seen it, so they think it’s new, but really, it’s Wednesday. Maybe the goslings have no idea what George and Wilma are going on about, because they’ve spent their entire lives in this lake. It is an awesome lake, and there is no reason to leave it. Parents, what do they know? Though the Mallards have been squawking about stopping over in Tennessee or maybe South Carolina, so the grownups could be onto something, but, dude, humans, breadcrumbs, it’s a sweet life.

Then there’s George. Maybe he was taking his regular bath, or maybe he needed to shake off some sort of goose-specific restlessness, but one thing I do know; for the hour or so I hung out around that part of the lake, earbuds in my ears, fiddling with the camera on my phone and waiting for George to do his thing again (he appears to be a champion at barrel rolls, which Wilma did not even attempt) I wasn’t antsy. It was me and it was George (and sometimes Wilma, occasionally their mallard friends) and everything else in my head sat on the back burner, where it was very much welcome to sort itself out.

As  much as I like order, some things need to simmer a while, and find their correct order on their own. Did I come away from the impromptu photo session completely refreshed and ready to take on the world? No. Did it shake off some of the antsiness? Some. Best thing that can be done at times like this is to catch the scent of what works, stay open to more of it, and follow it when I catch the next whiff. This is when I trust that the scent trail will lead to something good. Antsiness usually, for me, comes right before a growth spurt, and, with super powers returned, that’s not an entirely unsurprising concept.

Well over the magic seven hundred here, so throwing this out there, crossing it off my  list, and on to the rest of the day. My imaginary friends are calling.

Typing With Wet Claws: Mythical Vuvuzela Edition

annabowling 1 Comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is the end of September today, which means tomorrow is the start of October, when Anty’s super powers level up, and Anty does, too. Her birthday is later this month. Have I mentioned that Anty loves birthdays? They do not always have to be hers; she likes birthdays in general, but hers is one week before Halloween, which means there are lots of skull and bat themed things around. That means it is her time of year to get things she will use all year long. It also starts off the whole holiday season, from her birthday through Valentine’s Day (Anty has a very broad definition of “holiday season”) so that makes her happy.

What also makes her happy is having things written for me to tell you about before we get started. This week, there are two. On Buried Under Romance, Anty asks if it is possible for romance readers  to have too much of a good thing. That post is here: http://www.buriedunderromance.com/2016/09/saturday-discussion-too-much-of-a-good-thing.html and it looks like this:

bur300916

Is there such a thing as too many books?

 

Then, because it is the end of the month, the blogger humans at Heroes and Heartbreakers talk about their favorite reads of the month. This month, Anty’s choice was an easy one, because some books have that much of an impact. You can read about that, and the choices of other blogger humans (I do not think the editors asked any blogging cats, but maybe they will do that some other time) here: http://www.heroesandheartbreakers.com/blogs/2016/09/hah-bloggers-recommend-best-reads-september-2016 and it looks like this:

handhbestseptember

Fun fact: Anty almost picked The Hunter, by Kerrigan Byrne, too.

Okay, that is enough of that. I have been working very hard as a mews this week. When Anty is at  her secretary desk, in her office, I sit outside the door and stare at her. I still do not know what to make of the carpet in there. It is different from the carpet in the bedroom (I love the carpet in the bedroom) and the hardwood floor that is in the other rooms (except for the bathroom, kitchen and hallway, which are linoleum.) I want to be as close to Anty as possible, especially when she is writing, and I am very interested in her new chair,  but that office carpet puts me off, so that is why I stay outside the door. If the carpet were gone, I would probably come in, but it has furniture on it. Maybe someday, the humans will move it; then we will see.

Anty is still vexed (that is an old timey word, vexed. It means bothered.) and confused by the printer. It says its paper tray is empty, but it is not empty, and then when Anty tries to print, it says the paper is jammed. So, which is it, empty or jammed? Mama says they should get a new printer, but Anty says they would have a perfectly good printer if they can convince it that it is neither empty nor jammed. They may have to take it to the computer doctor, because Anty is getting to the stage in both books where she needs to print out her chapters and write things on those pages with pens.

Part of that is because that is how Anty’s brain works best, and part of it is because of the way the people vet looked at Anty when she told him how many hours a day she spends looking at a computer screen. She is making an effort to do more non-screen things when she can, such as reading paper books and giving her eyes a break by looking at things that are more than an arm’s length away every ten to fifteen minutes. Since I like to sit exactly out of arm’s reach (in case there is a chance I might be picked up; I do not like being picked up and would rather stay on the floor) I am doing my part to keep Anty from eyestrain. When her eyes need a break, she can look at me. As long as she is looking at me, she can take a short walk (to my bowl) and feed me. I am looking out for her exercise needs as well. I take my mews duties very seriously.

Because Landlady Human sent her husband over with a ladder, so he could change the batteries in the smoke detectors, it is mostly quiet here now. I say mostly because Anty is using her headphones to listen to music right now, and because the chirping smoke alarms have been replaced by a vuvuzela player in the basement. I am kidding on that last part. We do not really have a vuvuzela player in the basement. One of our downstairs neighbors is a step dancer, though, and her troupe rehearses in the basement, but without vuvuzela accompaniment, as far as I know. The sound comes from air coming through our pipes, but the handyman human is working on that, so it will be quiet again soon.

Other than that, things are falling into place for what Anty hopes will be a productive autumn. She is making progress on Her Last First Kiss and the Beach Ball, and has several posts for Heroes and Heartbreakers in the works, which means she has a lot of reading to do. She likes all of those things, so that works out well. That is also about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

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

Bound By The Work We Started

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My new office chair is in place. Smoke detectors are done chirping and back to protecting our safety. Blog entry is next on my list of Things To Do, before I dive, with love and uncertainty, back into the actual writing and related tasks (of which blogging is assuredly one) and title comes from the Sting song that was playing when I opened WordPress today. Not a pop song, but a selection from probably the only-ever hit Broadway show about shipbuilding, The Last Ship. Probably only Sting could ever write a hit Broadway show about downtrodden shipbuilders reclaiming their moxie, but he’s Sting, so he can.

Yesterday, I hit a huge pit of gaming withdrawal. I don’t remember the last time I was able to boot Sims 3, and the missing it hit me, hard. Okay, a friend squealing over how great Fallout 4 looked on her new PlayStation may have had something to do with that. I tried booting Sims 3 but ye olde lapptoppe wouldn’t hold an internet connection long enough to boot, so that was out of the question. Still, I had the hunger. My work for the day was done. I needed to calm down from a couple of stress triggers, and I knew gaming would do the trick…which would be super helpful if I could actually boot my game.

Which was when the other thing hit me. I still had Sims Medieval (TSM) installed, and (thank you, organization) the CD was right at hand. Popped that puppy in, and, after a couple of false starts, boom, game. I knocked off a quest for my blacksmith in pretty short order, took some screenshots, and impressed myself with how much fun it was to get back to it, after al this time. Sims and a  historical environment should be a natural for me, and it is. Sure, there are some drawbacks, because it isn’t like real Sims. I can’t build, for one thing, and I have to do quests, rather than making my Sims live their lives (preferably in a custom neighborhood that looks like Levittown and Centralia somehow collided) but it felt good to play with some form of pixel people, and I hadn’t played since Origin installed the update, so there should be some new-to-me stuff.

There’s also the fact that it’s been so long that part of the game does feel like I’m playing it for the first time again, but I have enough experience from those long-ago quests that I’m not starting at zero, even if it feels like it. Rupert, my blacksmith, pictured above (he’s the dude; chick is Queen Sascha, who sent him on his quest) is now at level nine of his career, so he’s got some cred and swagger. Also a nifty assistant who does a bunch of his work for him, which is a big perk.

What does this all have to do with writing, one might ask? It’s okay. Go ahead. I did. Half the time I write these blogs, I don’t know where I’m going when I start, but if I do keep going, I usually figure it out, because I’m me, so I can. Aha. Kind of like Sting in that respect. All right, that may be the only thing Sting and I have in common. I am pretty sure I am never going to write a hit Broadway musical about shipbuilding (or anything else, most likely. I also got thrown out of robed choir in high school, for having a bad voice -teacher’s words- in front of the entire class, but hey, I got to read romance novels while everybody else sang, so who really won that breakup?) Then again, Sting is probably never going to write a historical romance novel. (If he did, though, I’d probably read it.) Which is all okay, because there’s room for both in this crazy world we live in, and lots of people like both. It’s not an either/or kind of thing going on here. I appreciate that.

The more we exercise any muscle, the stronger it gets. When I booted TSM last night, it wasn’t real Sims. I hadn’t played in forever. There were going to be things I forgot, skills that got rusty, and I didn’t remember who all my characters were. I wanted to game, though, needed to game, and this was the game I could play, and so it was going to happen. Little splashing around in the shallows, but then I got into it and, by the time I shut down because I had to adult, quest completed, fun had, next quest already picked out. It felt a lot like writing, which is why I like the Sims franchise. It uses a lot of the same muscles; character creation, the development of relationship, goals, motivations and conflicts, and, in the end, telling a story. Telling a story is what I love most. Plop it in an old-timey setting, and I am home, baby.

Reaching the points I’m at for the current mss is scary, because I’ve leveled up. I beat the monster of the first levels, laid my foundations, and now I need to build and fortify. Decorate, because making things look right is part of the fun. Combat the bigger, stronger monsters that come with each new level, because my big goal is defeating the boss at the end. Or, in the case of writing a book, The End. All those voices that say “you can’t do it,” or, worse, “you can’t do it anymore,” those need to be drowned out by the clicking of keys, the scratch of pen against paper, a playlist with a respectable amount of Sting on it, and one foot in front of the other until the final draft is done.

Sweetest Workshop Hangover

annabowling 2 Comments

Happy Monday, all. It’s a lovely seventysomething here in New York’s Capitol Region, and I am in my comfy chair, laptop in my lap (lap desk needs replacing, as the cushion has deflated, the handle is hanging loose, and the coating on the surface of the desk is cracked and peeling; this desk has served me well) and actually have a topic. This all bodes well, so let’s see how it goes.

I spent my Saturday here:
http://cr-rwa.org/2016/09/before-you-hit-send-workshop-with-angela-james-is-this-saturday/

and can very highly recommend Angela James’s workshop, which, oddly enough, I am probably not going to talk about much here, even though that was kind of my entire point. I have masses of notes and some hefty handouts on self-editing, to go over and put into heavy use when I get to the self-editing stage. Right now, I am focused on writing and co-writing these two WIPs, and all the rest comes after I type/co-type The End. What I’m blabbering about instead, is the experience. Also the stuff, because I am all about pens and paper, and hey, they outright give them to you at these things, even if you bring your own.

I love conferences and workshops, because I love writing romance, and I love people, and being in a hotel or part of a hotel, filled with other people who also love writing romance, and are there for the same reason I am, to improve our craft and advance our careers, is about as good as it gets. This was probably the least prepared I have ever been for an actual RWA event, and, surprisingly, I was fine with that. Presenter was Angela James, who is pretty high up the ladder at Carina Press, so she presumably knows her stuff when it comes to editing (she does.) I knew I was riding in with N, conveyed by her lovely husband, Mr. N, and had plans to meet up with Sue Ann Porter, and several of my CRRWA chapter sisters and brothers (yep, we got dudes.) Potential to meet new friends, and did find the lovely surprise of meeting with one of my Last Call Girls, M, (don’t have permission to use her name yet, which, in retrospect,  I probably should have secured beforehand, but then again, maybe I can make being an initial on my blog can become some kind of thing. Yeah. We’ll go with that one. Some pictures of me hanging out with beautiful blondes. That’s Sue Ann Porter in the pink, and the lovely Miss M in the snazzy specs.

Sue Ann Porter, and me
Me and the delightful MIss M

 

Most important thing I learned about taking all day workshops came at the registration desk, when I realized there was only one place to put my name tag. Clip on name tags and V-necked shirts provide a unique challenge. I will remember this for next time and bring an actual jacket with me, for name tag purposes, and in case the venue’s air conditioning is set to Polar Bear. I appreciate that it was ninety-three degrees outside and so humid that I am fairly certain I saw air fish. We will not discuss the weather on Saturday night, but I am extremely thankful for the cooler weather that came after.

One of the best parts of any conference or workshop is getting a good group at one’s table at meals, and this was no exception. Me, Sue Ann, M, and N, one tiny table in this room:

diningroom

Snazzy, huh?

When we got back from stuffing ourselves with the bounty of a respectable sandwich bar and dessert buffet, we found a nice surprise waiting at our seats.

After lunch surprise
Notepad front
Notepad back

 

Carina Press brochure, some fun reading-themed stickers, Carina Press pen, and vintage Harlequin cover themed notepads. Do they know me or what? There were different titles for the notepads, but The Widow Gay seemed to be the hot property of the day. I am highly in favor of book covers on notebooks. Heck, I am highly in favor of notebooks, period. The notebook I brought, and filled nineteen of its pages, I’ve had for a while. The pages are horizontally striped, one line blue, the next white, so a lot easier for my eyes to focus on and find where I am when I look away and then back. I used the same gel pens I keep on  hand for my commonplace notebook, and found that rotating through the colors, one per subject, should make finding pertinent sections easier when I go back to study them.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, all well and good, and you’ve  hit your precious magic seven hundreds, Miss Talky Talk Writer Person, but what did you learn? Well, several things. Writer things. A good, comprehensive review of the basics of self editing, which I will definitely put into play once these two books are done, because I’m looking forward to that phase. For right now, what’s most important is to get from Once Upon a Time, to Happily Ever After. What I got from this workshop the most is that I am on the right track. If I’m not all the way back on the horse (how on earth do we measure that, anyway?) I’ve got at least one foot in the stirrup. I’ll take that, and gladly.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Precautionary Cone of Shame Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. This has been a week full of adventures, as you can see by this week’s picture. Normally, I have to talk about Anty’s writing before I say anything else, but Anty says that, this time, I am allowed to talk about my butt first, because some people might worry when they see I am wearing the cone of shame.

Normally, I am a very good girl, but this morning, Anty saw some red next to my puddle, and asked Uncle to look at my butt while she picked me up (I do not like being picked up, but I loooove Uncle.) Uncle said he did see a very tiny pink spot. Busted. Now they know I was going at my bottom when the humans were not looking. That is why I have the cone of shame on, so that I cannot do that again. Uncle said it was only a very small spot, but Anty is cautious. She had Uncle hold me while she put the cone on me. Then they fed me, because I really love my food, and they wanted to make sure I can do all the normal kitty things with the cone on me. As it turns out, I can. It also helps me gain pathetic points when I give them hungry eyes, so this may actually work in my favor. This may also mean the return of the butt compress, but I am not sure. We will see. If the humans have any doubts, back to the pokey place we go.

Okay, enough of that. Time to talk about Anty’s writing, because we have a lot of ground to cover this week. Anty’s latest Buried Under Romance post is about how to handle a book hangover. If you have read a book that stays with you after you are done, and it is hard to get into a different book afterwards, that is what it is. If it has not happened to you yet, Anty says you need to read more books. I suggest hers. The post is here and looks like this:

BUR

I think feeding kitties also helps book hangovers. I suggest feeding me.

In case the computer is picky and the link does not work, you can read the post here:

http://buriedunderromance.com/2016/08/saturday-discussion-the-sweetest-book-hangover.html

Anty will get to the bottom of what is making the links go all picky later, because she is busy writing right now. She and Anty Melva outlined the rest of the Beach Ball this week, and Anty Melva says they are almost halfway through. That is very exciting. Still no cats in that story, though. I am disappointed in both of them. Anty is also making good progress on Her Last First Kiss, and hopes that there are no more big adventures in this upcoming week, so she can make up for time that last week’s adventures took.

Even before I got busted on the butt thing, it was an exciting week. First, while Anty was getting the house ready for Aunt Mary and Uncle Brian’s visit, Mama came home and asked if Anty had seen the notice from Gas Company on the door. Anty had not. What happened was that, while Gas Company humans were turning on the gas for our new neighbor, Miss S, they found something that needed fixing. They had to turn the gas off so that the right human could come and fix it. That meant that we could not cook for our guests. That was all right, because Anty Mary loves Crave, the burger place very close to our house, so the humans had their lunch there. I stayed home and had fish jelly . I regret nothing. Except getting caught with the butt thing. That, I regret.

CraveFoodCollage

What the humans ate. Things in the basket are birdie wings.

If the link does not work, I will put it here:

http://cravealbany.com/

 

 

Since Anty Mary knows Anty loves pirates, she brought her one. Now Anty has Will Turner from Pirates of the Caribbean to watch over her writing. I do not know if I have the heart to tell him there are no pirates in Her Last First Kiss. Maybe next book.

20160826_094945

Newest member of Anty’s crew..

 

 

All the humans went to the New York State Museum of Natural History. The link to that is here: http://www.nysm.nysed.gov/

Anty’s favorite exhibit was Hudson Valley Ruins, because she loves pictures of abandoned places. They make her think about stories right away, about who might have lived there, and why they left, and what they took and left behind, and other story questions like that. She did not get to see her favorite permanent exhibit, forensic reconstructions of skulls taken from colonial graves, but she will go see it another time. There is also a carousel there, that she likes to ride, but tehre was not time to ride it. Another time, again. It is a very big museum, with a lot of things to see. There is a whole exhibit on birdies that live in this part of the country. I think that would be my favorite exhibit if I were to go there, but that would require leaving the house, and I do not like leaving the house.

For those of you who were wondering about the gas part of this entry, yes, the gas is back on, which means Anty can cook and take hot baths again. A lack of baths makes Anty cranky, and nobody wants that. Especially not me. Anty is the one in charge of when I cant take off the cone of shame. She says its proper name is “Elizabethan collar.” Maybe she  needs to read more Elizabethan romance novels, instead of dressing up her cat in period costume. I think that might help.

Anty is making her need-the-computer noises, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

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

Another Meh-nic Monday

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It’s been one of those days. I’m tired, Real Life Romance Hero is not feeling his greatest, and I’ve written and erased false starts to this blog at least five times. This has been one of those days when it feels like I’m smashing my head against a brick wall instead of putting fingers to keyboard. It’s not entirely unproductive. I wrote some in longhand while at the Laundromat this morning, but I’d like to have done more. The day isn’t over yet, so maybe I still will, but maybe it’s time to fall back on an old bit of common sense. If I’m not able to put out, then maybe it’s time to take in for a while.

Now that it’s finally August, with school supplies and even the first trickles of Halloween merchandise in the stores, summer doesn’t seem quite so endless anymore. The weather has been gorgeous the last couple of days. Cool, gray and rainy. We should be getting thunderstorms later tonight. Skye is not terribly thrilled about that, and I’m not sure it’s going to be RLRH’s weather of choice at present, but I’m looking forward to it, hopefully to be observed from beneath a comfy afghan, cup of tea optional but likely.

RulerBlackboard

at least that’s the plan

Today, I took down the cobbled-together  calendar I’d assembled from blank calendar pages, paper clipped to last year’s calendar, and replaced it with the ruler-framed chalkboard. I have my planner when I need a calendar, and there’s a calendar right on the computer. We’ll revisit the calendar thing when we see the 2017 collections appear. Having something intentional on my wall, and something I can easily change at will, feels like a much better fit that a mess that gave me a headache every time I looked at it. If I really super need a calendar in that particular spot on my wall, I can draw a grid on the blackboard, but I don’t foresee that becoming a screaming need in the immediate future.

DailyCarryAug12016

Current daily carry

New office supplies are always a mood booster, and this time of year means it’s time to stock up on the necessities at a bargain price. The big notebook (which is for a particular project) doesn’t fit in the pouch, but that’s why I have the mini Moleskine Volant. Even on days like this one, when the mehs set in, the lure of fresh paper, pens and highlighters, is pretty darned hard to resist. Bonus points for encouragement from Sir Winston Churchill.

SkullCup

my new drinking buddy

Well over halfway to the end of this entry, so entering free babble mode here so I can cross “blog entry” off my list and get to that carrot on the stick, the reading. Reading can do a lot to turn a meh day around, so my hopes are high that this will be the case. Current  reads include, but are not limited to,  Marrying Winterbourne, by Lisa Kleypas, and  Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, by Jesse Andrews. I’d seen the movie version of Me and Earl, loved it, and binge-read my way through Jesse Andrews’s other novel, The Haters, which I also loved, so had to give the book version of Me and Earl a shot. So far, so good, even if I’ve only been able to read in short spurts lately.

That right there may be a big contributor to today’s meh-ness. Taking in story is important, especially for those of us whose careers depend upon putting out story. Especially-especially for those of us getting back up on the metaphorical horse. That’s how we make the transition from mundane world to story world. That’s how we hone our own voices, by reading/hearing the work of others. Earlier today, H and I chatted on Skype, her sharing tidbits from her current reading material – the letters Alexander Hamilton wrote to Eliza. We both agreed that, if Alexander were alive today, he’d be constantly texting Eliza, who would probably appreciate him dialing it back a notch, because raising eight children and all that kind of thing, does require a portion of a gal’s attention. I actually snort-laughed when H shared a video of Lin-Manuel Miranda, at a Ham for Ham event, reading from the actual letters, came to the part where Alexander suggested he and Eliza start numbering their letters, because obviously  some of them were getting lost, and that way, they could tell which ones. This would be letter number one, and would she please write back soon?

The above was indeed relevant to my interests, as Hero, in Her Last First Kiss, carries a portable (lap) desk around with him; Hero would totally be on Alexander’s side with this one. Numbered letters; why didn’t he ever think of that? Okay, there we go, babbled myself back into story mode. Mission accomplished.

:cracks open paperback:

See you Wednesday.

Typing With Wet Claws: Happy Cat-nada Day Edition

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Hello all, Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Because this is a holiday, I am allowed to wish all who celebrate a happy Canada Day. We are not Canadian, but we live far enough north in New York, that some of the street signs tell us how to get to Montreal.  At the bodega across the street, we can buy Canada Dry ginger ale (well, a lot of other places, too) and once, we got all dressed potato chips there, which are popular in Canada. Anty probably knows more about the Degrassi franchise than an American of her, um, vintage, should, especially the original cast version. She also likes reading books by Canadian authors like Mary Balogh, Virginia Henley, Marsha Canham, and the late Jo Beverley. Maybe she needs to do some remedial reading of said authors, in celebration. Maybe while eating poutine, because some local restaurants have that on the menu. We have some Canadian neighbours (note Canadian spelling, please) we could invite to join us:

20160621_113814

I think some of these birdies are bigger than me.

 

Holiday wishes conveyed, Anty’s latest post on Buried Under Romance is all about the covers on romance novels. This can be a very heated topic, especially as trends in cover art, and the mediums in which said trends are executed, are constantly changing. What kinds of covers do you like or not like to see? Anty would love to know. Her post is here, and it looks like this:

BUR

What does your ideal romance cover look like?

Even though Anty is not Canadian, she is celebrating vicariously today. It is always nice to be happy for one’s neighbors, so there is that. Besides being close enough to the border for some things to dribble down, Anty has a writer friend she talks to through the glowy box, who is Canadian, and she would like for her friend to have a nice day. Hero and Heroine have a Canadian connection, too, which means that Anty has to learn new things about what Canada was like in the time Her Last First Kiss takes place.

One thing she already knows ties in with her rabid Anglophilia, and her own connection to the Revolutionary era. The part of New York where Anty spent her people kittenhood had a lot of British sympathizers still living there when the war was over. As you can imagine, that was not the best place for them to be, so going someplace else was in their best interests. Many of them made the trip north, and began new lives in Canada. That is something some of Hero’s relatives do, in Her Last First Kiss, and something Anty has always found very interesting. She has visited a museum that has (probably a replica of) a document that announced the date all British subjects/sympathizers needed to be gone from that town (since the British army did burn down the whole town at one point during the war, I can see where there might be some bad blood going on there.)  That was one of those moments that sent a jolt of electricity through her writerblood. Anty says it was like touching history, to read that. She can only imagine what it must have been like to actually see the notice nailed up  in person, and know that the people the notice addressed would mean her and her family. Maybe that will be in a story someday.

Anty actually has been to Canada, once, when she was a tiny people kitten. Anty’s mama’s anty (and several other relatives) lived in Dunkirk, NY, and Anty’s parents took her there for a visit. Since they were close enough to the Canadian border, they took a day trip to bring Anty to the Canadian side of Niagra Falls. One of Anty’s mama’s relatives thought it would be funny to tell Anty (remember, she was a very tiny people kitten when this happened) that visitor to Niagra Falls had to go over it in a barrel. Suffice it to say that Anty was not entirely on board with this idea, but her parents got her into the carrier anyway. She had never been to a different country before, so crossing the border was a new experience.

Seeing Niagra Falls in person was also a new experience. Anty loves waterfalls anyway, and her mama’s relative was wrong; the vast majority of people stand on land and look, although some get to go in a boat (Anty’s family did not; they stayed on land.) Getting Anty back in the carrier to go back to Anty’s mama’s anty’s house was another matter, because A) being in a different country is very, very interesting for a very tiny people kitten who has never done that before, and B) giant waterfalls. Giant waterfalls are also very, very interesting to a very tiny people kitten. Anty’s papa had to bribe her with a toy canoe made of real bark, and a doll dressed like an indigenous Canadian girl. Anty is not sure to which people group that doll’s character belonged, but it was probably Algonkian or Iroquois. Since it was already a very long trip to see Anty’s mama’s anty, they did not get to visit Niagra Falls again, but that does not mean the story is over.

Anty and Uncle would like to visit Anty’s friend from the glowy box someday. Anty’s friend does not actually live inside the glowy box. She lives in Montreal, which is a big city, with many interesting things Anty and Uncle might like to see. I, of course, would stay home, because I am a kitty.

Now, it is time for Anty to work on her books, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

 

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Until next week…

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

 

Mental Health Day

annabowling 2 Comments

This may be the only thing I write all day. Then again, maybe it’s not. I’m not sure, at this point, where the figurative road will take me today, but I knew, when I woke at two and four and five and six, that this was a day I needed to recharge. The weekend had its share of domestic tornadoes, the weather was hot, and, at the time I got up (well, some of the times,) I fully expected temperatures in the high eighties, and blazing sunlight, neither of which are conducive to me at my best. When I come up short with topics for my morning pages, I write about what my ideal plan would be for that particular day, if I could do anything-anything. Anything-anything means I am not bound by mundane concerns like weather, transportation, money, desired companions being alive or non-fictional, that sort of thing. Today, my plan did not take up a lot of space on the page: stay home and red books. Maybe nap. So I did. Or, rather, I am.

The weather we actually got is a little different than what I expected. Current temperature as of this writing is still eighty-six, but we have a light rain, which means cloud cover, so sun is not an issue. It doesn’t feel that hot. The house is quiet. Real Life Romance Hero and Housemate are both off at work, and I could be. (Am, because I’m writing this? Am, because filling the well is part of the process? Am, because the Skype conference I had with Melva yesterday about Beach Ball is still fresh in my mind, and the wheels are turning, even if that’s not my main concern for the day?) There is still a lot of day left in front of me, still time before Housemate returns home, yet more time before RLRH returns home, and Skye is, as always, respectful of my clickety-clack on the glowy box.

Last night, everybody was home. Last night, the weather was sticky hot and icky humid. Last night, I had one shot at a Skype conference with Melva before she headed off for a family vacation, where she will, no doubt, recline on sparkling white beaches with Mr. Melva, for more than a week. The only private place to have said conference would be in my office, which would, if the door were closed, qualify as an oven. Housemate kindly clambered atop the kitchen stool and activated the ceiling fan, and, once it had been going for a while, made the room rather…inhabitable. This is kind of a new thing. I could get used to that. Melva and I made plans for the next few scenes of the Beach Ball, and I spent the rest of the evening chatting with another writer friend, and poking another project with a figurative stick. I would have stayed longer, and likely picked up a second wind, but I was about to go facedown on the keyboard, and did not have the mental faculties to read, let alone write. Hence, today.

I still count today as a productive day. I have napped (not intentionally; it kind of happened, but I figure I needed it) and opening my laptop to write this entry is the first time I’ve touched the machine (apart from carrying it from office to living room – nearly a year into owning this lovely pink piece of technology, and I am still amazed at how light she is) all day. Apart from checking a couple of things on my phone, I’ve been unplugged. Stuck my nose in a book, a paper one, read purely for pleasure, no writing about it needed. I haven’t played any music or gone anywhere near Netflix or YouTube or any of that.

Instead, I’ve read. I’ve spent time with RLRH. Took time to have lunch and do nothing but have lunch while having lunch. Played with Skye. Napped. Considered what only-for-pleasure book I will read next, after I have finished this one (and I may finish it during this calendar day, too, or maybe tomorrow) and when I might want to visit the library next, and harvest a fresh crop. Rolled my current writing projects around in my head, in the background this time, instead of the foreground, made a few mental notes that will translate to paper notes in a bit. For now, I want them to marinate.

I am surprised that I don’t feel guilty. There are no Hypercritical Gremlin voices calling me a slacker, while they jump up and down and turn a redder shade of purple, their fuzz standing out on end (it does that when they are ruffled; the are usually ruffled) and clench their fists. Instead, I feel…peaceful. Beyond the box fan in the window, I hear light rain, and car tires on pavement, one of my top three favorite sounds of ever. The fan blows cool air over my bare legs. I am debating getting up to refill my travel mug with cold seltzer. Maybe once I post. Maybe after I read another chapter. Maybe after another nap. Maybe if I nip into this document, for only a moment, to jot one thing down.

 

Digging Up Bones

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Somewhere, on one of these four flash drives, (or possibly my old laptop, definitely my old desktop, but that one isn’t speaking to me at the moment) is the flash fiction that you, my liebchens, have earned by hitting the magic 450 followers. Where I know I have it for sure is in the notebooks where I originally wrote it, in a storage unit a two hour drive away, and several boxes back in from the front. Possibly behind furniture or kitchen equipment, or miscellaneous items that really do need a new home. In short, it’s been a while.

I’d originally planned to post the flash fiction today, and there is one piece that made it onto one of the drives, which may end up being the one, but that overthinky part of me wants to look for another one. A particular one. No, maybe two. The first piece of fiction I ever sold was a story poem, that I still kind of like, but not sure if it needs to be aired out again after all this time. The particular story I have in mind isn’t a romance, though it does have a strong romantic element. Women’s fiction, I’d call it, if I had to shelve it right now. It’s a tragic story, and I still remember how wrapped in the emotion of it I felt as I wrote it. It’s complete as it is, a snapshot (or sketch, in this instance, as the viewpoint character is an artist) of one particular moment, so I don’t feel a need or even desire to spin it out into a full novel. Not every story is meant to go the entire distance, and this one is what it is. I recycled the name of the secondary character, though the book that used that recycled name is, while not miscarried, in suspended animation (protect your voice, and protect your vision; these things, I learned the hard way) until all of the “bad juju,” as BFF terms it, has burnt off. There was a lot. This may take a while, and what ultimately comes out of it will probably bear very little resemblance to what I first envisioned, but the core will still be the same.

Apple trees, as it were, can only grow apples. Trying to force an apple tree to suddenly grow tangerines, even if the neighbors are huge tangerine aficionados, and/or tangerines are now the hot fruit in the produce world, isn’t going to work. These bits of things, on these assorted drives (the small orange one is my current drive, but problematic, as the slightest touch, including that of air currents, seems to throw it into a tizzy; the big black and red one has given up the ghost, and taken its contents with it; the blue one shares writing folders with Sims content, and the black one has surprised me with its longeviety) are all part of my foundation, each a step in the road that got me to where I am today.

When I look through these files, it’s like seeing old friends, reliving close calls, bullets dodged, lessons learned, both the positive and negative, and I’m not sure how I feel about that at present. Were there some things I would have done differently? Certainly so, but the time machine is being serviced at present, so I can only go forward from where I am at this moment. Are there things I once did, that I could do again? Again, absolutely. Some of those may need some modification, and that’s okay.

What I feel most when I look through these files is hard to give a name to, but if I had to guess, it would be “recognition.” This is how I did things before life took a big freaking detour through the unexpected. This is how it was when I was confident and, at times, if caught on a particularly good day, feeling basically bulletproof. It’s my own personal history. Genres tried on and set aside, experiments that failed and those that succeeded, and always, always, the way I got back on my feet to try something else yet again. We have a history, these drives and I, and I’m not getting rid of the black and red one, because, even if I can’t access the files, it’s still part of me. If, someday, I can, all the better.

Some of these stories, files, ideas, manuscripts, are dead and buried. Some, we’re not going to talk about and pretend do not exist. Others have gone to seed, and will give new life to something else. There may be a few nuggets of gold in there, which, after some sifting and polishing, might yet have their moment. One or two things are patiently biding their time, waiting for me to finally be big enough to handle what they already know they want to be. What I do know for sure is that these drives hold my history, and some (but not all) of what is yet to come. A bit of old, a bit of new, a bit of now; it all mixes together and takes on a life of its own.

I will admit that going through these drives and their files feels a smidge Doctor Frankenstein-y, digging up things long buried and looking to make new life out of them, but that’s an occupational hazard for may writers. When we put something in the figurative earth, sometimes we don’t know if we’re burying a body or planting seeds. Even then, what comes up may be plant or zombie. The only thing for it is to keep on moving forward. The more targets we shoot at, the more targets we are likely to hit. So we keep at it. Butt in chair, fingers on keyboard, pen on paper. The harvest will come.

 

Throwback Thursday: Duluth, Part One

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I sometimes forget the lessons of my past. We all have them. But don’t worry they come back to remind you that your journey isn’t over.
-Adrian Paul

I normally don’t do Throwback Thursday, but blogging three times per week is one of my goals, and since I am not going to show up at my next CR-RWA meeting (especially because I will be the speaker) on February 14th and say I did not meet my goals (if I make a goal public, I will meet that or die trying; it’s something I do) and because Sue Ann Porter has a way of encouraging me, today, you get to hop in my wayback machine.

The year was 2013, our family newly arrived in Albany, my writer brain in a constant state of shock and caught between projects. I had only recently discovered the joys of Hudson River Coffee House, where I am writing this entry. On this particular day, date lost to the wilds of time, Housemate banished me there after one of my mild freakouts (“What on earth am I doing, thinking I can write anymore?” variety) and said I had to write something. So, there was this:

2012 was one of those years. Family health issues. Planning and carrying out an interstate move when one family member was not physically able to make any of the apartment hunting trips. Carrying out said move in stages, one of them involving sending one family member into a hurricane to carry out said stage solo because another did not want a third anxiety attack that week. A first trip to the hospital from our new home. Changes in important relationships. Buying a second snow shovel because we live in Albany and it’s winter and one shovel is not going to dig us out properly.

2013 is an unknown quantity. I’m letting one ms settle and diving into another. It scares me. What on earth am I getting myself into? Fear. The bad kind. Fear. The good kind.

What’s the difference between the two? Good question. When I find out, I will let you know, but I’ll give it a stab (and stabbing does seem like a good option at times, the object of which can vary.)

Bad fear = what if every bad thing anybody ever said about my writing is true? What if it’s true and I have no other marketable skills? What if I really do suck? What if I suck and there was something I could have done to not suck but I didn’t do it and now it’s too late to fix it because I really do suck and it’s all my fault? What if I have to live with the wanting to write and the needing to write and never being able to write for the rest of my life ? DOOM! DOOM!DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!

Good fear = I have never done X before, but it could be fun. Am I really doing it right?

:pokes X with a stick, then scuttles back a safe distance to observe:

:comes back, presuming the poking of X did not result in personal death or obliteration of all humankind; pokes X again. Repeat until done, then poke something else.:

Do I have all the answers? No. Do I have  my answers? Maybe. Let me look around the bottom of my purse a while longer. Or fumble my way through manuscript B and occasionally poke A with a stick. There is fear, both kinds. There are times I feel like I can’t find my way back to my normal writing self any more than I can find my way to Apartment Four, 738 North Anything Street in Duluth, Minnesota. At night. In a snowstorm. On foot. Wearing earplugs. During a blackout. In the zombie apocalypse. One thing is sure, though; if I never take one step, I’ll never get there.

So. This is a step. Today, I wrote. Is it a completed work of fiction between eighty and one hundred thousand words in my chosen genre? No. Is it real? Yes. Is it true? Yes. Is it finished? Yes. Did it bring me one step closer to that mythical apartment in Duluth? Yes. Are the residents expecting me? Maybe. I’ll find out when I get there. So will you. We all have a Duluth. I firmly believe that, and I firmly beleive that putting one foot in front of the other will eventually get you there. Maybe you’re on the right track now, and maybe you’ll need to circle the world a time or two, but the surest way to make sure you never get there is to not try. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Dress in layers. Stay hydrated. Rest, and then continue. Fill the well. Write something. Ask for directions. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. See you there.