miscellaneous

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.

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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.

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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,

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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.

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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:

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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:

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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

annabowling 2 Comments

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.

Typing With Wet Claws: Special Christmas Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate, and happy Thursday to those who not. Skye here, pinch hitting for Anty on Christmas day. I have never written two blogs in one week before, so I am a little nervous here. Anty said she really needs me to blog for her today, because she is very busy, so I will give it a try. There is a lot of stuff going on today.  I will try to hit the highlights.

Wrapping paper is very noisy, in case you were wondering.

Wrapping paper is very noisy, in case you were wondering.

Anty got up very early this morning to make sure all the Christmas things were in order. We are having company this year, which we usually do not, but Anty gets excited over company, so things are happening. Lots of presents under the tree. This year, Anty decided that black and white wrapping paper is classy and versatile, so it was mostly that and the kraft paper she uses for a lot of different things. Anty, Uncle and Mama exchanged presents after breakfast. I hid under the bed because wrapping paper is very noisy when it is getting unwrapped. Fun to play with in small amounts, though. I will bat some of it around later tonight, probably after company has gone home.

Mr. and Mrs. Gothy Claus

 

Sometimes, new characters pop up in Anty and Uncle’s heads, that live with us instead of inside books. This year, Mr. and Mrs. Gothy Claus happened, because they were both wearing black.  They both wear a lot of black. Some of my fur is black, too. Uncle’s hat says “Bah Humbug.” Anty makes him wear it all during presents. That is okay, because he likes it. I do not wear anything on my head. Ribbon bows were discussed when I first joined the family (I have been here a few years) and I said very big no thank you, because ribbon bows are scary and I do not want them on my head.

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Anty is not wearing all black today; yesterday, she painted her toenails red with green glitter. She said she wanted obnoxious Christmas nails. She didn’t get a chance to do her fingernails, but the toes came out nicely. Did I mention I love the smell of nail polish? I always want to be really really close to her when she does her nails. Then I stare at her, very hard. It’s a cat thing.

The only holiday movie Anty has had a chance to see so far is A Very Brady Christmas, which she says is perfect in its horribleness. I do not understand the criteria Anty has for judging movies. She and Mama plan to watch more Christmas movies during the upcoming week. I will probably hide under the bed if they laugh too loudly, which they probably will. i will come out for treat, though, and possibly playtime.

That is about it for now, at least until the company comes. I will tell you about the rest of the day tomorrow.

Until then, I remain very truly yours,

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

Typing With Wet Claws: Running Late Edition

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Skye here, for another Feline Friday.

We had big snow this week. I am an inside kitty, so I was not out in it, but snow does make Anty happy, so she was. She did not take any pictures so far, but she says winter is young, and there wasn’t a lot of time, She said it was something to do with the domestic tornadoes we had this week. Human lives get complicated, and often involve trips to the laundromat. I am not entirely sure what happens in a laundromat, but Anty says she does a lot of her writing there. Since she always takes her notebooks with her, that makes a lot of sense.

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The Christmas tree went up this week, as did the lights around the doorways to the living room and Uncle’s office. Last night, one of the light strings fell down when I was sitting under it. That was scary. It did not hit me, but still not something I would care to repeat. The humans gave me food to make me feel better.. That worked.  I also got more food when Uncle decided to see if I would play with the light from the big flashlight. I did not. Silly Uncle. Lights are not toys. Crumpled papers are toys. Anty makes me a lot of them, so that works out well.

Anty worked a lot this week. She has a new post up at Heroes and Heartbreakers, about the 200th episode of Bones. It is here and it looks like this:

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Beyond that, she says she has kept her head down and eyes on her own paper, which is probably a human thing. She will explain later. Since she keeps her eyes on her paper, I keep my eyes on her. Most years, she watches a lot of Christmas movies and reads Christmassy books, but so far, nothing this year. This concerns me. Writing and pre-writing time is good, but that takes a lot of energy away from important things like playing with me. Christmassy movies and TV shows usually mean she will make popcorn. I don’t eat it (as it is not kitty food) but the smell is amazing. Same with hot chocolate, of which there has not been any yet that I can tell. This also concerns me. Knowing Anty as I do, I know her Christmas fever is going to kick in sooner or later, and the longer it takes to start, the harder it will hit when it does.

Really, it’s in everyone’s best interest that she start as soon as possible. I am not sure what I can do to get that underway, (if you have suggestions, feel free to leave them in the comments) but the decorations being up is a very good start.

Tomorrow, Anty will be going to her CRRWA meeting, which is always a good thing. She gets to spend time with other romance writers, hang out in a library and best of all, come home to feed me.

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That’s about it for this week.

Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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

Typing With Wet Claws: Skye’s introduction

annabowling 2 Comments
Skye O'Malley, the kitty, not the book.

Skye O’Malley, the kitty, not the book.

Hello. I am Skye O’Malley, the kitty, not the book. My friend, Bailey, helps out his mom, Sue Ann Porter,  with her blog, so he thinks that I should do the same thing. My mama does not write books or have a blog (she plays with strings that turn into sweaters and things,) but my Anty Anna does, so I will help her.

Most days, my mama and Uncle (Anty calls him Real Life Romance Hero) are out hunting, so Anty hunts from home. Usually, she’s on her glowy box, which looks like this picture below now, because she killed the first keyboard and then had to get a second one. That second one sits on top of the first, and sometimes tries to type things on that first keyboard on its own. I do not think she wants it to do that, but her characters do not always behave themselves either. Writers must be used to disobedience.

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In case you want to know what it looks like where I work (I am a professional mews) this is what Anty sees when she looks away from her glowy box.

Workstation of the mews

Workstation of the mews

Anty says not all of those notebooks are there all of the time, and they really are not. She does use a lot of paper, though. If I am a really good kitty, I get to play with some of it. I like to stay close in case Anty needs some inspiration, or wants to pet a kitty with her foot. In case she wants to feed a kitty, I am one, so it’s only considerate that I stay close by so she doesn’t have to go far. I like to think of myself as a very considerate kitty, so when Anty is home, I make sure to stay as close to her as possible. Unless it rains or I  hear the cat zamboni (the people call it a street sweeper, but I know better) – then I am under Anty and Uncle’s bed.

Typing with wet nails, really...

In case you are wondering if Anty really does type some of these entries with wet nails, she really does. Her trick is to use only the pads of the fingers and not the actual nails. She says she learned that in high school and it still works. I love the smell of nail polish, so if she really is typing with wet nails, I am sure to be extra super close. I am calling my posts Typing With Wet Claws, but if my claws are wet, it is because I licked them. I am a very clean kitty.

Is that good for our first time together? Bailey said that first impressions are important.Hopefully, my posts will help Anty. She says if she sells a lot of books, I can get more toys. My favorite toys are Post-It notes that Anty is done using. I don’t think she is being entirely selfless by promising to buy more Post-Its, but it is worth a try.

Until next time,

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

The Story of H

annabowling 2 Comments

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I think I’m holding up fairly well, all things considered. The saga of my Not a Cance in Ell adventure is now complete. Parts one and two are here and here. Over the weekend, after slicing my finger on the prongs of the now long-absent H key, the whole key stopped working. First, it took four or five pounds to get one H, which could as easily be a whole line of them: hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Which then needed to be backspaced or deleted, which was annoying because I would want them later. As I’ve said before, H is a very important letter.

There’s personal pronouns: she, he, him, her, them, their, all in heavy demand when writing stories about relaitonships (another H) word. Home, heaven, hell, hurt, help, hover, and several hundred more. Though I do my best composition in longhand, smushing the handwritten pages up to the screen doesn’t work. I worked out time share with both hubby and housemate (more H words) on their computers, did some work on the old desktop and started pricing towers. For personal emails to friends, I substituted an * when I needed an H, so thanks to all who put up with me during those days. I don’t know why it took me a couple of days to figure out I could get an external keyboard, but one quick trip to Staples and then I’m back in business.

Putting a regular keyboard on top of my laptop keyboard took some getting used to at first, but now, apart from portability, it feels very natural. I like the click of brand new keys, no prongs to pierce my fingertips, no crumbs (as of yet) to get in the way. Nothing sticks, and I can keep on going without having to pause to  insert an asterisk. Small things make a big difference, and losing the use of a single key brings that to light in a very big way.

Having a new keyboard is also exciting because it makes me look forward to starting over with a new computer. A recent discussion with a writer friend about clearing the decks resonated. When I set up a guest account on my housemate’s computer, it was a fresh start, literally no old files under my name to clutter the current work, no pictures, however lovely or inspirational, to distract me from my work. All I could do, with a limited amount of time I could use that machine, was set up the bare minimum and get to telling the story. Which, after all, is the point of this entire endeavor. Tell stories, because that’s what I love to do best.

The last few years have been challenging, and in many ways, I’m not the same person I was when this much-loved laptop was shiny and new. There have been many goodbyes, many hellos, a change in geographical region that was, at once, taking a leap and coming home. So, it makes sense that new stories would come, and the thought of telling those new stories on a new machine, unencumbered with the past, excites me in a way I hadn’t expected. I do have to thank that dearly departed H for helping to bring me to that point. The key itself now sits in a place of honor on the desk I coveted since childhood, a reminder of the past to make a bridge to what is yet to come.

The adventure is only beginning.