personal

The Enemy of the Good

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The perfect is the enemy of the good.

-Voltaire

 

Right now, I want a nap. Like really, really want a nap. At the same time, there is part of me entirely devoted to “we were without cable/internet for two and a half days, company is coming on Sunday, I have a Skype session with Melva tomorrow, Saturday’s workshop unlocked that part of Her Last First Kiss where I wasn’t sure what I was doing, and now I am, therefore, I cannot sleep and must do all the things. Right now. Preferably at once.”

Which, realistically, is not how things work. Our friends are not coming to see us because our apartment is a showplace (it is not) -we are going to a museum for that- and there is probably, realistically, plenty of time to get most of what I want to get done, done. For somebody as motivated by lists and planning as I am, this should be second nature, and, in some ways, it is. More on that later. Unless I forget. Because I did not outline this post. Winging it, because this is technically Monday’s post, but we did not have any internet on Monday; our service had been shut off by mistake (the subscriber the technician intended to disconnect was another house on our street; lots of moving in and out around this time of year in a college town, so understandable on their part.) Props to Tim from Time Warner Cable, for doing an A plus job, being respectful of scared-of-strangers kitty, and making sure everything worked its very  best before he left.

Okay, not entirely without internet, as one of this city’s perks is municipal internet, but we can only get one bar in our living room, so enough to get the essentials done, but not conducive to mindless web-surfing, falling down a Netflix hole, or other use that doesn’t have a specific purpose. On the plus side, it is enough to text chat on Skype while writing. I have come to know myself well enough to know when I need to blabber to another writer while I work, and when I need to be on my own, earbuds in and head fully in story world. Not a one size fits all approach to every writing session, I have found, and I like that part of the discovery process.

One of the items on my list today was to apply the lessons from K.A. Mitchell’s workshop at CRRWA, to nudge the gelatinous near-the-end part of Her Last First Kiss into shape. There is a particular joy only writers know, of getting our characters to the almost-happy place. Sure, they think they’re happy, but little do they know Everything Is About To Go Down The Crapper And It Is All Their Faults. That’s a fun part to write, even -maybe especially- in romance, because we already know things are going to work out in the end. Hero and Heroine are going to be FINE. They’re going to be better than fine. Because this is a romance, they get to live Happily Ever After (not that it means they’ll never have anything bad ever happen to them again for their entire lives, because how boring would that be? Talk about unrealistic. It means they’ll be together and happy about it, and face whatever comes, together.) so what chance does anything the author throws at them even have in the first place, right? No chance, but we writers have to make “no chance” look like “I have no idea how they’re going to get out of this one” (to the reader, that is; it looks plenty like that to the writer at this stage of the game.)

Which is what had me at my secretary desk, two notebooks open at once (notebook shown is the “official-because-I-say-it-is” notebook for this project (Abbie and Ichabod have nothing to do with this book; they’re just pretty, and they make me happy, so they can stay) and the entries in it are, hm, we shall say well-spaced, because this notebook intimidates me. It looks like this on the outside:

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It’s the big one on the bottom; I am lazy and not scrolling. Also, hello, my legs I did not crop out of the picture. Whatever..

In short, the notebook is pretty and fancy and I did not want to ruin it with my horrible straight-out-of-my-brain writing. Especially when it is of the “I have not idea what I am doing” variety and have trouble reading my own handwriting. This is slightly better when I use better pens, like fountain pens, which I use here, or rollerballs, which I used in the other notebook, to take notes in the workshop. Basically, that part of  my day consisted of me copying things from the workshop notebook (really my all purpose notebook) into the HLFK notebook and expounding upon/applying the points to Hero and Heroine’s story. At a certain stage of the story, in any genre, readers have some expectations, and if those expectations aren’t fulfilled, readers are going to be cranky. I do not want cranky readers. On the other hand, I would take cranky readers over no readers, because my standards in that department are not that high at this stage of getting back on the metaphorical horse.

Which is actually a big help to the writer. This stage of the game is where we do the thing. Okay. We can do the thing. How, exactly, do these particular characters do the thing? That’s what makes this book different from all the others out there, and there are a lot of them out there, but this one  is mine. Well, actually Hero’s and Heroine’s, but I am hoping you get the drift here. Even if you are cranky; if you are cranky, reading a good book could help. Or read one of mine. That would set you apart from the crowd. (cue saxophone version of “Ain’t Too Proud To Beg” in the background)

 

So, basically, that part of my day consisted of using the pointy part of my fountain pen to stab Hypercritical Gremlins (thankfully, they bleed ink) and rough out exactly how Hero and Heroine would most likely do this particular thing. Find the worst thing that could happen to them, and then make it happen. Well, that’s easy, and provides a healthy dose of schaudenfreud (which I probably misspelled, but refer to Voltaire quote above) -the only way it’s okay to be happy that other people are miserable. I need to run this by N, but I think I am on to something, and the formerly gelatinous part is getting to a nice degree of firmness and providing forward momentum. I am going to call that good.

Typing With Wet Claws: Cat On a Hot Tin Everything Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. While Feline Fridays are, obviously, my normal days to blog, it almost feels like filling in for Anty, because this has been a very hot week. Anty does not do heat very well, so this means she has had to scale back some, which she does not like at all. Yesterday was very, very hot, so she took a flop day and concentrated on staying cool. I feel somewhat guilty about not offering her my flop space next to the big wooden thing outside my mama’s bedroom, but only a little, because that space is kitty sized. and Anty is bigger than that. Besides, I know how important it is for her to know that I am cool, so, really, my staying in my flop space was for the best.

Since the deal is that I have to talk about Anty’s writing first, her most recent Buried Under Romance post is here, and it looks like this:

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How far do you dig for your next great read?

Anty is very much looking forward to tomorrow, when she gets to go to her CRRWA meeting. There, she gets to be among others of her kind (by which I mean romance writers) and she will learn some new tricks for making her books even better. Miss K.A. (Mitchell) will talk about putting one’s characters to work. She will put Anty and the other humans to work, too, which Anty likes very much. Anty is also looking forward to seeing Miss N and Anty Sue Ann and her other friends. They will be happy to see her too, and hopefully not only because she brings snacks, but I am sure that is part of it. I am always happy when she feeds me, so I assume that would carry over to others. Anty talks with some of her writer friends on the glowy box pretty much every day, but it is different, being with other writers in person. Anty likes that best of all, especially when they talk about their stories and characters.

While some writers work best when they do not talk about their work, that is not how it goes for Anty. She needs to talk to process her thoughts. When Anty was a people kitten, the worst punishment (or most effective discipline, depending on whom one asks) her mama could give would be that Anty was not allowed to talk to her for a certain number of minutes. For a talker like Anty, that was excruciating, and she did learn that doing the things that earned her the periods of not-talking were usually not worth it.

That carries over to writing, too. Anty tried, for a while, to not-talk about her stories and characters, but what happened was that they did not feel real to her, and it was like moving paper dolls around a cardboard box stage. Anty tried not-talking after talking too much got one of her books (it was the time travel) all jumbled with too many other voices in her head, and she could not get through all those other voices to hear the characters anymore. Some of the too-many voices echoed very, very loudly, and she put the story on the back burner until those voices got quiet. They are not all quiet yet, so it needs to wait a little longer. If talking too much is bad, and not-talking at all is bad, then it means that there is some place in the middle that hits the right note.

For Anty, that means talking to only a few people, and trusting herself to know how much to share, and with whom. That is why, here, she will talk about Hero and Heroine, or Guy and Girl. Their names are still private at this stage. It is the same way that she cannot put her Pinterest boards or Spotify playlists for current projects where others can see them. Those need to stay private until the book is done, and Anty does not have to guard against the wrong things getting inside. She likes to keep her own vision clear. That is one of the reasons she does not especially like fantasy casting her stories. Her story people have their own faces already, and other people trying to tell her that her character looks like some other human vexes her. I do not know if these people do the same things with kitty characters, because Anty does not have any prominent kitty characters in either of her current projects. Hmph. Maybe the next one. If Anty ever writes a Viking story, then she  can have Norwegian Forest Cats. Those are the ancestors of Maine Coon Cats, which is what I am. So, if she needed a kitty model for the cover of that book, she would not have to look very far. Maybe that would make the writing process easier. I am a good mews and want to look out for my Anty’s peace of mind.

 

That is about it for this week, as it is very close to my lunchtime, so I need to stare at Anty (or Uncle, because he does not go out to hunt until later, but probably Anty) until she knows what time it is. I will report on what she learned from the workshop next week Unti then, I remain very truly yours,

 

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Until next week…

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

Right Now

annabowling 5 Comments

Right now, I am in the comfy chair, bare feet up on the footrest, an ice pack on my lower spine (for heat regulation, not injury; I’m fine.) My Paris travel mug sweats on the table to my right. It’s almost empty. I’ll need to get up and refill it soon. On my left, a box fan sits in the open window. Ominous gray clouds lurk low over the old brick building across the street. There was a wonderful pub there when we moved in; it’s empty now. Its neighbors, a bodega and a liquor store, remain. I am listening to a new-to-me singer, Levi Kreis, on my phone, because Spotify can be patchy when using the web player on my laptop, and I’m still hypervigilant about memory, so downloading very little to the hard drive. I suspect that the multiple YouTube videos H sent me, of the Danish Royal family (it was all for writing, really it was) may have left their ghosts in my cache, because there is a full GB less of space than there was the day before, and I clean caches daily. I’ll deal with that later.

Right now, I have enough time to focus on this entry, because it is a domestic tornado day. One of these days, I may start naming our domestic tornadoes. If I start here, this one will be “Anton.” Well, maybe not Anton, because the Anton I know in real life is the owner of my favorite coffee house, and, while he does wear a lot of hats (metaphorically and literally) he has nothing to do with today’s tornado. So, maybe not Anton. Maybe I’ll start naming tornadoes some other time, when I am not actually in the middle of one.  Not entirely sure if that is ever going to happen, so maybe it’s more of a juggling act.

Right now, I want to squeeze in as much blog entry as I can before I have to shift back to family mode. What I would like to do is pack up laptop and legal pad, ensconce myself at Anton’s establishment and delve into my eighteenth century world, but that’s not what this afternoon is going to be. Okay. Can’t change that. What I can change is my response. The day is what it is. I like my family, and spending time with them is not a bad thing. We all work together to make a good life for all of us, and, for every tornado, there is going to be a calm (or at least an eye.) So, it’s going to happen. Not a zero sum game. Since I have my purse notebook, all necessary accoutrements in the accompanying pouch, I can take my show on the road. I seriously think this may become my new default notebook:

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All that ink on paper…soooooo calm. Insert happy sigh here.

Margins are perfect for making short lists, and notes on what’s on the rest of the page, where needed. Highlighting dates and headings means I can go immediately to what I want, which I like very much. Seriously considering drawing margins on the pages of other notebooks that do not have them already. Anything at all can go in these all purpose books, and the fact that my newly discovered music crush has some songs that would fit beautifully for Hero in certain situations, should there ever be a Her Last First Kiss musical (hey, I can dream) means that musing on same is perfectly fair game. Anything specific to a particular project, I can copy into the proper book when the time comes, and there’s always transcription to computer file, but I know myself. Longhand is best.

Speaking of longhand, I am locking in these PaPaYa! Art notebooks as my next two morning pages book, since I am now on the second half of the book I am currently using:

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Notebook and a half, actually

The “Fearless” book is really half a book, since it belongs to the “uh, no, I actually don’t want to use this book for that purpose” family. It’s about halfway filled, maybe a little less than that, with ramblings in purple ballpoint, which, while a pen I love (promo pen from Hannah Howell) also one that doesn’t show up well on the surface of these pages. The “Love You to the Moon” book, I have been saving for a special occasion. Today, I decided that right now is special enough.

 

This Saturday, I get to have the great good pleasure of attending my monthly CRRWA meeting, made all the better by a workshop with the luminous K.A. Mitchell, who always puts us to work, which I greatly appreciate. Writer people, if you ever get a chance to take one of her workshops, do. Anyway, a tidbit from her workshop on breaking creative blocks feels appropriate for right now: use the good stuff. Use it now. Beautiful notebook, fun idea, character who won’t shut up; use them now. Don’t wait. There will be more. That’s how creativity works.

Marginally Speaking

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Third time I’ve started this blog entry, and both times, I bored even myself, so I am going directly to my last-resort backup, because then I get to take a reading break. That backup is playing show and tell with a favorite notebook. In this case, it’s a hardcover Case Mate, which appears to be a proprietary Wal Mart brand.

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insert own obligatory “black and white and read all over” joke here.

I have two of these Case Mate notebooks already, one blue, and partially written in, always with blue ballpoint (though that may change) and currently living on the kitchen counter (which will probably change) the other purple, and as yet untouched, as I have vague plans to start some kind of purple notebook family/dynasty (this may be the subject of the next blog entry when summer and its bestie, insomnia, have used my home for yet another non-sleepover) but when I saw this one in the back to school section (the notebooks in the regular office supply section are the same inside, but have neon covers, which does not fit with my aesthetic) I had to have it. The notebook also comes in pink and aqua versions, which may yet happen, but I can’t have every notebook (where would I put them?)

Here’s the best thing about the Case Mate book:

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Only marginally important. Get it? Marginally? I’ll see myself out. No, this is my blog. I’m staying. I’m punchy. Deal with it.

Ivory paper here, which I far prefer to white, but it was the margins that sold me. part of me would like to see the margin on the facing page on the outside instead of inside, but it’s perfect for making notations on what I’ve already written, the perfect place to affix sticky note flags and the like. I don’t currently have any sticky note flags tucked into this book (partly because it does not have a pocket) but I did stock it with the basics; two different colors of square sticky notes, and one of a larger size. Still working on the color scheme; would love to keep it black/white/red/gray or in that neighborhood.

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Top square sticky looks lavender, but it’s light gray. Trust me.

Only semi-hacked, no fancy end papers, but I already feel the calm that comes with moving into a new notebook. I’d started to feel itchy when, every time I had to switch bags, I had to dig for my pen pouch and the one all-purpose notebook that was supposed to come with me from bag to bag, be filled by now (it’s about halfway there)  and possibly grant wishes or something. I don’t know what I was thinking at the time, but I am going to assume best intent and believe that I was going for efficiency and avoidance of adding anything to the stack of whoops-that-wasn’t-their-purpose-after-all notebooks.

Whatever it was, the fuss of hunting and switching overrode the supposed ease of a one size fits all kind of deal, and so the idea popped into my head, shortly after I brought the new notebook home. My usual summer tote is black and white stripes. I have a black and white chevron case my black rimmed glasses sleep in every night. I have  gorgeous black and white chevron afghan, for when temperatures drop, and my new pen pouch is black and white, so why did I have a notebook with a color photo as my book for that bag?

As soon as I made the switch, I felt a click. This combination looks like it belongs together. It looks intentional. It feels like me, like where I want to be going. Not a magic fix-it to all my problems, not a huge thing, even, but it feels right, and that’s good enough.  It’s listening to that creative impulse and not shushing it with “shoulds” and “you don’t need thats” and “bare minimum and/or status quo is good enough,” because no, no, isn’t. If it were, then it wouldn’t feel right when I made the change. I am learning to listen to my creative brain when it says things like this. “Let’s try something different today,” or “what if we did this instead of that?” Learning to say yes when a writer friend asks if I want to bat around a story, just for fun, because we’ve both talked each other down from ledges this week, and, dangit, we want to touch the joy.

It’s easy to get away from the joy, easy to get lost in the shoulds, but easy, too, if we allow ourselves, to feel the giddy pleasure of cracking open a new notebook and leafing through the empty pages, reading the words that will be written there, imagining which ink, what format – story notes? to do lists? doodles? drafts? all of the above?- and making a conscious decision that yes, my writing has value, and it is worth the investment. It’s worth the investment of the right notebook and pens, that feel right in my hands and right in my spirit, look right to my eyes, and it’s worth the investment of my time, to get away from the rest of the world and follow my imaginary friends as they live their lives, copy it down and then put it in order.

Where am I going with all this? Well, I don’t have to go anywhere, really, since I’m already far past the magic seven hundred, nattering on about a notebook in which I’ve only written one page, and that to test ink, but I know where that took me. That took me into writing mode, into the urge to open the document and poke it with a stick, even if I have only a few minutes before family descends and I need to switch gears. If that’s the outcome, is a new notebook frivolous? Not from where I’m sitting, which is, in this case, on the edge of the eighteenth century, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed there.

Typing With Wet Claws: Cat Days of Summer Edition

annabowling 1 Comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty is feeling a little under the weather right now (she does not do summer very well; that is why my blog entry is late today, but she will be fine with a little rest and a lot of water) so I may have more wiggle room for artistic expression here than I usually do. I still have to talk about her writing first, though, so let us get that done first.

Anty’s latest Saturday Discussion post at Buried Under Romance is about delayed gratification, so I thought about putting it at the end of today’s entry instead, but Anty reminded me which one of us can reach the treat shelf in the pantry, so it is in the regular place, which is here, and it looks like this:

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When you have a special book, can *you* wait for it?

This has been an interesting week around here. I am all done with my antibiotics, and, from the way I run when Anty rustles my treat bag, the humans are really sure the site of my butt explosion does not hurt me anymore. I did not need the cone of shame even once during my recuperation. Anty suggested that maybe she could put the cone of shame on a stuffed animal, because I was not going to need it but Uncle did not want her to do that. I have to side with Uncle on this issue. Well, really, on every issue. Uncle is my favorite; everybody knows that. Uncle also got a new people vet (the regular kind, not the emergency kind) this week, and he likes them very much. Anty and Mama did not have to fight very hard to get him into the carrier, and he takes his own pills. I admire his fortitude. That takes courage. Also opposable thumbs, which probably have something to do with said pill taking. Anty does have power to make executive decisions, though, so I am still not sure where the cone of shame is going to end up; as long as it is not on me, I do not really care.

Anyway, it has been an interesting  week for Anty’s writing, as well. She has had better production weeks, but that is okay. These things tend to balance out, and, for every day that is less than she would have liked, there is another day where it will go much more quickly. The important thing is to keep moving forward. On both projects, Her Last First Kiss, and the Beach Ball, Anty (and, in the case of the Beach Ball, Anty Melva) has reached milestones. Anty likes milestones. Those are markers of how far she has come, and remind her that she can make it to the next one, because she’s already made it this far. Anty does not normally count words while writing a draft, because that is too distracting, but she does have an outline, and seeing how far she is into the outline makes her happy. Maybe she can find or create some kind of chart so she can track  her progress that way. Anty loves organizing things, so I think she might like being able to see at a glance how much progress she is making, her way.

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When Anty’s story people hit a milestone, that means that they cannot go back to the way they had been before they hit that milestone, because they are different now, a sort of different that cannot be undone. At the very end, because these are romance novels, that is the biggest milestone; the humans have promised to be with each other forever, and they will never be all alone again. Before that, it is more of a matter of tracking the humans’ changes from who they thought they were (sometimes, who other humans told them they had to be) into who they really were all along.

Anty finds that kind of thing very interesting. A once-upon-a-time friend once said that all of Anty’s stories are about moving on after a loss, and that is true, because they (at least the ones that I have seen) are, and they are also about the humans finding out that they do not have to have somebody else tell them who they are; they can figure that out for themselves. That does not mean that all of Anty’s stories are the same, because they are not. Every human has their own individual challenges along the way, and when it is two unique humans, fighting their own battles, who find each other, well, that it what Anty finds the most interesting of all. Even during the cat days of summer. I know most people call them the dog days, but the only dog I know is Bailey, and he does the same thing I do; lie around and drink water, same as Anty wants to do on hot days. Also work on her stories. Some things never change.

Anty has also rallied enough to want the computer back, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

 

 

Postmidweek Rambles

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Wednesday’s post is on Thursday this week, because Thursday was a domestic tornado day. Doctor appointment for Real Life Romance Hero, which took longer than expected, but good result, trip to pharmacy afterward, then grocery store, then…collapse. The first thing I wanted this morning, when I got up, for the first time, was to go back to sleep. Also, the second, third, and fourth. At some point, I relocated to the comfy chair, mustered enough energy to get out mechanical pencil and notebook and got some good longhand done, but I still would like to trade it all in for more shuteye. Morning pages got written, because my brain has learned to follow that discipline, and, if I am able to get out of the bed, then I am dragging the bones to the office and filling those two pages. Got it? Yes, ma’am. Got that. Allrighty, then. Shooting for the same with this blog entry and my discussion post, and then we’ll  see about nappage.

Writing a whiny post is  not my intention, but if that’s what happens, that’s fine. It will still be a post, because I am still going to hit my magic seven hundred before I can cross this off my list and move on to the next items. Besides, or between, the domestic tornadoes yesterday, I chatted with a writer friend, about projects and motivation and reclaiming the fun in writing. We both have been at that place where the Hypercritical Gremlins are shouting in our ears, through megaphones, and there aren’t any dissenting voices, so the Hypercritical Gremlins must be right. That’s what it looks like, but that’s not what’s true. What’s needed, at that point, is a shift in perspective.

Last night, when I finally slipped between the sheets, ready for my nightly ritual of squinting at the teeny print in a mass market paperback, possibly but probably not through the fingerprint-covered-muck of the supposedly magnifying bookmark it feels like I’ve had since forever, but rarely used, something occurred to me. What if I took it out of the sleeve? Duh. This honestly never crossed my mind before last night, not even once. Sleeve was clear, which meant I could see through it, which meant that, obviously, I was the one doing something wrong here. Well, yes, but not the way I thought.

I checked the top of the sleeve, and, sure enough, it opened. I withdrew the bookmark. Held it over the page. Insert favorite exclamation here. Enlarged, clearly legible text. Even with only my left eye and its  ninja cataract. This was a game changer. Well, okay, then. Let’s roll. I held the bookmark over page after page.  I didn’t have to strain, and could focus (pun intended) on not the marks on the page, but the story. I finished the book in fairly short order, and fell asleep looking forward to what book I’d pick for the next night, to take its place. Current plan is to go through the stack of library books in order of when they are due. Cuts down on the possibility for overthinking there.

Where am I going with this? Mainly to the magic seven hundred, because then I get to tackle the next thing on my list, my Saturday Discussion post. Do I have a topic? No. Will I, when I get there? Yes. It’s that left foot, right foot thing, same as blogging thrice weekly and filling two pages first thing in the morning. I made my first attempt at writing this entry yesterday, had absolutely nothing to say then, and a not sure I have that much more to say now, but if I don’t make this entry, then it carries over into the weekend, because Skye is not giving up her Friday spot. Saturday is my Buried Under Romance day, and Sunday is a day of rest (supposedly) and then Monday again. Faithful readers know how long I carried a missed Wednesday post, last time, and I am not willing to go into that again. So, onward I go, babbling all the way.

Discoveries like the bookmark thing amuse me. The answer was right there, the whole darned time, and it took me how many months to figure out I should take the bookmark out of the sleeve? Really? It’s the same with discoveries about the writing process. I read mass market books more easily with a magnifying bookmark? Well, then, take it out of the sleeve and use it. My storybrain flows more freely with pen and paper? Ink that sucker and turn the page and have at it, madam. First draft goes more quickly with bullet points rather than proper prose? Lock and load, because bullets are about to fly.

Some days, it comes hard. Some days, it comes easy. What’s important is that it comes. If it’s not coming, step back an take a look. What, exactly, isn’t feeling right? Sometimes, it’s as easy as taking the bookmark out of the sleeve.

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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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: Heart of a Storyteller, Hand of a Smurf Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty wanted me to get this post up early in the morning, but that is not what happened, for a couple of reasons. First, it is sometimes hard for Anty to get to sleep when it is hot and muggy (I do not have that problem, thankfully. I can sleep anytime.) Then, when she finally did (after helping Mama to give me my pill, which I do not like) she crashed, hard. Then she remembered she had a lot of things to do, the first of which was dealing with my stuff. All I will say is that I hit the trifecta today. It is a good thing Anty has puppy pads and Febreeze. Also, Anty had to do laundry, and, because it was late, it was while a lot of people were there, instead of no people, which makes for a different experience, and crabbier Anty. Anyway, if you are wondering why this is showing up in the afternoon instead of the morning, that is why.

Because part of our deal is that I have to talk about Anty’s writing first, I will do that now. She has been busy. First, her Buried Under Romance post on the struggle of getting into a book that isn’t quite working is here, and it looks like this:

 

BUR

Anty loves when readers leave comments. She will even answer them.

 

Anty also wrote a review of a book she found very interesting, If I Fall, by Lauren Oliver. That book got Anty thinking about voice, emotion, and characterization, a lot. Her review is here and it looks like this:

GOODREADS

Yes, Anty is pondering how this could work in historical romance.

For actual fiction writing, this has been a good week, too, summerbrain not withstanding. On Tuesday, when Anty met with Miss N, Anty had the hands of a smurf, because she is still learning how to refill fountain pens. Also because she had a blueberry bagel, but, mostly, it was the ink. Not only did she get ink on her hands while filling her pen, but when she took off the cap, she shot a stream of inky blue water all the way across the table, because she had not gotten all of the water out when she rinsed the nib. I did not see that, because that was at Panera and I was at home, but there is a picture, so I will share that with you here:

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Heart of a storyteller, hand of a smurf.

Anty finds that writing in longhand is her very best way to get the ideas out of her head and into readable form. She is also very thankful that first drafts are supposed to be rough, because this one is. That is okay. She is laying down the foundation, and she can go back and make it pretty later (even though she likes to do the actual writing on pretty paper; you cannot see it much in this picture, but her paper is very pretty. The design is mostly on the borders, and her writing is in the middle.) Right now is when she follows her characters around and writes down what they do. This is not the time to be concerned about whether the language is entirely period specific, so it is okay if she has a character respond with “FML” after something very, very, very inconvenient happens. That is exactly what she did, actually; she can go back after the draft is done and translate that to its eighteenth century equivalent. She can also go back and figure out how Heroine’s very young half-sibling would address her in a letter, especially since English is not the half-sibling’s first language. That would be Russian, for those who were wondering.

Yesterday, Anty did remember her notes, and they amounted to a lot more than she thought that she did. She did not want to have to stop working on the book to take care of other things, but I have a very persuasive “feed me” face. Please refer to today’s picture, in case you have any doubts about that. There were other things she had to do, as well, including reading, because story in means story out, but I think it was mostly my “feed me” face, even though she was at the coffee house and I was at  home. My “feed me” face is that strong, trust me on this. Even so, Anty still has Hero and Heroine hanging around her brain, talking to her whether or not it is writing time. That is when she knows she has hit her stride and is on the right track.

Since Anty is making her “I need the computer” face at me, that should probably be 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)

This Is My Brain On Summer

annabowling 2 Comments

I had plans for this afternoon. I was going to head to my favorite coffee house, with the legal pad on which I’d written stuff for two scenes of Her Last First Kiss, and transcribe in air conditioned comfort, directly under a ceiling fan. Good in theory failure in execution. The hitch? I left the legal pad at home. Since I live less than a full block away, there was the temptation to ask the barista to hang onto my iced tea while I raced back home, but I am not racing anywhere in this heat. I’m already sun and heat sensitive, and not going outside any more than I absolutely have to until this heat dome lifts.

So, today went to plan B. I had some Beach Ball work to do, and switched gears to take care of that. First up, check on the comments Melva gave on the chapter I sent her. Which cut off a full two pages early than the actual scene. Okay. Find backup copy, pray it has the missing pages (it did) and send off the correct version, as well as the compiled document with all of our scenes in it. These are more or less in order, and, seeing them together, criminy crikes, this is a book. Still in the gestational stage, but definitely a book. Guy and Girl (to differentiate from Hero and Heroine) have got to their first threshold of contact. Plot arc and romance arc progressing, historical adjacent stuff inserted at the proper (we think) time, and seeds for future things planted. This is all a good thing. Not what I had planned for the day, but I am calling it good. I can pick up on what I wanted to work on today, tomorrow, and the world will not  end. Doing things in a different order is still doing them, so forward we go.

Possibly into the babbling portion of this blog entry, because this is the last thing on my list for the day. It was going to be one of the first things, but see mention of doing things out of order. There are times, when the unrelenting heat stays unrelenting, that the only thing to do is plunk one’s feet in cold water and crack open a book somebody else wrote. When putting story out isn’t working, take story in; refill the well. A reading break, if nothing else, gets my mind into story mode, in general, which is a good thing .

When the heat gets too high, and invites its BFF, humidity, along for the ride, it can be difficult to slog through the brainmelt and actually get stuff done. Interesting timing there, with this brainmelt arriving the same time I’m getting my stride back, writing wise, but that’s how things work, I suppose. Resistance builds strength and all that. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Story, story, story, story, story, story, story. That’s my happy place, any time of year, and slipping into storyworld makes consecutive days of 90plus temperatures somewhat more bearable.

As my mother used to tell me, the more I do, the more I’ll want to do, and she’s right. Every morning, I drag myself to the morning pages, even when I have no idea what I want to put on those pages. It’s the discipline that’s building the practice. This is telling my brain that this is what we’re going to be doing for the majority of the day. The pretty pages mean my eyes want to stay on those pages, and good thing, because I have two more notebooks by the same makers, to take up when I finish this one. Okay, one and a half, really, as I’d tried using one of them for one thing, and that Did Not Work Out. That, though, was before I discovered rollerballs and fountain pens, so that notebook is only resting for a little while.

Exercising any muscle makes it stronger, which is why I set myself the discipline of three blogs per week. Okay, two, but getting a cat to write the third one for me is pretty darned creative all on its own, so credit there, surely.

Allrightyroo, that is the magic 700 words, so this blog entry is d-o-n-e, done. Tomorrow, Hero and Heroine, tomorrow, I am coming for you. For now, air conditioning and reading break. Toodles.

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Autumn is Coming Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for my regular Feline Friday post. I would like to send out a big thank you to everybody who checked in to see how I have been doing since my big vet adventure last week. As you can see, I am not wearing the cone of shame, and my, um, stuff, has all been regular for the whole week. My humans have been shooting bad-tasting liquid into my mouth twice a day. They tell me it keeps infection away, which I do not fully understand, but they do feed me immediately after that, and I do understand food.

Since I am feeling much better now, Anty says I have to go back to talking about her writing first. This week, she is a little embarrassed (and by a little, I meant that she went down into the  neck of  her t-shirt like a turtle when she realized this and made a sound I am not sure I have heard before) that she did not post anywhere about her Buried Under Romance discussion post. She was excited about this topic, too, but then my butt exploded, which was pretty distracting for everybody, so I think she is allowed an oops on this one. In case you missed it, and you probably did, because she did not post anywhere, (but people who commented, you made Anty’s day) the discussion on treasures of the used bookstores is here and it looks like this:

BURSCREENSHOT

Apologies for the black part at the bottom. The crop tool is difficult to use when you have paws instead of hands.

 

This week, Anty has been hard at work on her turn with the Beach Ball. Anty Melva showed Anty the scene she had written, which made Anty take another look at her own scene, and want to change some things about it. Anty loves working with Anty Melva, so she does not mind, and then new scene will probably be better than the one she had originally written. It could have picked better timing, though, because Anty is feeling a little sluggish herself, something she gets when she is stressed and does not get enough sleep. She knows what to do when that happens, so there will be no cone of shame for her, either.

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Shoes like this are important in the Beach Ball’s story, so this picture may become a visual cue for when Anty talks about it. She is not sure about that yet. We will see.

 

As much as Anty likes playing with the Beach Ball, she is very eager to get back to Her Last First Kiss, which is going to require cracking open the old laptop, because that is the one with Scrivener on it, and Anty wants to preserve disk space on the new laptop. She is actually kind of paranoid about it, and cleans up extraneous files daily. By “kind of,” I mean “really, really, really.” She says she may crack in her resolve here and put Scrivener back on the new laptop, because the old one takes its time doing things, and she wants to keep the ball rolling.

Either way, Anty gets itchy when she spends too much time away from that story. One of the most important things she has learned on this long and winding road back to the active writing life, is that, the longer she is away from a project, the more challenging the road back will be. There have been times when the road has been so long and convoluted that she got so hopelessly lost that she might as well have ended up on the wrong continent. Her worst-worst nightmare in the really real world is to be stuck, alone, someplace from which she cannot get back on her own. The last few years have felt like that sometimes, and she is not willing to let that happen again. So, this time, she’s going to take steps to make sure that does not happen. Some of those steps, she is figuring out as she goes. This may be one of them.

I have faith in her, though, because I know a secret. Okay, it is not really a secret. Autumn is coming. That is the time of year when Anty gets her super powers back. As you may be able to tell in my picture, there is a floof on my neck. “Floof” is our family’s word for the bunches of fur I shed at one time. I always start around my neck, and when I start making neck floofs, that means I am going for the Big Shed. This time of year, it will mean shedding my sleek summer coat (well, as sleek as Maine Coons get; we are pretty fluffy all year round) and growing in my nice, warm winter coat. That will make me super fluffy.

Autumn also makes Anty super happy, because it is her favorite season (but when it is winter, she will say that is her favorite season. I think they take turns) not only because I start getting fluffier, the leaves turn pretty colors and fall on the ground, and there is pumpkin flavored everything (Anty loves pumpkin flavored everything) but because that is usually when Anty hits her stride and becomes more productive. Earlier this week, Anty spent an entire day piecing together everything she and Anty Melva have written on the Beach Ball, to see how far along they are.

Although Anty does not like to count words when she is drafting, Anty Melva wanted to know how far they were, so she found out. She was super impressed. They have already written a bunch and are well on their way. They wrote more than Anty thought they had; a lot more, actually. Now it is her job to finish this scene and send it to Anty Melva, so that they can be even further along. She knows what her next scene, after Anty Melva’s next scene, is going to be, so she can work on that one, too.

Her next scene for Her Last First Kiss is one of her favorites so far, so she is very eager to get deeper into that and add more layers. Since the vet said that the other part of my butt is not looking explodable, I think it is safe to say I am not putting any obstacles in the way of that scene for this coming week. which means that is pretty much it for this week. Until next week, I remain, very truly yours,

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

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