personal

Right Now, I Am an Egg

annabowling 3 Comments

On Twitter, at least. Seriously. See? Right here.

IAMANEGG

I am visible, I promise

 

Okay, not exactly there, because that picture has the camera with the plus sign, telling me where I can put the picture (in the literal sense; there may well be a figurative meaning in there as well, for all the challenge this has posed) but putting in actual picture? Nope.

To be fair, I liked the picture that was there before. It was actually the first picture of myself that I honestly liked in a long time, and that sparked some refining of my personal style, which is what sparked the desire to spiff my profile (all right, the factory reset on my laptop did have something to do with the matter as well) and I thought nothing could be easier than putting a new profile picture up, but, apparently, I was mistaken there.

At this point, I am tempted to leave the egg where it is. I am more concerned with the missing background on the page -can we even do that anymore on Twitter? If we can’t, I am sorely disgruntled over that development.- and satisfied with the header, which is my giant eyeballs, so, really, the profile picture is my only complaint here, which leaves me in a pretty good place, all things considered. Since I have been considering a lot of things lately, that is actually rather impressive.

Gmail is on a queue again, and I have no idea how that works, so the artfully composed and edited shot of my secretary desk, with my new morning pages book in action, and bonus guest “pastel” (I do not think that word means what the manufacturer thinks it means, but I love them anyway) gel highlighters, is not in my in-box, so what we get is the stripped-down shot of what is actually on my lap desk at present. Once I have a featured image at the top of my page, my brain knows it’s blog time, so I’ve learned to put anything up there and let the blabbering flow. I can always fix it (picture or blabbering) later.

Which is why I still don’t have Scrivener on my current laptop, and I don’t know that I’m going to reinstall it anytime soon. One, it’s still on the old laptop; two, Melva works in Word, which the old laptop also has, and converting documents is not either of our favorite things; 3) I like keeping this laptop lean; and 4) I freaking love composing in Word Pad, which surprises the heck out of me…and it doesn’t.

The other night, I was on Skype with H, both of us grumbly over where we were on respective projects. Facebook had decided I would like to remember the exact date an editor last confirmed to me they had received the book I’d sold them (for the record, Facebook, I did not.  I actually cried a little.) I said something along the lines of “stuff it, I’m doing it, right now.” (I did not use those exact words.)

If this were a movie, imagine  H and me, sitting, midpoint, on a dock that overlooks a scenic lake. This would be the part where I would clamber to my feet, whip my oversized white t-shirt over my head, revealing fashionable-yet-modest swimsuit beneath, race down the dock at top speed, shout, “Ronkonkoma!” (once-upon-a-time version of “cowabunga” et al, that a favorite cousin and I shared as kids) and cannonball into the water. This was not a movie, so what actually happened was that I stuck my flash drive into the UBS port…and then remembered the document was in Scrivener, and Scrivener is not yet reinstalled on this machine. Going back to the movie image, this would be where I would frantically try to un-cannonball because…well, not sure where to go with this one, because there would still be water, only not the kind of water I expected. Maybe it was cold. Maybe I’d spotted lake sharks.

In either case, impact. So what if I didn’t have that particular program? Word Pad would do, and so I opened a new document. I started swimming. I couldn’t format, couldn’t count words, couldn’t see any reminders of how far behind I was or how far I had to get to my goal. All I could do was tell the story, and that’s what I did. Much like writing longhand. It felt incredible. Since it was late, and I was tired, I paddled on back to the dock before too long, but with a sense that I’d discovered something I’d been missing (and no, FB, I don’t want a reminder of how long. Really, really don’t.) and that my muscles, though complaining, were stronger for the stretch.

Word Pad was something I’d written in, years and lifetimes ago, when I wrote paper letters to a once-upon-a-time friend when it was too hot to sleep, at a desk with stacks of historical romance novels piled on the floor behind me, because I didn’t have bookshelves in that room. Scrivener will definitely go on the new desktop, when that computer joins the family, and I am very glad to still have it on the old laptop, but, right now, I am writing these books. I am telling these stories, and the purity of throwing the story at the screen and seeing what sticks is motivating me like crazy. I refuse to let go of that, ever again.

I don’t have all the answers right now, and I’m not going to pretend I do. Rather, I’m finding them out as I go, and, this time, I am appreciating the journey. What works for me, now? What stories do I want to tell, now? What tasks can I realistically accomplish, today? Do those. I don’t have a fabulous new book deal to splash on the screen, but I am writing one and a half (Melva has the other half) books that I absolutely love, with people who are so real to me that I see things in stores and think, “Hero would love that; I should get him one,” before I remember they are fictional. I have articles in the hopper, more on the horizon, and forward we go.

Ronkonkoma!

:splash:

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Special Exploding Catbutt Edition

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Hello, all, Skye here, for a special Monday edition of Typing With Wet Claws, because this weekend was all about me. What was supposed to happen was that Mama was going to get in the people carrier and go spend the weekend with Grandma, while Anty was going to stay home and get current on her reading. Uncle is the only one who did what he had planned, and went to work, which was a good thing, because this weekend was expensive. The fancy vet term for what happened to me is “ruptured anal gland,” but we will call it what it is: my butt exploded. I am fine now, which is why I am able to tell you about it, and Anty says I do not even have to talk about her writing first this time. This post may contain descriptions of gross things that come out of kitties, so if you are squeamish, know that I am fine, and will see you Friday.

For those who are still reading,  here is what really happened. Mama had noticed I was more interested in my own butt than usual for a day or two, but I am a tough girl and did not let anybody know I was not feeling my very best. Then, on Saturday morning, a couple of hours before Mama was supposed to get in the people carrier, I made my usual puddle in my usual place. Anty told me what a good girl I was, like she usually does (because I usually am) and then she noticed a glop of something else next to it. She put pads down on my puddle (they are called puppy pads, but they work on kitty puddles, perfectly fine) and then got a tissue to pick up the glop. At first, she thought it was throwup, but she hadn’t heard me throw up, so it could not be that. She examined the tissue, and thought it looked like blood. She showed it to Mama, who thought it looked like blood, too.

That was when Mama picked me up and Anty looked at my butt. Yes, the blood was coming from me, even though I did not act like I was in pain. (I told you, I am a tough girl.) That was when they knew there would be a big change in plans. Mama called some vets, to see if who could look at me that same day, and she found one, who is now my regular vet, because everybody liked her. I acted like my normal self all morning. I followed Uncle around, asked for food, flopped in my sunbeam, and even tried to get some of the blood off by myself. The humans were not entirely sure I should be doing that, so Anty kept an eye on me while Mama made sure Uncle got to work. Then Mama came home and she and Anty put me in the cat carrier, which then went in the people carrier (humans call this a “car.”) Anty held my carrier in her lap the whole time and talked softly to me, because I like soft voices. That kind of helped, but I still knew where we were going.

When we got to the vet’s waiting room, there were a lot of other pets. There was a chocolate Lab puppy (they did not have a tail, but they did have a waggly butt anyway) and a huge brindle and white pit bull who did have a tail; it was waggly, too. His papa told Anty and Mama that he loves coming here, until they go in the back. I think that is a smart pit bull. There was also a curly orange dog, who wanted to be friends with the pit bull. I was very interested in what they were doing, but I stayed in my carrier.

Until, of course, we got in the back. The vet tech took me out of my carrier and put me on a soft blankey so I would not be cold on the table. She also told me how pretty I am. She is very smart. She asked Mama and Anty if I was there because of my bloody butt, and Anty said she thought I might have had a ruptured anal gland. The vet tech checked and said that is exactly what happened. Then the vet came, to double check and to decide what I needed. I got a shot and some pills (they are liquid; Mama and Anty have to team up to get me to take them) and the vet told them how to put warm compresses on my butt to make it feel better. I am a tough girl, so I do not always tell them. The compresses will also tell them how the site is doing; I might have blown all the gunk at once, and now only need to heal. One of the pills is in case I do have any pain, and the other is an antibiotic. The pain pill makes me a little sleepy, so I get extra naps, which I do not mind.

skyeatvet

Me at the vet. Can you tell the blankey has a dog bone design?

The vet also gave me a cone of shame, in case I started going at my butt again, like I did before. So far, I have not. Mama says we already paid for the cone, but it does not look like I am going to need it. I do not know what they are going to do with it if I don’t. Maybe I can be a kitty martini for Halloween. The top picture is from when the vet tech showed Anty how to put the cone on me. Now she knows. This concerns me. Anty did distract me while we waited for the vet tech to come back, though, by playing me relaxing music on her phone, and showing me a movie she made, about ducks swimming. I was very interested in that movie, until I realized the ducks were doing the same thing over and over. Anty should make longer duck movies, next time. I am not into short films.

Anty says it is time to wrap things up, because I am perfectly fine, and she needs the computer. She is right. I am eating and socializing and asking for attention, and am even a good girl for my pills and butt compresses. Mama says I have an expensive butt, but everybody agrees that I am worth it. Until next time, I remain, very truly yours

i1035 FW1.1

See you Friday….

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

Typing With Wet Claws: Factory Reset Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is still very hot and muggy out, so I am coming to you today from my super cool and comfy flop space in the dining room. I do not know why they call it the dining room, because that is not where my dish is. My dish is in Mama’s room, and I am such a good girl that, last year, when it was hot, and Uncle tried to feed me in the living room, I would not do it. I looked at him, all sad and confused, and showed him where my food goes. Because he is smart, he moved it to the right place and then I could eat. So, I do not know why the humans call this the dining room, but it is where I flop when I want to stay cool, but the humans walk through my hallway too much.

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

BUR

The parts in the black lines will only look like that if you are on Anty’s computer right now. Which you should not be. Use your own, please and thank you.

 

This past week, Anty talked about the different kinds of romance novels with American settings. She only now remembers that Janet Dailey wrote a series with books set in all fifty states, but that is not very useful when she wrote the discussion post last week. That is okay, though, because this has been a week with a lot of things to distract her. First, she twisted her ankle early on Monday morning, while she was getting dressed and Uncle was asleep. Since I am a kitty, and have a built-in fur coat, I do not fully understand the whole getting dressed thing, but it did remind Anty why she prefers dresses to pants. She has never hurt herself while putting on a dress. She did not get hurt very badly, only a little, and still made her meeting with Miss N. She is walking fine now, which is a good thing, because this has been a week where Anty has to do a lot of things.

Maybe the biggest thing was the time her computer exploded. Or imploded. Not literally, in either case, but there Anty was, talking to Miss H, when her screen began to flicker wildly and then go completely black. Anty may or may not have said some bad words when that happened. I am not allowed to say, in either case, so that I may retain some semblance of paws-ible deniability. Anyway, Anty got her computer to work again, and then, when she was about to post Monday’s blog on Tuesday, (the ankle thing took up a good chunk of Monday) it would not post. She checked the memory, since it had been in the red for quite some time and there it was, the dreaded zero. No room left at all.

After several tries of deleting programs to make enough room to do a system refresh, Anty called in Uncle to help. Uncle knows the signs of an impending Anty meltdown, and took over. He told her the only thing they could do was make the computer the same as it was when she first took it out of the box, and she said that was fine. Maybe it was the heat that contributed to her not freaking out about that, but she had learned to keep all her files on a jump drive, so she was pretty calm about the whole deal, and went off to read The Walking Dead graphic novel while Uncle did what had to be done. That is her comfort read; a book with pictures of zombies. I do not always understand Anty’s choices in these matters, but it works, and it worked this time.

The last two days, Anty has met her writing goals, although she does not have Word or Scrivener installed on her laptop at present. She has been using Word Pad and Google Docs, and that seems to work fine for where she is right now. She has been working on both Her Last First Kiss and the Beach Ball, and had a Skype conference with Anty Melva, to plan out the next few Beach Ball exchanges. That is pretty smooth for a week that started out with injury and computer meltdowns, complicated by weather that can best be described as “giant crock pot.” Anty is still not sure what is up with all of that, but she will probably figure it out soon. At the very least, she has managed to get some reading time in, and that is a very big help. I like to help her by sitting directly under her foot rest, so that she can’t put it down, and thus must remain in her comfy chair, with book, notebook or laptop. One of the many duties of a mews, even if my flop spaces are cooler.

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

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

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

Things That Almost Work

annabowling Leave a comment

Right now, I have a lot of things that almost work. A quick rundown:

  • Old laptop has stripped-down version of Sims 3, Word, Scrivener and Scapple, but loses internet connection quickly, and when it has it, it’s spotty. Also, there is no H key, and the only place I can put the external keyboard is on top of the built-in keyboard, which has some interesting results when one keyboard moves on top of another one. Hint: it is not the good kind of interesting.
  • Printer that works with new laptop says it has a paper jam, even when there is no paper in it, and I can’t see anything blocking anything.
  • Two fountain pens have full cartridges (one had a converter that is almost as old as I am, and finally gave up the ghost, so will no longer draw ink, hence use of cartridge) but said cartridges will not dispense ink, even though I have pierced the ends, and they do bleed ink, if I take them out of the pens, but that is not very useful.
  • Old desktop has Word, and Photoshop Elements, but the speakers are shot, it won’t recognize the internet at all, and, while it has a stripped down version of Sims 2, the CD ROM drive, which is needed for the disk to run the darned thing, keeps shooting out and trying to kill me (it has drawn blood, I am not kidding) while ejecting any disk I attempt to give it.
  • Our apartment has lovely, high, prewar ceilings, which I love, except when it comes time to change lightbulbs, which all but the bathroom and bathroom hallway need, and I can’t…quite…reach, and of course we can rent a ladder, but getting it to the house, in a small car, presents more challenges than comedic opportunities.
  • No matter what I do, my Twitter userpic is showing as a blank white square, even though I have tried different images, double, triple and quadruple checked the file size, deleted the old picture (which I am now regretting) and tried to start from scratch. Header worked fine on the first try, though, and I have no idea what happened to the backgrounds -plain white bothers me- and there is no design tab, which is what all the tutorials I find online tell me to look for. Is this just me?
  • We will not discuss the flip flop situation (also, I have always hated that name; my family called them zoris while I was growing up, and they still are that, to me) that has had the right sandal for two pairs die in one week, and the right one about to die, in the same place, on a third pair, after the Old Navy one-pair-for-a-dollar sale, because I cannot see the future, people.

I cannot count my current laptop as one of those almost-working things, because it is working, thanks to Real Life Romance Hero helping me with the factory reset, but I still need to decide what programs to put back into the thing and which I can leave to other devices.  Skype, I put back in right away, because I am me, and I am vacillating on Spotify. Sure, I could use my phone for music, but that means some juggling around of devices, and having everything in one place is convenient. Netflix is on my phone, and I plan on downloading to my tablet, as soon as tablet will cooperate (need to adjust screen sensitivity on that, which may also fit into the above list.)

Using Word Pad is actually rather freeing, which surprised me. There is no word count option, so that’s taken entirely away, and all I could do, yesterday, when transcribing from my pretty legal pad, was exactly that. Move the story points from paper to screen, slap an asterisk in front of every paragraph, because there’s not even an option to format a bullet point list, and off I go. No chance of checking to see where I was on word count, for either the scene or the book (and, at this point, doing so is a surefire motivation killer) but exactly the right place for my brain to make connections, spot details that needed adding, move things around, know how to do the things I didn’t before, etc. Not what I  had expected, but, maybe, what I needed.

I transcribed five handwritten legal pad pages into one file, named it, saved it, and went home, satisfied. Right now, I am telling the story, and I am telling it my way. There is plenty of time, once I get to The End, to smooth things out, make it pretty and ensure it is the right length for its intended markets. Her Last First Kiss is not going to be one of those books that almost worked. I’ve had too many of those. I do not want to count my miscarried manuscripts, but there are a number of them, and each one took a piece of me with them when we parted. This time, I need to keep the blinders on and keep moving forward, in the way that is right for me. The bells and whistles, all the “shoulds” and “everybody else does x-es” don’t matter. They need to take their place in the closet with the Hypercritical Gremlins and be quiet there.

My needs are my needs. They are not bad or wrong, only different. Your mileage may -and likely does- vary. The only thing I absolutely need to have is what gets me from Once Upon a Time to Happily Ever After, and those things that almost work? Why are they still here?

 

So It Begins…Again

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Technically, this is Monday’s post. I actually tried writing Monday’s post on Monday, but a twisted ankle (better now) and my one year old (almost to the day) laptop’s crisis, resulting in the nuclear option of a factory reset, took up the first two days of the week, an so I’m now doing Monday’s post on Wednesday. I don’t mind, because A) now I have something to talk about, and B) the post I had was a stinker anyway. I am not exaggerating. It bored even me.

I should probably mention that, as technology un-inclined as I am, I am also very attached to this particular laptop, and the thought of having to go back to the old one, even as an interim measure, did not sit at all well. Real Life Romance Hero stepped in and pulled the trigger on the whole reset deal, while I washed my hair (clean hair is always a mood booster) and read the latest (that I have) issue of The Walking Dead. The fact that The Walking Dead is my comfort read probably says something, but that’s another story.

We will skip to the part where RLRH informs me that the reset went smoothly and now I needed to put in the annoying personal information. That done, it was time to look at what I had. Short detour to install Windows 10, gasp in horror, and hit the button to return to Windows 8.1, because I am not that much of a masochist. All the while, I Skyped with a writer friend on my phone, because I have to talk about things like this, and finally left things for the night, knowing I would need to face the big question today: what programs do I really need to have physically installed on my laptop?

Skype: I put Skype on my phone pretty much the second I had to take it off my laptop, because Skype is an extrovert’s lifeblood. The whole internet, really, but Melva and I can plot insanely fast when actually face to face, and, since we live 200-ish miles apart at present, Skype is the way to go. It’s also how I communicate with H and Critique Partner Vicki, so not-Skyping is not an option, but, again, how much space is it going to take up and/or leave me?

Spotify: My tunes. I have a playlist for each project (save the Beach Ball, but that gets my Go To Work playlist, so it’s kind of covered) and am either listening to the appropriate playlist at most times, or browse for whatever suits my needs at the moment. I also have Spotify on my phone and tablet, so it’s not strictly necessary to have it on my laptop, though it is super convenient to have everything on one device.

Scrivener: I have Scrivener installed on my old, has-a-complicated-relationship-with-the-internet-and-uses-an-external-keyboard-plus-the-screen-always-wants-to-recline laptop, which also has Word. I’ve been almost exclusively working in Scrivener for Her Last First Kiss, and mostly in it for the Beach Ball, but I really don’t need all the bells and whistles when I’m writing the bullet point draft (smooths out into my first draft; I’ll explain later) and can do quite fine in WordPad or GoogleDocs, or Word on my old desktop (so old that the CD drive tries to kill me and it refuses to recognize the Internet.) I can move current work to Word or GoogleDocs, continue from there, then plop it all back into Scrivener (if I want to) when I’m done and/or the new desktop joins the family.

Scapple: I love Scapple, and I would love to use it more. Like Scrivener, I also have it on the old laptop, so it doesn’t technically need to be on this laptop, and, like Scrivener, a bit jumping through hoops-y to reinstall, even though I have all the information. So, I have them both, only not on this device, and I do like all that nice open space in my hard drive. Like so:

SCREENSHOT

So good not to be in the red…

See the nice blue bar that tells me how much space I have? As in, it’s not red and all the way up to the end of its space? That’s so unusual to me that I don’t want to lose it, but, at the same time, gal’s got to get some work done, or all future blogs will be full of whining (much like this) and not the fun stuff like finishing books and submissions and releases and all the rest. So, I’m considering, and I may end up winging the whole issue, putting in what I need to put in, when I need it, searching for ways to work around it, and, maybe, finding the way I do this best, now, rather than the ways I “should” or have always done.

Right now, I’m writing some stories. Head down, eyes on my own paper, keep banging on (Thank you, Idris Elba) and, before I know it, I’ll be typing “The End,” only it won’t be. There are other stories, other times and places to visit, other heroes and heroines whose stories need to be told, other tales to tell and other computers to drive me insane in the telling of them. Other pens, too, and notebooks, wherein emptying the one means filling the other, and all the adventures my imaginary friends and I will have along the way. Right now, I am writing these books, telling these stories, and that’s where I need to put my time and attention. Right now, I am posting this, then taking my act on the road, to our local coffee house, so I can transcribe the latest scene. It’s going into WordPad for now, because I’d much rather write than fiddle with programs.

Typing With Wet Claws: Too Darned Hot Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Even though I am the one with the built-in fur coat, Anty  is the one most affected by the heat. Uncle had a rough day, too, yesterday, and even Mama has been feeling sluggish, and she is usually the hardiest in this weather. Before I am allowed to talk about anything else, I have to talk about Anty’s writing first, so we will do that now.

Anty’s most recent Buried Under Romance post is here, and it looks like this:

BUR

Do you like to go fast or slow?

Summertime has never been Anty’s favorite time of year, because it is very hot and bright, and she is sensitive to both of those things. That means that, for most of the summertime, staying inside, in front of the box fan, during the day is the smart thing to do. Thankfully, since Anty is a writer, this actually works in her favor. Well, apart from the whole lack of energy thing. Do not worry, though; when autumn comes, Anty will get her superpowers back. She is not willing to wait for a couple more months to get to the top of her game, and so she has to make a couple of adjustments here.

Since Anty is a morning person, getting up super early helps. It is still cool in the morning, and  her brain is all fresh from sleep. The house is quiet, too, so it is the perfect time for her to write her morning pages. She is excited to start a new morning pages book, and has settled on the Papaya! Art spiral bound book for her next round of morning pages. If you have missed that post, (it is here) that book looks like this:

20160706_103611

She still does not know what pens she will use for that, but that is okay. She will know what to use when the time comes, and admits that she will probably have to do an ink test, even though she doesn’t want to make any mistakes on a book this special. Come to think of it, she feels the same way about the books she is writing, but there, too, she is learning to make adjustments.

Miss H, one of Anty’s writer friends, reminds Anty that nobody ever has to see a scene if Anty really thinks it is, um…stuff, (Miss H did not say “stuff.” I am using it as a euphemism for what she really said.) but Anty does have to write it. Anty is very tempted to say bad words to Miss H when Miss H says this, but she settles for saying the same thing right back to Miss H when it is Miss H’s turn. That is the important thing. It is okay to write the scene while scared of writing that scene. Getting even the roughest version out of the brain and onto the page or screen is what is important here. There will be time to make it pretty later, but nothing can be done if there is nothing on the page. Anty finds that it can be difficult to get over perfectionism, but it is also necessary. Sometimes, that is the biggest part of the battle, and once there is something, anything, on the page, then the rest comes easily.

This week, Anty has been working on both Her Last First Kiss, and the Beach Ball, although not as quickly as she might like. As I mentioned above, it has been very hot, and there has been a lot of humidity. I usually find a doorway with good air flow (the bathroom hallway is the best, because there are no windows, the floor is linoleum (or would that be lion-oleum, because it is comfy for kitties?) and, if I am in the right spot, I can catch breezes from the living room fan, Anty and Uncle’s bedroom fan, and stay in direct line of sight of the pantry door, which is where the humans keep my food and treats.

Even though Anty is most dominant, she is too big to flop in a doorway, and so she has to take other measures. Her comfy chair is in front of the living room fan, and the master bedroom door can close, keeping all the cool air inside. Her office even  has a ceiling fan, so that gives her another place she can work comfortably, even when it is not a good idea for her to go outside even the short distance to the coffee house. Even so, there are some days when it is flat out (and I am flat, even though I am inside) too disgusting to brain.

Anty is learning that, when it is difficult to put out, then it is time to take in. Because her body loses water, salt and potassium when the weather is hot, then she needs to put those things back into it by what she eats and drinks. The same way, since she puts out story when she writes, she needs to take story in between writing sessions. Reading is the best way, in her genre and out of it, to both stay grounded in why she loves what she loves and to inject some new energy into what she’s already doing.

 

Sometimes, the shift happens when Anty is not even looking for it. Today, while doing laundry (she went very early, so she could be there and back before it got too hot) Anty read a chunk of one of the books she got from the library earlier this week, and, when it came time to read the next chapter, she took out her mini notebook from her pen pouch to make a couple of quick notes. Yeah, Anty, those pages are more than a couple of notes, but that is exactly the point. Keeping one’s well filled means there will be enough to draw from when the time comes.

Anty says that time has come now  (also for my lunch, so there’s that) so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

Skye O’Malley Hart-Bowling

 

 

 

 

Still In Favor of Tire Swings

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Fourth of July, exactly one week left in my morning pages book, and I still haven’t chosen another. This bothers me. I certainly have enough notebooks from which to choose, and, when the day comes, I will be at my secretary desk, pen in hand and putting something on the very first page. That’s not the issue. It is, however, in line with the whole changey nature of life in general, so I’m going to let it be what it is.

The Fourth of July celebrations I remember best are the ones from my childhood. We’d head over to Aunt S2’s house (I had two Aunt S’s as a kiddo, both the close-friend-of-a-parent sort, and to further complicate matters, both were married to Uncle G’s. For clarity’s sake, Aunt S is the one who wrote books, and Aunt S2 threw Fourth of July celebrations that set the bar for the summer holiday, as far as I’m concerned. Kind of the summer version of Aunt S’s Christmases. Their respective spouses are Uncle G and Uncle G2.) around noonish or slightly thereafter, and not return home until close to midnight.

Aunt S2, I should mention, was actually originally British. She met Uncle G2, an American, in the UK, love bloomed, she crossed the pond, and I am not sure how it was she became the hostess of the Independence Day festivities (including the Bicentennial,) but she did. I never gave that much thought while growing up, nor did I ever find out if she ever became a US citizen. Mysteries for the ages, those, but what isn’t mysterious is how vividly I remember those celebrations. Watching each new arrival, to see what foodstuffs they brought to the communal table was a big deal for us kiddos, as was climbing all over the swing set in the back yard, and getting permission to play “in the field.” The field was not an actual field, but a sizeable patch of grass flanking Aunt S2’s house and the apartment complex adjacent. There was a fenced-in enclosure in the middle of it, the setting for many improvised imaginative play sessions that somehow remotely involved gardening.

The year Uncle G2 put a kiddo-sized plastic tire swing in the tree near the entrance gate, that became the hot ticket ride for the younger set. Our most forbidden pastime was putting leaves on the grill, to watch them change. Adults usually put an end to this as soon as humanly possible. There would be a whole watermelon brought out at some point, received with all the enthusiasm of a birthday cake, and, once night had fallen, we’d all pack into various vehicles, laden with lawn chairs, and head to the high school track to watch the fireworks. I don’t think any fireworks are going to match the impact of those in my memory, though the current year is welcome to try, with a caveat that fireworks aren’t always a happy thing for everyone. Pretty, sure, but scary for pets, combat veterans, and others, so I don’t think fireworks as an adult can be the same as they were for me as a kid.

After the fireworks, the 2s and their kiddos would follow us to our home, where the younger set would mostly giggle about being up that late, while the adults …well, I’m not entirely sure what the adults were doing. I do remember special desserts my mom had made, waiting for this private afterparty, and there may have been adult beverages for those old enough to partake. At some point, the 2s took their sleepy kiddos home, and my parents somehow convinced me to go to bed, even though I was not tired and had plenty more holiday left in me, or so I claimed between yawns.

Fast forward to now. Lovely apartment in a beautiful city, but no back yard, though we can watch the fireworks display from our balcony, which is an experience in itself. I’m looking forward to that. Since both Real Life Romance Hero and Housemate are spending their days helping others enjoy their holiday, as they work, respectively in the restaurant industry and retail, that leaves me with some time on my hands.

Today’s desk picture is my robot lock screen and Paris mug, because it doesn’t feel like the Fourth to me. Not sure what’s up with that. I got excited for Canada Day, and I’m not even Canadian. I am going to call writerbrain on this one. Having a day to take in creative fodder helps to put it out the rest of the week, and that’s a good thing. As an extrovert, trying to replicate a celebration that, to me, should involve lots of people, with only a few is draining, so those childhood Fourths remain as they were, the soft golden glow of nostalgia cranking them up a notch or two from what they actually were. I’m still finding out what a proper Fourth would mean to me, in the now.

Maybe it’s time to marathon favorite episodes of Sleepy Hollow, or revisit some of the American Revolution romances that were all the rage when I first became aware of the genre. Maybe it’s time to stream the Hamilton soundtrack, or see if any cable channels are airing 1776. Celebrating the Fourth is a fallow holiday for me right now, a resting period to let things settle and see what else can grow there in the future. In that light, I think today’s meh-ness kind of fits. I’m impatient with holidays, like I am with writing. I want the whole thing, with all the blinky lights and fireworks and ohmigosh, J brought her special baked beans, this is the best day everrrrrr moments, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

There’s only another layer. As a kid, it was enough to pick out an outfit, get in the back seat, and get out when the car stopped moving. There it would all be -holiday! Whee! How it got there was the grownups’ problem. Works the same way with holidays or books. Now, I am one of the grownups. Different vantage point, so of course it’s going to be a different view. Back then, I knew what the covers of historical romance novels looked like. Now, I read them, write them, and write about them. As an adult, I’m not only a consumer of book or holiday, but an active participant in the creation of both, whether the scale is large or small. Still figuring it all out, but also still highly in favor of tire swings. Make of that what you will.

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)

 

There Are Lobsters on My Desk

annabowling 1 Comment

 

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In case there is any doubt as to my lifelong case of raging Anglophilia, today’s picture should put that to rest. Paris-themed stationery aside (as in literally; I had to move my Marie Antoinette themed matchbook notepad out of the way to take this image) I’ve been hardwired for most things British straight out of the box, as far as I can remember. Don’t ask me when it began, because I have no idea, though I will allow that, by the time I was one year old, the family newly moved to a house in Bedford, NY, from Manhattan, our bottom-of-the-hill neighbors were Scottish immigrants. Shortly after that, my mom met her best local friend, a British  expat, who happened to have a baby my age (yes, our families met on a playground, why do you ask?) Very easy to guess, in this case, what sort of adults I saw most often on a regular basis in my formative years. I strongly suspect they imprinted on me, early, and with lasting impact.

While that probably explains my affinity for mentally hopping the pond, I lay the thankblame (which should totally be a real word) for historical romance being my soulmate genre at the feet of two aunts. Aunt L was my mom’s sister. She lived in New Jersey, and, every time she visited (we lived in CT by this time,) she would bring at least one paper grocery bag stuffed to the top with historical romance novels. I was too young to read them at this point, but it was still my job to take the bag directly to the laundry room, un-bag them, and set them aside for my mother’s later perusal. This was when I fell in love with some of the cover art in that first wave of historical romance. It was all painted back then, not photographs, every cover a tiny work of art. I read the blurbs, noted hero and heroine first names (I’ve been name-obsessed since I was about eight) and was a good kid, not looking into the forbidden pages, not even a little.

Well, kind of. Aunt S, wife to Uncle G, my dad’s best friend from their Army days, wrote one. Then two, then three, you get the drift. I went with Mom to the book section of Caldor, to peruse the rack and keep an eye out for Aunt S’s name. I don’t remember which one of us found it, but I remember how my heart did a skippity-skip when I saw it, then another when Mom took it out of the rack.  We were buying that book. We were taking it home. I have had that same feeling many a time, when lifting a much-desired book from its shelf, rack, box, hitting the download button, whatever, but this one…this one was the very first, and I knew, without knowing much about it, that this one would be special. I didn’t know it was going to change my life.

Even before Aunt S wrote her first book, even before (to my knowledge) Aunt L hauled grocery bags full of historical romance novels from NJ to CT (and it only now hits me that my mother and aunts were romance readers, and I never got to talk romance novels with them. I even remember mentioning something about a character from one of Aunt S’s books to Aunt G, another of Mom’s sisters, and her responding that she saw the character differently…you read at least one romance novel, Aunt G, and you never said.) I lived in Bedford, NY, during the Bicentennial (dating myself, I know, but I am fine with dating myself, because I always have a lovely time; I’m delightful.) As in town that was literally burned to the ground by the British Army during the war, except for one house. Home to a very lovely historical society I loved then and love now, and setting for my first historical romance, My Outcast Heart.

Dalby and Tabetha’s story takes place a  half century and change before the war, so they’d be opinionated seniors by that time, but it’s safe to say that, growing up around that much Revolutionary history, the Georgian age imprinted on me, as well. Maybe that’s why the Georgian period seems to be my historical default setting when I start a new novel. It’s not the only period I like – I’ve written sixteenth century, English Civil War, turn of the twentieth century romances so far, that are currently available, and I have hopes for my first medieval, but when it came time to start Her Last First Kiss, there wasn’t any doubt that it would be Georgian.

There aren’t any Redcoats (aka Lobsterbacks) in Hero and Heroine’s story, though they’ll likely find a few when they get where they’re going, but in future books, there absolutely will be. Ember and her Golden Man still rustle at me from the pages of notebooks and not-quite-right drafts, and I’m sure there will be other soldiers with tales to tell, so I will keep acquiring lobster-related items along with my Union Jacks and other related ephemera. For now, I’m head down, eyes on my own paper, for Hero and Heroine’s tale, which I can now get to, as I can cross “blog entry” off my list. Happy midweek!

 

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.