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Typing With Wet Claws: Officially Summertime Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Now that it is officially summertime, this is going to have an effect on the way Anty does a few things. It does not affect the fact that I have to talk about her writing first, before I am allowed to talk about anything else, so I will tell you about the current Buried Under Romance discussion post.

This past week, Anty discovered a new-to-her author (who is not very new, because she has over fifty books out and more on the way.) It looks like Anty has some reading to do. Have you ever discovered an author with a very big backlist? How did you handle tackling that? Start at the beginning and go through in order, or jump in wherever you felt like it? Maybe you even found some other way. Drop by Buried Under Romance and let Anty know. She is nosy about things like this. That post is here and it looks like this:

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This past week saw the onset of the summer season, which is not Anty’s favorite. Anty is not covered in fur like I am (because she is a people) so she does not have that to shield her from the sun, which can be very, very bright. It can also get very, very hot, and Anty, because she had heatstroke when she was a very young grownup, needs to be careful in hot weather. That means staying inside as much as possible when it is bright and/or hot outside,  stay hydrated, and get more rest if she needs it.  When she does go outside during the daytime, then she needs to wear a hat and protective clothing (long sleeves, or a shawl covering arms and shoulders, long skirt or dress) because her skin is sensitive to chemicals used in many sunblocks. She even once got a rash from newborn sunscreen. All of this makes me very glad that I have fur and am an indoor kitty. I like my sunbeams, but I do not think I would like being outside all the time. I was, before I was rescued, and it was not that great, but I am digressing.

Anty finds that the arrival of summertime means that she needs to make a few changes to the way she goes about this whole writing thing. For one thing, she has started going to bed earlier so that she can get up earlier. Anty is a morning person anyway, no matter the season, and mornings are the coolest part of the day, since the house is still comfortable from the nice, cool night. Anty’s brain is sharper in the mornings (she crashes shortly after lunch, then gets a second wind) so she likes to start with her morning pages (she still does not know what book she wants to be her next morning pages book, so stay tuned for developments on that front) and then get into the business of the day.

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Anty has found, through writing her morning pages, that writing about what she is going to write, before she writes it, makes the actual writing a lot easier, because she does not have to decide what she will be writing while she is actually writing it. If that does not make  a lot of sense to you, do not worry. Anty had to think about that while explaining that to me, too. What it all comes down to is that Anty is a talker. While the best-best thing is to talk about the story to another writer friend, preferably one in the same genre, writing about writing is like talking on paper, so it is a big help. Anty thinks the butterfly cover on the notebook in the picture above is symbolic of all the changeyness going on these days. She does not know what she will write in that notebook, but she does know she will be writing in it with sepia ink. Once she fixes that pen cartridge, that is.

 

 

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That brings us to the actual writing.  Summertime has not always been a great time for that,  thanks to the whole heat and sun thing, but, this year, Anty  has found a few ways to get around that. Writing by hand in her nice, shady office is a good start, and remembering to keep her creative well filled by making time to read, take in other stimuli, and, most importantly, play with me. It is an ongoing process, and Anty has learned -or, she would say, she is learning- not to rush. Of course things are going to be different now than when she first got into this game, because she is different, and the market is different as well. Maybe, this year, instead of grumbling about  how long it is until September (autumn is her favorite season,) the key is to appreciate this stage of the journey for where and what it is, and know that, if she stays on the right track, she will get there. That leaves room for some summer fun along the way, which, for Anty, usually involves books and friends who love books. Also ice cream. There is also playing with me, but I am an all season kitty, so maybe I do not need to mention that, because it is obvious.

It should also be obvious that 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)

Hungry

annabowling 2 Comments

When you’re hungry, eat. When you eat, eat food.

–Kara Brooks

The fact that I know exactly how much longer it will be until lunch should explain how I got on this theme for today’s blog. The fact that I have a mental list of every snack in the house, can rattle off a ranking of which order I would prefer to consume them, and have already decided I will propose tonight as a foraging night (meaning we have food, we’re all grownups, everybody find food and eat it, because I’m not cooking) sealed the deal on today’s topic. The quote above comes from my cousin, a tall, tattooed, red-haired Army veteran with the voice of an angel, who is adept at giving me smacks upside the head when needed. I do not recall when this particular quote came into play, ( best guess a few years back) but I remember it, word for word

This is not a post on nutrition, and it is. It is not, in the aspect that I am not going to talk about calories, food groups, pyramids or any of that stuff. It is, in the aspect that one can, theoretically, own the greatest racehorse in the world, but if one never feeds him/her, how many races is he/she going to win? (Hint: zero, because horses that do not eat do not survive, and dead horses cannot run.) Now that we’ve got that out of the way, in a move that surprises nobody, (say it with me now) it’s the same way with writing. Maybe there are some people who can put out without ever taking in, but I am not one of them.

Last night, I had a Skype chat with another writer friend, and had a file open, because we do that often, write while chatting. This time, though, I stared at my split screen, Skype on one side, Word Pad on the other, and…nope. Yes, I know these characters. Yes, I love them. Yes, I know what happens next -it’s right there in my notes- and yes, I have a plan. No, I could not make any of it happen. I punched a few keys in desultory fashion, scrolled through my Spotify playlist, whined to my friend, stared down Word Pad, and…nope.

Zip, zilch, zero, nothing, nada, nil, endless void where writing ought to be. Storytelling, even. I’d take bullet points. I got bupkis.  Less than bupkis. The characters froze in place and stared back at me, their expressions conveying only a general “we thought you knew what was going on here” vibe. My reaction could best be summarized by sending over a tuxedo-clad waiter (yeah, really not moving from the food thing here) to explain to Sir and Madam that there has been a slight inconvenience in the kitchen and Chef deeply apologizes for the inconvenience.

“Slight inconvenience,” in this case, would mean that there was a raging grease fire, Chef’s only weapons a slightly damp washcloth and a bucket of what could be sandbox sand, or it could be kitty litter, but the grease fire did serve to distract from the fact that the delivery of actual ingredients for the dishes ordered (or, really, any dishes at all at this point) had not yet arrived. As in, the washcloth and maybe-sand-maybe-kitty-litter is basically what there would be at this point. I don’t think I have to point out that nobody wants a dinner of washcloth and sand and/or kitty litter. Not even if it’s rolled, burrito-style and presented with a garnish of whatever happens to be in Chef’s trouser pockets.

In a restaurant situation, this means that somebody has to go out and obtain said ingredients (okay, yes, put out the grease fire first. Always put out the grease fire first.) In a writing situation, facing a page with “well, I got nothing,” is usually a good cue that it’s time  to go out and get something. Take a break. Read something that engages, whether it’s a book, an email, the back of a cereal box, whatever. Watch an episode of a favorite TV show. Take in a movie. Take a walk. (I like to go to the park and look for ducks. Ducks usually serve as wonderful creative consultants. I think it’s all the paddling.) Have a snack. Have a nap. Play with a pet. Insert old saw about drawing water from an empty well. Not going to happen. Time to get something in there, before anything else can come out.

So it was, last night. I bid my friend goodnight, saved my document and logged out. One relaxing bath and a couple of chapters later, I turned off the light, the perils of characters-n0t-my-own the last thing on my mind, ready to digest overnight. I woke up still hungry, but I have a full pantry (aka TBR shelf) to take care of that. The selection is varied, and I am only minutes’ walks from two different libraries, so if the particular flavor I want isn’t literally at hand, it’s not that far away.

Right now, I’m hungry. Yes, for lunch (which will happen after posting) but also for story, for that deep immersion in the story world, climbing into the characters’ skins and seeing what they see, feeling what they feel. I don’t want to browse. I don’t want to skim. I don’t want to nibble or sample or taste. I want the meat. I want to feast. I want to take in what I need to do what I need, not in quick bursts, but to go the distance, and, maybe, fuel somebody else’s fire.

 

 

Flop Day and Morning Page Rambles

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Today is a flop day. The temperature, at last consult, was ninety-three degrees. The sun is bright. I am fair, and sun-and-heat-sensitive. This means stay the heck inside, wear light, loose clothing, stay hydrated, and plop self in front of box fan for the duration. Since I am a writer, this is not that difficult a task. I have reading to do for various upcoming Heroes and Heartbreakers posts, and two ongoing WIPs. Well, official ones. I have back burners. Lots to keep me out of trouble, and in range of cool, moving air. Real Life Romance Hero is at hand, and, later in the afternoon, the whole household (minus Skye, who stays home, because she is a kitty) will decamp to an air-conditioned car and air-conditioned venue for an extra dose of cooling.

Mornings are the easiest parts of flop days, as it’s not as hot yet as it’s going to be, and I’m a morning person anyway. My morning beverage is cold instead of hot on these days, and comes with me when I write my morning pages. In two more weeks, I’m going to have filled my current morning book, and will need to choose another one. This may or may not be from my current stock. A peek, first, at previous and current notebooks:

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Book with the river scene is my previous book; book with burgundy damask flap is current.

 

The Eiffel Tower theme was not intentional, so not strictly necessary for the new book to continue that tradition, but both do have a rotation of designs on the interior pages, and that is a requirement. That’s where the indecision comes into play. I do very strongly prefer writing on beautiful pages, and having rotating designs on each two page spread reinforces that I am writing two pages and two pages only for this purpose. I could have sworn I had a third Paris-themed book (not the one in today’s featured picture, though that is the new baby; those pages are plain lined ivory, and the only thing I know is that I will be writing on them with red and turquoise Pilot Varsity pens, no clue as to content) at hand, with a black/white/red color scheme, that would be the natural successor, but the book in the crate where I thought it was has plain lined pages, not rotating designs that I remembered. Either I filed it in the wrong crate, or I was engaging in some wishful thinking. Bottom line here is, I need to pick a new morning pages book. I do have two books with rotating designs, as shown below:

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Candidates one and two from current stock

 

I did take pictures of the covers, but it refused to load, and I am not taking pictures of every design in both books, so use your imagination. Assume the art style remains consistent within each book and on its covers. The larger book is Paris-themed, but I’m not sure it’s clicking with me at this precise moment. Neither book has lined pages; some are unlined, and some have grids. The larger book has some pages where the design takes up the entire page, and I’m not sure where I’d even write on those pages. Designs in the smaller book take up part of the page, so that would cut into the writing space, and that’s more thinking than I want to do first thing in the morning, unless it’s one of those days where I get to start off by having breakfast with my imaginary friends. Neither book is out of the running, because A) I have them, and B) I do want to use them one day, but I’m not sure if they belong to this purpose.

There is one other contender currently on hand, and I already know what pen I would use to write in it (turquoise Pilot Varsity, as shown.) :

Front cover
Same spread on all pages

 

Absolutely gorgeous, though the spread is the same on all pages. Could get monotonous after  while, but I could possibly alternate with the sepia Pilot Plumix (once I fix the jammed-too-far-into itself cartridge; last week was not good for refilling fountain pens.)for the sake of variety. Still thinking on that one, and I do  have some time. I’d prefer to use something already on hand, but there are some lovely books out there, so the field is still open. Maybe I’ll even find I didn’t imagine the black, white and red Paris book.

When the time comes, the book will be there. This time around, I’m going to increase my days to seven rather than six. I’ve found I miss doing daily pages on Sundays, and have toyed with having a special Sunday book (which would press another book into service, so maybe not an entirely bad idea there) but keeping everything one place seems the more efficient option. Who knows? I’ll know when it’s time. That’s part of this whole finding my way part of the journey, and if it’s paved with more notebooks, all the better.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Winds of Change Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Today feels like summer, after a week of mostly very cool weather. Right now, Anty and I are next to an open window, with a box fan, which makes it nice and cool. It also ruffles my fur. Anty is easily amused, but I have a sunbeam, so I do not mind.

This week, at Buried Under Romance, Anty talked about the perils and pitfalls of reading and writing independently published romances. Do you read books like that, or write them? Anty is very interested to find out. That post is here and it looks like this:

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Anty will have a whole new post up tomorrow, about what it is like to discover new reading adventures, so be sure to stop by Buried Under Romance and join the conversation. Anty is nosy and likes to know what other people are reading, especially since she has been making it a point to do a lot more reading of her own, these days. Even though there are still the same number of hours in every day, (do not think Anty has not looked into ways of getting around that, including but not limited to spending less time asleep) she recognizes that the way she manages those hours goes a long way to making them as effective as possible. While it is true that, to have a novel writing career, there must be completed novels (have you ever been in a store that does not have products to sell? Would those stores stay in business? Probably not, but. then again, I am a kitty, so do not go by me here.) it is also true that trying to draw water from an empty well is about as smart as trying to handle a full day on little to no sleep.

This means that Anty has to slam the breaks on some habits that do not serve her purpose, and pick up others that do. One of those habits is reading. Anty remembers a time when she almost always had her nose in a book if she was not actually writing. Anty also remembers that this was before there was Internet, and time spent doing one thing is time spent not doing another. Combine this with the look the people vet gave Anty when she told him how many hours per day she looks at a computer screen, and Anty knows what she has to do here. Story in, story out, she always says, and it is true. If a human wants their car to run, they have to put gas into it, and it is the same with writers. if Anty wants to create stories, she has to take them in as well, not only for entertainment, but to see what others are doing in her field, as well as outside of it. (When I say “field,” I mean genre. Anty does not have a field like farmers have fields.)

It is also important to take in new stimuli. Anty calls this the magpie stage, and she says that it is for the beginning of a project, but it is really for all the time. One of her Spotify lists is for miscellaneous songs that she likes, but has not assigned to any one particular story. Listening to the songs on that list tells her brain it is time to do new things, and, in time, songs will sort themselves, either into other lists, or groupings within this one.  Some songs take a long time to decide where they belong, and that is okay. Anty has time.

Today, Anty spent some time, after she wrote her morning pages, looking through her notebook crates (she has two of them here in the apartment) because, in about two weeks, she will be all done with her current morning pages book. That means it is time to decide on a new one. So far, she has three possible candidates, but do not quote her on that. She prefers when her morning pages books have alternating two page spreads, but only a few -really about two, maybe three- of the books she has on hand actually do. Which means that she either needs to pick one of those (even if the spreads are kind of funny and some have grids instead of lines and some have no lines at all, only designs) or alter a book with spreads that are all the same. Whichever way Anty goes with this, it will be a new adventure, since every notebook has its own personality.

It feels appropriate to be moving to a new morning pages book when things are changey overall, and she has accepted that moving toward the finished draft of Her Last First Kiss is going to happen at its own pace, even if she wishes it were faster. That is okay. The first time doing anything always takes the longest, because that is when the human is learning how to do it. For Anty, it is re-learning. Similar, but not the same, with enough of a difference to ensure there are still interesting discoveries to be made. That is actually a place where Anty feels fairly comfortable, ready to hit her stride.

Speaking of which, she is making those ruffly noises with her papers, which tell me that had better be 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)

Phantoms

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Ichabod and Abbie get me on this one. I’m in a mood. It will pass. It already is. Getting into the swing of the day, taking a look at what needs to get done today, and in what order I would like to do it, all generally work together to turn things around. My mom was right; the more I do, the more I’ll want to do. Which is where things are going. Left foot, right foot, and all of that journey of a thousand miles stuff.

What got me in a mood wasn’t one thing, but a combination of things, and, as much as I’d like to say it was the state of the world, or something big like that, it wasn’t. Consider it another nibbled to death by ducks moment, and a good sign that I really do need to keep my head down and eyes on my own paper when I’m tempted to do otherwise. Not a good thing for us over-thinkers, but an occupational hazard. The minutiae don’t matter. What does matter was that I landed on the fact that I’m not where I’d hoped to be at this stage of the game, career-wise. Life happens. Life happened (egads, did it happen) and, as I have found out, does not have a reverse gear. There’s only forward from here.

Which is where the phantoms come into play. I don’t think the specifics matter here, either, and I’m not going to tie myself up trying to word things in exactly the right way (because, newsflash, there isn’t one.) Attempting to use something that isn’t there anymore, wanting to talk with someone who isn’t there anymore, adapting to the not-there-ness and finding out what goes there instead; again, not easy, and I doubt anybody actually picks that, but, as with anything else, the more exercise a muscle gets, the stronger it gets. The more ingrained a habit becomes, the easier it is to slip into autopilot, because a new pattern has formed, and we know what comes next and next and next.

The thing is, and this is not always entirely a bad thing, those in between times. Leaning on the right side of the staircase when going downstairs in a new house, for example, because, even though the railing is on the left side now, it was on the right side in the last house, and the pattern is that strong. I suspect part of this bent may be due to getting the old desktop back into play. Some of the files on that hard drive need to go away, whether to a jump drive or the trash bin may depend on the individual files, but there are phantoms there. Story things I tried that didn’t have it in them to go all the way, other things that are too strongly tied to times/places I don’t want to revisit, and yet too close to eliminate entirely. The phantoms don’t do much, exactly. More like lurk there, on the outskirts, cock their heads at what I’m doing here, disturbing their rest. Some of them may well wander back off into the mist at some point, and others will adapt, take on a new form and make tentative motions in my general direction.

If what I come away from all this rooting around in the bowels of electronics past is that I’m not where I wanted to be, then that’s a good thing. It points me in the direction of where I want to go. The destination hasn’t changed, and it can still be reached the same left foot, right foot, way. Some of those steps will, of necessity, be taken with figurative phantom limbs. Those will hurt, until they don’t. At some point, what’s new now will become how it’s always been. Set a course, stick to it, keep moving in that specific direction, and there will be a point of arrival. I’m learning.

This wasn’t meant to be such a meandery post, and I’m not intending it to be a mopey one, merely splashing about in the shallows, getting bearings and finding the lay of the land in this new season. What I wanted was to get to my magic seven hundred, because then I get to go play with my imaginary friends. Mission accomplished.

 

Closer to Fine

annabowling 2 Comments

To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.
~ Joseph Chilton Pierce

I have no idea what to write here. Seriously, nothing, but I have less than an hour before writing time begins, so I’m jumping in here, Hypercritical Gremlins muzzled, at least for the moment. If everything I write is going to be wrong, then, does it really matter what I put down? Nope. So anything’s good then. My blog, my rules. Which means, most likely, that I am going to free-form ramble here, until I reach my magic seven hundred words and can hit post.

Today’s workspace picture is kind of cheating, because I’m writing this entry on my laptop. Old desktop (her name is Dahlia) can’t keep up with this newfangled interweb, so she doesn’t do anything that involves talking to other computers. She has Word, though, and Word Pad, so she’s perfectly fine for story stuff, and, with her nice big screen, inspirational photos are much more visible than on a smaller screen, so point Dahlia. I can use my phone for Spotify, a floor lamp pilfered from the living room (and kind of in the middle of this one) for a light source and I am ready to roll. The chair situation is another makeshift arrangement, as it’s a folding camp chair with a squished-flat pillow for a cushion. Not ideal-ideal, but it has a cup holder, and that’s worth something.

Making do and keeping on seem to be a theme at the moment, so I’m going with it. Hopefully, this will turn into some coherent blogging. This past Saturday, our CRRWA meeting’s topic was self-publishing, which I found interesting and plan to find useful, but, right now, my job is to get my current manuscripts done. Head down, eyes on my own paper, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, until I reach my destination. It’s got to the point where I’m looking at things differently. I can’t do NaNo style word count goals. I can’t. One way ticket to paralysis right there, and I am not taking that trip one stinking more time. Nope, nope, nope.  Won’t do it, can’t make me.

What works instead is my usual method of jumping in and flailing about until, at some point that always surprises me, I’m not flailing anymore. I know what I’m doing. I look forward to spending time with Hero and Heroine, rather than agonizing over meeting a number or smashing my head against a brick wall, trying to make the voices in my head do what I want. They’d rather do what they want, thankyouverymuch, and the best way I can help them is to follow them around with pen and paper and write down what they do. Jabber about it with like-minded friends who can help me figure out the stuff that isn’t immediately obvious, and then write that down, too. Usually with pen and paper, and then I can transcribe into Scrivener or Word.

Do not ask me right now which one I prefer, because I don’t know. This time, last year, I was one hundred percent a Scrivener convert, but the last couple of days, working in Word has felt like sinking into a warm, relaxing bath. No bells, no whistles, only me and my imaginary friends, having a darned good time, each party bringing us that much closer to our goal of living Happily Ever After.

This morning, I woke to the sound of Skye’s zoomies, which almost always portend her use of her excretory system. I took care of feline output and input, made myself a cup of tea, and booted Dahlia, to see what I could accomplish before the day began in earnest. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed being able to do that, get up before the rest of the house, shut the door, turn on a light and…go. Rather nice, that, and satisfying, as well, to save, shut down, and walk away. Or stay, if I’m so inclined, and open a book at that very same desk, and visit someone else’s imagination for a while, rather than being rushed hither and yon, only able to scan a paragraph or two before my attention is needed and/or wanted elsewhere. I could get used to this.

If I had to describe my process right now in only two words, those two words would be, “in flux.” It’s a changey time, new things coming into play, old things rediscovered, both of them mushing together to make something that hasn’t been there before. I don’t always know what’s going on, but the process of curating what does and what does not, has turned out to be an extremely intuitive endeavor. Enough light for the next step is all that I need, as long as I keep on going.

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Typing With Wet Claws: Anty Unplugged Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Before I talk about anything else, I have to talk about Anty’s writing (which is pretty much what I was going to talk about anyway,) but first things first.

It is now summertime, Anty’s least favorite season (and mine; you would understand if you had a built-in fur coat, like I do) and that makes her very crabby, but, fortunately, there is one thing Anty does like about summertime (apart from the increased social acceptability of having ice cream during the day.) She talked about that at Buried Under Romance. That post is here and it looks like this:

 

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Saturday was a big day for Anty, because she also got to recap last weekend’s episode of Outlander, when Jamie and Claire get ready for war. Anty loves the grittier side of historical romance, and this episode had lots of it.  That post is here, and it looks like this:

 

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In case you only read  my posts, Anty also shared a short piece of fiction from her personal vaults here, and listed fifteen writers who have influenced her, here.  She will go into more depth on some of those later, and she is still deciding about other items she has in her vault. I can make no promises, but I do think it is interesting to contrast earlier work with the current stuff and see what is the same and what is different.

One thing that is different this week (all right, two, but I am not sure if I am going to get to both of them, so let’s say one thing for now) is that Anty has been making a conscious effort to spend less time staring at screens. This may seem counterintuitive for a writer, but it is something that has been on Anty’s mind ever since she went to the people vet last month. The people vet gave Anty a paper to fill out so that they could know how to help her the best. Since Anty could not see right then, she had Mama fill it out for her. One of those questions was how many hours a day Anty looked at a computer screen. “All of them” was not an acceptable answer, but the number Anty gave, gave the people vet some concern. Maybe Anty might want to think about reducing that number.

Well. Maybe, Anty thought, the people vet might be on to something. Anty was also irritated that she did not have a lot of time to read paper books, and wanted to try something different with the way she uses her time (that is the second thing, so I will talk about that, too.) Making time that is set aside for reading paper books and nothing else is now one of her goals, and doing that means that she gets more reading done. That is a very good thing. She has also found that switching between screen-related and non-screen-related tasks is a lot easier on her eyes. Since she composes best with pen and paper, this works out very well. There is time enough to look at screens at other times and other stages in the process.

The different thing Anty is trying about how she uses her time is scheduling. Instead of giving each task a set time, like answering emails at 9AM, looking at notes from Anty Melva at 9:30, etc, she writes down everything she needs to do that day, and the hours in which she will have to accomplish those things. Then she picks what thing she wants to do most from that list. Sometimes, that means getting the hard thing out of the way first, and sometimes, it means easing into the day with something easy. So far, Anty notices that she gets more done this way, and feels less stressed. She will see how this goes when she applies it over a longer period of time, but so far, so good. Every human works differently, so this method may not work for everybody, but, for Anty, it does.

Today, Anty picked helping me with this blog as her first thing, because she and Mama have to go hunt for cat food (and people food) and she wanted this posted before she did anything else, in case the hunt takes longer than expected. Anty wants to get the hunting done early, so that she can have uninterrupted time to work on Her Last First Kiss and on Beach Ball (remember those notes from Anty Melva I mentioned?) Anty gets very crabby when anybody interrupts her while she is writing, so that needs to be in uninterrupted time, either when nobody but Anty and I are home (I wait patiently for her to come up for air before I ask for food or scritches or playtime) or when she is away from home, at a coffee house, with her earbuds in, a signal for other humans to leave her alone. When the desktop arrives (she still has to hunt for that) then she can go into her office and close the door, which will give her another private place to get things done. It is not the same every day, but it all has the same goal – to get these books finished and send them out into the world for others to read.

Unplugging for part of the day is not only good for Anty’s eyeballs, but the whole Anty. She likes tackling smaller chunks of things, which are varied from each other, and being able to give one thing her full attention until it is done-done, and then on to the next. Speaking of which, that is about it for this week, because my sunbeam is here. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

 

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

Typing With Wet Claws: Grow-ning Pains Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another, later than usual, Feline Friday. Today, you get a beloved classic picture of me, because I am hiding. There are two reasons why I am hiding. One, some humans are working on the road near our house, and they have loud trucks and loud equipment. Two, it is going to rain here, probably soon, and rain always makes me want to hide. I go under Anty and Uncle’s bed, because that is the safest place in the world. I have not been wet from the rain once since I started hiding there, so I know that it works. Technically, I have not been wet from the rain ever since I got rescued, but hiding under the bed makes me double extra sure. It is a good thing Anty keeps almost all of her pictures of me, in case things like this happen. Anty is smart.

Anty is also talkative. This week, at Buried Under Romance, she talked about how readers can best celebrate the life’s work of favorite authors who are no longer with us. Anty’s post is here and it looks like this:

 

BUR

 

I am going to paw it for today’s blog, because Anty is mostly keeping her head down and eyes on her own paper with the writing stuff.  She asked me to let you know that the promised flash fiction is being formatted, and you can read it on Monday. She wants to get this draft of Her Last First Kiss written all the way to the end, because A) it is time to get this story baby out of her already, B) she actually likes the rewriting/revising part of the whole book thing, and C) once she gets to The End, she can probably start using Hero and Heroine’s actual names when she talks about them, but not before that. Even so, she does poke her head up every once in a while, like when somebody mentions gummi bears. Gummi bears always get Anty’s attention.

 

It is not gummi bears that got her attention today, though. While Anty was at the Laundromat this morning, she checked her mail on her phone, and found a notice from RT Book Reviews, her favorite magazine for a very, very long time. Like the cat before the cat before me long time. With time between cats, that is how long. Anyway, she opened the email and got quite the shock – the issue she plans to go out and buy later today will be the very last print issue. Anty did not authorize that. Anty is, in fact, very much against that, because A) it is her favorite magazine, and B) this means that there are now no print magazines devoted to the romance genre. (That is apart from Romance Writer’s Report, the magazine available only to RWA members.) If Anty were independently wealthy, she would probably look into immediately starting a new one (and probably very shortly thereafter be found in a fetal position under the dining room table, clutching a notebook and mumbling something about cupcakes, because starting a magazine is a lot of work and Anty already has a lot in her bowl…um, on her plate. Because she is a human.) Sadly, Anty is not independently wealthy (yet) and so she is going to have to deal with this.

Anty’s reaction was much more subdued than it would have been if this news had found her at any other time, because she is going through a lot of changes, and this feels like it fits right in with all of that. The e-publishing revolution really has been a game changer (if cats can have their own blogs, then anything is possible) and publishing, in general, is a business, and the way people use media like magazines is changing, so while she is surprised, she can see the logic behind the decision.

Because Anty is Anty, some things really aren’t “real” until she can talk about them (this is true of many extroverts,) and the friend she would normally talk to first about things like this has become a once-upon-a-time friend, so that will not be possible exactly the way Anty’s first instinct would like, and that is an adjustment on top of an adjustment. On the one hand, Anty can now call her collection of all the issues of the magazine from the time she started reading it, until now, complete. She can still look into hunting down a few years’ worth of print magazines from before the time she was allowed to read it (she started when she as an almost-almost-grownup) so there are still new-to-her issues to be found, though it will take some hunting. There will still be the website and she can even get a subscription to VIP content, but, still, she will miss the thrill of seeing the new issue on the newsstand, or in her mailbox at home.

There will be a little mourning involved. Anty has very special memories of drinking in every word of each issue, especially when she first started getting the magazine, making special trips to stores to get it, and even one time, when she and Uncle lived all the way out in California, Uncle making a very long car trip just so he could get Anty the new issue because he knew it was important to her. This is one of the many reasons Uncle is Anty’s Real Life Romance Hero. There will probably be petting of the issues Anty has in the apartment, and she will likely want to get some special magazine files to keep this last batch in good shape and close at  hand.

Anty admits she is disappointed that she will never be able to pick up a copy of the magazine with her books on the cover (that was a longtime goal of hers) but she has seen her name inside it on multiple occasions, in the letter section and in the memorial to Bertrice Small. She remembers screaming so loud the first time she saw her name and her letter in the magazine that Mama swerved into a different lane. She remembers convincing a store or two to carry the magazine, and recommending it to others. It’s going to be a loss, but not the gone-forever sort. More of the taking on a different shape sort, as there is already the website, and all of the content will still be there, that way.

As a kitty, I understand not liking changes in routine. That is perfectly normal and natural. For humans, though, changes in routine can often come out of growth. Like going from a tiny kitten to a big, majestic mountain lion like me. (I am really a Maine Coon, but Uncle says I am his mountain lion.) The in-between stages are sometimes not the most comfortable (I spent a lot of my in-between stages at the vet, so I get it) but believing that the end result will be worth it puts things in perspective.

Anty says it is now time for her to work on her draft (and sniffle about the magazine a little) so that is about 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)

Influences of Late

annabowling 2 Comments

The last couple of days, I’ve been bingeing. Monday, I stumbled across Grace Burrowes’s FAQ section, which led to glomming on her blog, a couple of years’ worth of entries, full disclosure.  I haven’t read any of her novels -yet- but I know I have some in my TBR bookshelf, some waiting in my Kindle, and they take up a significant amount of the B shelf in the romance section at my local library branch. I started with the About Writing section of the FAQ page, and fell immediately in love, which may be a good indicator it’s time to dive into the actual books. Thankfully, there’s a suggested reading order on the author’s website, because there are a heck of a lot of t hem.

Tuesday, I investigated the Bad Girlz Write blog, whose members include the fabulous Jeannette Grey, a CRRWA chapter sister, and Heather McGovern, whose workshop on the big black moment I have  heard-but-not-actually-seen, because the day she presented at CRRWA was also the day my former pair of spectacles died, and my valiant attempt to hold them together with electrical tape and a binder clip A) did not work, and B) hurt, because electrical tape, when folded, has sharp, pointy corners, as well as C) made me dizzy and gave me a headache. I took notes anyway, but will not vouch for the legibility of same. Here, as well, I hit the back button to read blog entry after blog entry about wandering and, heck, the entire section on writer life in one go. There may or may not have been actual tears in either of the above.

There sure as anything have been a lot of tears in my other binge, Parenthood. Not the life state. The TV show. Yes, I do live under a rock, and no, I do not know how I somehow managed to never ever see a single episode of this until Netflix, but I needed a show to binge and Netflix said I might like it, because Netflix knows me, and yessssssssssss. Oh so very much yes. Only a few episodes into the first season, I had to check to make sure my OTPs (from the adult generation, that is; everybody shush on the teens, because I want to experience it myself) were going to be endgame (they were) before I could allow myself to get as deeply attached as I am wont to do in these situations.

All three of these binges brought that same reaction in my writerheart: YES. This. This is what I want to do. This is what I’m shooting for when I write. This connection. This emotional impact. This need to stop everything I’m doing and check to see if Crosby and Jasmine are going to be all right, because if they aren’t, there is no good left in the world. Also Joel and Julia. I already know a couple of things about the finale, and I am fine knowing them, but the rest, I want to discover as I go. I want to take all of this in and use it as food to fuel my own work. The tightly-knit family, made of people who aren’t perfect, who do get mad and lose their tempers and yell at little kids and shove their elders and say horrible things and lose every last shred of hope, and yet don’t give up because that’s not what they do; I love that stuff.

In the midst of all this, I noticed one interesting thing. The more I binged, the fainter and farther away the voices -and influences- of the Hypercritical Gremlins became.  Maybe Ms. Burrowes, the Bad Girlz and the Bravermans  are taking turns helping to barricade the Gremlins’ closet. Shutting out the “shoulds” is one thing, and a good thing, but there has to be something to move  into the old “should” place, or they’re only going to come back, with more “shoulds” and more Gremlins, and that only leads to paralysis and anxiety and literally ugly crying in the middle of a critique group (yes, that actually happened, and yes, in public, and yes, to me) and miscarried manuscripts and…you get the picture. But replace the “shoulds” and the forcing and the gnashing of teeth with the things that elicit that YES in every fiber of my writerheart? That brings back the joy, lifts the weight and, well, of course I can do this; it’s as natural as breathing, and I’ve been doing that for a few decades now, right? Right.

What could go wrong? Well, plenty. That’s part of life, but the encouraging part, thanks to reading accounts of others navigating the often treacherous writing waters, is that I’m not alone. I’ve done this before. I’ll do it again, and I have no shortage of fuel for the journey.

 

Digging Up Bones

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

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

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

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

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

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

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