possibly pointless blabbering

Grouse

annabowling Leave a comment

The fact that today’s picture is an off-center banner image should say pretty much everything. The calendar says today is Wednesday, though it was also Tuesday, as N and I moved our meeting this week, to accommodate both our schedules. My brain also says it is Tuesday extension, as, thanks to a sinus headache (thanks, barometric pressure,) I did not sleep last night. This may be one of the reasons I am considering going to bed at slightly after 3PM. I thought about moving today’s blog to tomorrow, but my internal calendar is muddled enough already, and tomorrow is Buried Under Romance post writing day, as well as fiction writing, and I know myself well enough to know when I’ve reached my limit in the stuff-on-my-metaphorical plate situation.

Today, when I walked through the park, on my way to meet N, I noticed a green haze of buds on the willow tree near the lake, and, on the lake, ducks swam. The mallards are back. It’s March first. Even a winter person like me has to admit that all looks pretty spring-like. Had to happen sometime. I could do without the sinus headache, though, but I could not do without my weekly critique session.

Quote from my morning pages, on the pages I brought for N to read:

I have nine pages today, and they are not my favorites, but they are a second draft, and I will make them better on the third pass.

Part of  me wanted to tell N straight out that I wasn’t sure about these pages. That I wanted to take them back and do better. Was sending Heroine to a different part of the house to completely lose her, um, stuff, then take another whack at the whole rational adult thing stupid, ineffective, or insert own personal pet fear here? There are few units of time longer than the time between one’s critique partner putting down the pages and their mechanical pencil, saying “well,” and then completing the sentence with “this is the best chapter so far,” or words to that effect. The parts I was most nervous about were the ones that seemed to work the best for her, which means this may be something I want to do more of in the future, because I love that squidgy butterfly stomach feeling. Hopefully, next time, I can manage something more cool and sophisticated than the squeak of “really?” that actually came out of my mouth. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s the appropriate response, and I should roll with it.

What stands out to me most about the difference from this chapter and the previous ones of this draft, is that I didn’t write it, as much as write it down. I don’t mean that I wrote it in longhand, though I did, in mechanical pencil, in my Big Daddy Precious notebook, but that following Heroine was all I needed to do. I handed her the metaphorical reins, and off she went. She did not mind her language. She got mad. She threw things. She dug up old (metaphorical) bones and wanted something she couldn’t have, and got mad about it. She got loud. She got petty, and she knew she got petty, and she didn’t care, because she’d had one of those days, and y’know what, no regrets. Well, not in that scene. There’s still a lot more story to go, but, for right then…yeah. It felt right. For both of us.

Next chapter is Hero’s POV, and he has no idea any of this has happened, though he has his own issues. It’s going to be an interesting contrast, and, hopefully, some time with a mechanical pencil and Big Daddy Precious (along with some extra research into bathtubs of the eighteenth century) I can take what’s already there and make it better. If it weren’t for the headache, I’d probably be doing that right now, but will retreat to the bedroom with caffeine and Ibuprofen and wait for the weather to break.

Maybe I’ll read, or maybe I’ll lie there with eyes closed and a light blanket. It’s in the sixties, so I don’t need the warmth, but  I like the weight of the blanket. As with writing, go with what works.

 

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: A Writer’s Mind is a Terrible Place Edition

annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty  had to check to make sure it is Friday, because it has been one of those weeks. Anty already talked about that here, so I will not go over it again. Suffice it to say that she has been using her calendars more than usual this week, because it has been more than a little confusing. Part of today is still part of yesterday , part of tonight may get moved to Sunday, because Saturday night is the new Sunday morning, and Anty still has not had that nap. She also has not been to her favorite coffee house in two weeks, by her best guess, and that makes her crabby. Nobody likes it when Anty is crabby. That is when she needs an extra dose of mews therapy, which is where I come in. Well, actually, I will come in anywhere as long as the door is open. Yes, that includes the bathroom. If the door is closed, I will sit outside it and wait. I can do that for hours.

One thing that has not changed is that I have to talk about where you can read Anty’s writing from this week, other than here. As always, Anty posted at Buried Under Romance on Saturday. This week, she wrote about the escapist nature of romance fiction. Anty does not like that term, escapist, because she does not find it accurate, but you can read more about that in her post. That post is here, and it looks like this:

bur240217

Anty did not put any new reviews on Goodreads this week, because it was a crazy week, and she mostly wrote before bed instead of read. She hopes to do better on that this coming week, but if you are interested to see what Anty is reading, and you do not already follow her on Goodreads, you can find that out on her Currently Reading page. That page is here, and it looks like this:

grcurrentlyreading

Hmph. Okay, it looks similar to this. There is a reason cats are not widely known as graphic designers. There is not a picture of me on the page. I put it over reviews by other people, because I do not have permission to put their reviews on this post. That is because I did not ask, and, anyway, there can never be enough pictures of me. Some of these books, Anty started reading a while ago, and then life exploded, but that does not mean she is not interested in finishing them, if that is all right with the universe. Anty sometimes yells that part, even if I am the only one around. I know she is not yelling at me, so do not worry about that.

This week has been an interesting one for Anty, which means it has been an interesting week for me. For one thing, Uncle was home a lot more than he usually is. I liked that, because he is my favorite. I do not care that much what he is doing; being around him is enough for me.  Anty likes having him around, too, and he is pretty good about understanding that a closed office door means only knock if there is an emergency or food. Uncle starts his new job this afternoon, so it will be me and Anty again, which is kind of normal. Anty thinks she will probably go to the coffee house so that they know she did not fall into a sinkhole, but she will probably take a notebook instead of her laptop. Sometimes, Anty has to unplug.

When Anty feels all rushed and crowded, then she knows it is time to unplug. Turn off the computer (unless she is playing Sims or chatting with friends) and open a notebook, book or make some art. That is not wasting time; that is filling her well. When she identifies a picture of otters on the computer as “puppies,” then she knows it is time to shut the whole day down and go to sleep. She is still not sure if she has to, at some point, identify  actual puppies as “otters,” to reset the balance, but that is the kind of thing that goes through the mind of a writer when she is stressed.

There is a good side to that, too, though. Another thing that goes through Anty’s mind when she is stressed, is that she needs to write things out to process them. It is like talking on paper for her, which is useful when she gets this need in the wee hours of the morning and all the other humans are still asleep. Later today, after she crosses her essentials off her to do list, she will fill the last two detachable pages of the Moleskine she keeps in her purse. That still leaves her with the decision of what to do with the non-detachable pages, as the whole point of having that book was so that she could take out the pages when she needs to transcribe them, but she will deal with that later.

For now, it is time for her to take the computer back, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

skyebanner01skyebye

 

Unbalanced

annabowling 5 Comments

This week, Saturday was Sunday, Sunday was New Year’s Day, Monday was Saturday, Tuesday was Monday, Wednesday was Tuesday, though I’m writing its post on Thursday, and I could use another nap. Well, nap, period. In the words of Alice (of Wonderland, not Mel’s Diner) I haven’t had one, so how could I have another? The forecast says we may hit sixty-six degrees today. In northern NY. In February.  It’s kind of a mess.

I don’t like messes. My ideal weekend, in fact, would include cleaning and organizing my office. Maybe the dining room too, if I get really wild. I want to put things where they go, turn piles into files; that sort of thing. Yesterday, I kept forgetting what day it was, and exclaimed, “oh, puppies!” when I saw a picture of otters. It’s probably a good thing I am not a veterinarian, if I can’t tell the difference between otters and puppies, and definitely a sign that I need one of those nap things. Also, to get out of the house and be around people who do not share my mailing address. My people meter is low.

Tomorrow, Real Life Romance Hero starts a new job, so Friday will, hopefully, look like a normal Friday.  I could use the routine. Today is part Wednesday, a little Tuesday, definitely Thursday, and my writing/critting commitments for the day take me through past, present and future. This is enough to make me throw up my hands and retreat to a blanket fort, but that would probably be too hot at sixty-six degrees, so blanket fort is not a viable option, even if the blanket fort does have Netflix.

Because Sunday was New Year’s Day, it wasn’t a writing day, or writing prep day, and that made Monday a grumbly, frantically preparing pages for Tuesday morning critique day. Which ended up being moot, because the one time N doesn’t check her email, so she doesn’t see my message, asking if she could please print my pages, because the family car is committed to RLRH’s job interview (this is the job he starts Friday) and I still can’t find what’s jamming the printer that is right next to my desk, so this means there is still a part of Tuesday out there, ready to pop out at me at some yet to be determined time, after N has had a chance to read and comment on said pages.

Tuesday night, which my brain remembers as Monday, even though I know it was Tuesday, I didn’t watch This Is Us, which I love, because I was working on Her Last First Kiss, and, while part of the reason I stayed at the keyboard instead of shambling off to the living room was that I wanted to stay with the story (because N’s comments, when she had me talk to her about the new scene, even though the pages were cozy in her inbox, got me going and I wanted to capture them) another part of it was that my brain was too flat out tired to switch from writing mode to watching TV mode.

Right now, I have a cable knit blanket in my lap, not because I am cold (though I am sitting directly under a ceiling fan) but because I feel more comfortable with something on me, and also because it’s normal. This has not been a normal week. This week also brought the passing of a cousin I hadn’t seen in quite some time, though we had recently reconnected on FB, as well as renewing acquaintances with two other cousins. One of them now lives in the same city where I attended college for two years, and where I met RLRH. Small world.

Today’s task list is a mishmash of things from other days, shuffled around, grafted in and cobbled together. As much as I like making order out of chaos, this feels like a lot of chaos. This is where Anne Lamott’s famous one inch picture frames come into use, as well as Barbara Samuel’s “in this moment,” writing prompt. What do I need to do right now? Do that. Everything else can wait its turn. Right now, it’s this blog entry. After that, tea.

Technically, slipping out to the coffee house this afternoon is actually last Friday, in case my personal timeline wasn’t spiraled enough, but I know there will be tea and I will plug in my earbuds and open a notebook or turn on my laptop, and, as a once upon a time writing group facilitator often said, the practice begets the product. Her rule was that, once our pens hit the pages, they had to keep moving until she called time. It didn’t matter what we wrote on those pages, only that we kept the pens moving. Our brains knew how to write, and, they know that’s what happens when pen is on paper.

There have been many times this week, when I didn’t know what day it was, or 5PM felt like 10PM, 2AM felt like 6AM and 9PM at the same time, but the one thing that has remained a constant is the writing. Hero and Heroine, Girl and Guy, know what they’re doing, where they’re going, and how they’re going to get there. Think I’ll let them drive.

 

 

Off-ish

annabowling 4 Comments

Yesterday, I went to a New Year’s party. A bit later than the usual New Year’s party, yes, but these things happen in life. The dynamic was different than most years, but the company was still good, there were bacon wrapped figs (or maybe they were dates; it does not matter, as they are gone now, and they were delicious) and there were books to swap, which absolutely did happen. I not only came home with an armful of Patrick O’Brien books for Real Life Romance Hero, but a couple of big, thick, emotional historical romance novels, as well as two containers of leftovers, a lovely gift from our hostess, the lovely and talented M.P. Barker, and my brain, or perhaps my body (possibly a collaboration between the two) not entirely sure this was not an actual holiday. I was doing holiday things, after all, and went to a holiday place, where I saw holiday people and ate holiday food. Ergo, holiday.

The calendar is not giving me clear signals in either direction. The block for today says President’s Day, but it also says Monday, and I did haul my tired bones to the laundromat, where I gobbled nearly a third of a Barbara Samuel Georgian historical romance I have been wanting for literally years. We will not go into the brain fog that required me to fashion an impromptu scooping system out of the detergent box I got from the vending machine, so I could scoop the skin destroying remains of detergent a previous patron had left behind in the place where my hypoallergenic detergent goes. That brain fog, though, did give me a clear direction. I emailed N and asked if we could move tomorrow’s crit session to another day this week. N was amenable, and we picked a date.

Then, I took a nap. Hung out with Real Life Romance Hero, who also needs some downtime today. Had lunch delivered, consumed same with the two of us standing at the kitchen counter. Watched one of the food shows on the DVR. Figured I may as well mosey on into the office and get the blog post written, so I could say I did something today. Well, there was laundry, but I mean writing things. There’s a difference.

Though the honor of spending time in M.P Barker’s lovely home now means that it is a holiday, time to stuff myself with food, talk to people I don’t get to see every day, and go home with at least one book I did not possess before, there were many years when being in that house meant that it was Wednesday night, and that meant nag group, which meant I had better have pages ready. Though they weren’t always for the WIP of the moment, there were always some pages to bring, and I greatly appreciate the input I received from the others around that table.

Though I have my Tuesday mornings with N and email check ins with Critique Partner Vicki, I do not have a new version of nag group in my current location, a question I answered a few times yesterday. I will admit to some nostalgia, and I did float the idea of resurrecting some virtual form of those gatherings via modern technology, so we will see where that takes us. I had the chance to chat with some old friends, who are on different writing paths, and meet new people, two of whom asked where they could find my blog. I handed out a couple of cards, and do hope they’ll drop by. :waves hi, in case they are reading this right now:

When the sun set, Housemate and I headed for home (and The Walking Dead, because we have our priorities.) My brain drifted (no worries, I was in the passenger seat) from story ideas, to memories of writing groups past, to current WIPs and the upcoming NECRWA conference, my very first shot at co-presenting a conference workshop. By the time I got home, I had enough energy to watch The Walking Dead and pour myself into bed immediately afterward. I fully intended to push through and do all the stuff I planned on for a regular Monday, but this isn’t a regular Monday, and the week that went before is certainly anything but regular, so maybe a break from routine might not be the worst thing I could do.

Still, I’m  here, writing this, because, dangit, Monday is blog day, and I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t post something. So, this is here. Not really on, not really off, more like that comfortably aimless in between that I usually associate with the tucked-between week. Not that I’m thinking I’m going to get a whole week of that, because tomorrow is indeed a regular Tuesday, and there are chapters to write, that last Golden Heart entry to judge, pages to print, and laundry to put away, but, for today, I’ll take a moment or three, refill the well, so I have something to draw from tomorrow. Tomorrow, it’s on.

 

 

 

As If

annabowling Leave a comment

Sometimes, it’s good to be a little uncomfortable. Right now, I’m sitting in my office, in front of the desktop, open notebooks at hand, with pencilled notes. There’s a nearly-empty travel mug in front of me. I have my ears pricked for the on and off (mostly off now, I think) rain outside my window. The numbers at the bottom of my screen tell me it won’t be long until Housemate and Real Life Romance Hero return home, so my time for uninterrupted (at least by others) is ticking down to its limit for the day. What I would like to do is take a nap.
One of the best things about working from home is that one can go to work in pajamas. One of the worst things about working from home is that one can go to work in pajamas. Today, I hit the  intersection of too tired and too comfy, so I got out of the chair, swapped leggings for jeans (aka leg prison) put on makeup and everyday jewelry (one skeleton hand ring, one skull ring, earrings are also skull themed today. I love skulls.) In a few minutes, I will give in to the urge to make tea. I don’t want tea right now, but I will in a while, so acting in anticipation is probably in my best interest at the moment.
I have two notebooks, one Molieskine Volant (sage green) and one Moleskine Cahier (black,) both bearing aforementioned pencilled notes. Said notes are for transcription, and that’s my plan for the day. My body says “nap.” My brain says “write.” Since the brain controls the body, I think (pun unintended, but we’ll go with it) and there is no “handwritten novels in note form” section at either Barnes and Noble or on Amazon, it is in my very best interests to push through the afternoon slump and Get Stuff Done. Hence the actual clothing and ritual of what my mother would have called putting on my face.
Last night, my brain too pooped to do anything productive, I spent some time browsing beauty sites and researching cosmetic items I might like to add to my stash.  On one such baord, I found a thread on colorful eye makeup. Several of the posts spoke of using colors that came in pallettes, but don’t get much use. Since it was late and I was tired, I thought, hey, that might be fun. I have green eyes. I don’t usually use green shadow, because, well, green eyes.  I have green shadows, though; they came in a pallette I recieved as a Christmas gift, but I don’t normally use them. Since I’d put on actual pants precisely for the discomfort factor, why the heck not? So I did. I have green eyelids, a different shade of green on my browbone, a bit of green on the lower lid/lashline as well. The world did not end.
What did end was the mindset of still being in my pajamas and not actually being at work. Dressed and made up and with a spritz of some vintage Chanel #19 (a long-ago gift from a favorite aunt no longer with us) that’s not lounging arround the house wear. I’m sure my imaginary friends appreciate the effort; we’ll see about that, because I’m dropping by to see them as soon as I’m finished with this entry. It says so right in my daily task list, so that’s what’s going to happen.
This post is turning out to be exactly what I didn’t want it to be; I feel like I’ve done a thousand versions of the whole left foot, right foot thing. That’s not bad, exactly. There’s a place for that, but what it gets swirling around my mind is that there’s another ingredient to the whole creativity thing, and that’s the love. Not only because I write romance (though that certainly helps with matters; I’ve been crazy in love with romance novels since I was eleven, and with love stories long before then) but the love of the work.

Today, when I wrote my morning pages, I wrote about acting as if; as if I had complete assurance these books were going to find good homes. Acting as if the market were a sure thing. Acting as if there were a whole bunch of readers waiting for these particular stories, eager to meet Hero and Heroine, Girl and Guy, in the flesh…er, page. There’s a little bit of pressure in that, but also a whole lot of purpose. If I’m only telling stories for my own amusement, well, I know how they’re going to turn out, as they’re in my own head. Why decipher the stuff I wrote in mechanical pencil, at however many mph along the highway, or, also in mechanical pencil, wedged into the tiny haven of space between the tall dresser in the dining room (old house, have to be creative with furniture placement) and Housemate’s bedroom door, while pretty much everybody involved in the transfer of power, as it were, from current landlady to incoming landlord-and-lady?

Writing romance is my happy place. When the whole apartment is swarming with people with clipboards and cameras and turning on faucets and light switches and checking I-don’t-know-what, there’s the pencil and the page, and whoosh. I’m not wedged between door and dresser at all, but surveying the common room of an eighteenth century inn, getting a bead on the crowd and figuring out how hard it’s going to be for Hero to get a room for the night (or at least bed space) by dint of his charm alone. Even in Century Eighteen, leaving the house without one’s wallet (or period appropriate equivalent) has the same consequences it has now. Thankfully, Hero is a resourceful gent. He’ll be fine…eventually. first, I have to walk him straight into the last person he wants to see right now, shake up his worldview, and make him do the thing he cannot do. That’s how it works in these stories.

That’s how it works with writing, too. If I leave these notes as notes, they’re fine the way they are…but they can’t go out in public. There’s only one copy of them, it’s all in pencil, and it’s on paper. It’s in my handwriting, which is not always readable to all. There have been times Real Life Romance Hero has asked me to print notes to him, instead of writing them in cursive, and if he can’t read my handwriting, I am not going to inflict that on others. So, the transcription. The whipping of the story into shape from bullet points to prose, from present to past tense, the ordering of things that have arrows and parentheses and odd boxes with curlicues at the corners. Only then are they ready for other eyes. This process, too, has its tricks, its own colors that came with the usual suspects, that are waiting for a chance to show what they can do if I think outside the box. Looking at it that way, it’s a lot less scary, and a lot more fun.

 

 

So This is Christmas Week

annabowling 4 Comments

Yeah, big surprise, I have no idea what I’m going to talk about today, but we are burning daylight here, so I am going to jump in with both feet and trust that I am going to be somewhere by the end of the magic seven hundred, at the very least. Christmas week is in full swing now, and The Day is Sunday. That’s six days until Christmas, seven until my favorite tucked-away week arrives. Blabbity blabbity holiday. Blabbity blabbity Christmas books and Christmas movies and changing holiday plans and related blabbity blab.

Christmas spirit is not the problem here, because I have plenty of that. Our Christmas lights are awesome in our living room, there is a park full of lights literally five minutes’ walk from our house, I am charging through this blog entry, because I am heading out to grab somebody’s present. Yesterday. our church went out into the community to spread some love; the team Housemate and I were on got to give out hot drinks and cookies to passersby, which was fun, and for sure put me over the line into the holiday feeling, so that’s not even close to it. I’m not even sure there is an “it,” but I am still me, and I still have space to fill here, so I am not deleting anything because this is blog entry time. I am going to trace my slightly off-center-ness (well, today at least) on the fact that I was not the only person in the laundromat this morning. Far from it.

Okay, think I got something. The reason I like to be the only person in the laundromat is because it’s a good thinky place, when I’m alone. It’s also excellent for acoustics if I want to, for example, take the earbuds out of my phone and feed my current musical theater addiction, which usually is what I want to do. Not exactly polite when there are other people there, who may not share my tastes in music, and/or would like to be left alone, so they can do their laundry and get on back to the rest of their lives. If there are people there, I am going to people watch, which is also good, but it’s a different dynamic.

I like to know what I’m getting into, so if I know I’m not going to be the only person there, that’s fine. I’ll prepare for the experience and go in with different expectations. If I am the only one there, then it’s great for turning laundry time into writing time, whether that’s free writing (which it was, to a small extent, today) or actual working on one of my current WIPs. That’s what I’d expected, but not what happened. What happened was that I stuck my earbuds in my ears and stuck my nose in the paperback copy of Dark Champion, one of Jo Beverley’s only four medieval, and did the laundry. When I got back, I checked in on Real Life Romance hero, fed Skye, and bundled myself in to my office, where it was time to hang out with Guy and Girl for a while. That, I can do, and having one space that is mine, and the presence of anyone else is by invitation only, really does make a huge difference.

So what does this all have to do with Christmas week? Not a lot, and everything. On the one hand, it’s a regular week. I’m the only one who can get Hero and Heroine’s story into a form where other people can read it. I’m half of the team for Guy and Girl’s story. Blog entries have to go up, because 1) I like blogging, and 2) the discipline matters. That’s why there are entries that are completely or partly composed of seemingly random blather. There is writing through the blather, which I do need, partly to remind myself that blather isn’t bad. Blather is taking the scenic route to what I want to share with others. Nothing wrong with that. As one might guess, that’s the “not a lot” part.

The “everything” part is where I also remind myself that this actually is the week leading up to my favorite day of the year and my favorite week of the year, immediately following said day. It comes once a year. Once. No do-overs, no rainchecks, no reschedules. This is it, the one shot I get for this year, and, if I miss it, I have to wait a whole other year. I am not willing to wait a whole other year. Thus begins the juggling act. The left foot, right foot of working on these WIPs and the special work of making sure our family is ready for the holiday. Not a big production this year (although I do love those; never too early to plan for 2017) but still taking the quiet moments to rest and connect and appreciate what makes the entire year something special.

Not sure if this actually did go anywhere, but it’s over the magic 700, it’s written, and the Hypercritical Gremlins are mostly shushed, so I am calling this a win. Hoping for a more focused post on Wednesday, and if I ramble again, well, that’s okay, too. My blog, my rules. How’s your holiday week looking?

 

I am a Weeble

annabowling 2 Comments

First things first: I do not have high hopes for this blog entry. My cold has officially entered week two. I am currently wrestling with in-store pickup for a purchased item that told me I would have it by the 23rd. It is now the 28th. I very strongly want to show up on the item’s one-weeki-versary with a cupcake and balloons, perhaps party hats, and insist on taking a selfie with the worker who “guaranteed” it would be available on Saturday. Item is in store, but being “processed.” Um, long process, dudes. There will be feedback on this one, oh yes there will.

Today, I have made myself get dressed, put on makeup and head to my favorite coffee house, because the need to do normal things is overwhelming. Note that I did not list “do my hair” in the preparations to leave the house, because I have honestly forgotten what  one does with face framing layers, and it’s only one day post wash. Yep. Been in the house too long. I forgot to ask the barista for my customary splash of skim milk, which means my tea now has a splash of the community half and half. Cookie is less because I am getting down to Serious Novel Writing, and more because I have not had lunch and did not want to cook. One look at refrigerator full of delicious Thansgiving leftovers, and nothing but nope. I am dealing with my laptop’s touchpad, because I was too tired to pack the mouse, and wrangling with the mouse cord is not worth the aggravation.

Yesterday, I inhaled Every Exquisite Thing, by Matthew Quick (Skye will provide the link to my rambling review on Friday) and am now emotionally eviscerated. Also mourning a fictional character, and would compare the events of that character needing to be mourned with events of a similar nature in another book whose title and author escape me, but I think I can take a reasonably good stab at the author. At any rate, there’s a similarity in the circumstances, and I’d like to see if I could work that into a historical romance at some point in the future. EET was YA fiction, and the other book, hmmm, I’m going to say horror. Maybe. With YA elements.

This all makes me want to spend more time on historical romance, and I have high hopes for my next few historical romance reads, as well as a clearer focus on returning to the next scene in Her Last First Kiss, so that’s all good.  I also owe half a scene from the Beach Ball, which I hope to get done in the next couple of days, because a) my collaborator, Melva, deserves a reward for her legendary patience, and b) I want this story to progress, because there is more yet to come.

Earlier this week, I’d braved the elements (and Black Friday crowds) because certain things had to be done, even if what I wanted to do was watch Netflix from my blanket fort. As part of that outing, I had lunch at a favorite establishment with Housemate, and talk turned to work. Specifically mine. I asked her how she’d describe my author brand to someone who had never read me before. Since this is a fairly large people group, this question is extremely relevant to my interests. Her answer involved the phrase, “getting back on the horse” and moving forward (even with setbacks) in the face of adversity, in fiction as well as nonfiction.

“So, basically,” I said to her, when she was done, “I’m a Weeble?”

The gist of her response can be whittled down to, “Pretty  much.”

Okay. I can live with that. Seriously, what’s the alternative? Not getting back up after life knocks one down? Not going on, even if it means dancing on phantom limbs or heading off in a slightly or completely different direction? Yeah, no. Not going to do that. That’s not in me. I tried. It didn’t work. It’s not in my characters, either; not in my heroes and heroines, no matter when or where they lived. Apple trees can only grow apples. I want to grow as many apples as I possibly can, and make them into a whole smorgasbord of dishes.

So that’s where I am on this fine Monday morning, now firmly in the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Decorations at Stately Bowling Manor would have been going up directly after Thanksgiving dinner, but sick me, so tomorrow is the next projected date. As much as it’s irritating to have to wait for things like that, they payoff is worth it. That moment when Real Life Romance Hero and I tell Housemate to turn off all the lights, and we get that first glimpse of the living room lit by nothing but Christmas lights, that’s where the magic is. Every year, we call it the best tree ever, and, every year, it is.

That’s what I’m shooting for when I type (or co-type) the end on HLFK and the Beach Ball. Best books ever. Well, mine (and semi-mine) at least. That’s all any of us writer types can aim for, with each new endeavor. Make this the best one. Fall down? Yep, going to happen. If it hasn’t, then it only hasn’t happened yet. Fall down? Get up. Get back on the horse. Keep going. I guess it’s my inherent Weeble-ness that keeps things going at times, and I am okay with that.

 

 

 

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Black Friday Edition

annabowling 1 Comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for our regularly scheduled Feline Friday. The picture for this blog entry is a Greatest Hits picture, because I was not having any part of any picture taking today, even if it is my blog day. Nope, no way, not even for Anty. She got a couple of pictures of my butt, because I kept walking away from the camera. That is how I tell her I would prefer not to participate in her photoshoots at any given time. This may or may not have anything to do with the fact that I had regular cat food yesterday, because somebody did not write down that Mama and Uncle should get me special turkey flavored cat food when they bought Thanksgiving stuff. It also may or may not have anything to do with the fact that Anty took a movie of me washing myself and put it on Instagram. Granted, it did get a lot of likes, and I am super, super fuzzy, so my modesty is intact, but still, are there no limits?

Anyway, even when sick, Anty wrote her post for Buried Under Romance. She did, however, forget to post about it (that is an occupational hazard with bad colds like the one Anty is getting over) so this may be the first people have heard of it. It looks like this:

bur25nov16

and you can read it here:

http://www.buriedunderromance.com/2016/11/saturday-discussion-favorite-families-in-romance.html

If you had seen Anty this week, you would not blame her for forgetting to post about her post.  It was a pretty rough week. She is doing better now, and she did finally get enough brain together to watch things on Netflix. One of the things she watched, besides Thanksgiving themed TV show episodes,  was a movie called Results, which actually did have a kitty in it. It also had a dog in it, and, of course, some humans, but the kitty part is the part that mattered. Anty liked the characters and storyline, and thinks the actors all did very good jobs throughout the whole movie. My favorite part was when the kitty walked out of the loud human party at the end. I love movies with happy endings. I like to think he went under a big bed. where it was quiet, and had lots of treats.

Even though I had regular flavor cat food (it is really good, so I am not complaining) I did get lots of treats, too. That makes it a good Thanksgiving. In case you were wondering, here is what the humans had for dinner. Uncle says not all the food made it into the picture (also, this is only one plate, and yes, it is on top of a legal pad, because the humans ate in the living room. Anty needed to be under her blankey.)

fudthankgsiving2016

Uncle had a very good time making everything. The humans had to put other things on their plates when they finished the first ones, because Uncle made a lot. Then there was pie. I do not eat pie, because I am a kitty, but the humans seemed to like it. Anty threw me a napkin that smelled like the birdie the humans were eating, and I was very interested in that. I considered pouncing on it, but then I got distracted. Maybe another time.

I sometimes forget how to play, and my humans have to teach me again, but I do not think they mind. I catch on sooner or later, and then it is fun time. Anty has said she thinks I might like a toy that moves on its own, because I am interested in the toys she throws me as long as they are moving, but when they stop moving, I lose interest. Anty thinks that is because playing is really hunting practice, and I am not interested in hunting things that are already dead (because not moving =  already dead.) She is pretty smart, so she may be on to something here. I guess I will find out on Christmas, which is not that far away. Anty, Uncle and Mama talked mostly about what to serve for Christmas dinner, while eating Thanksgiving dinner.

Anty is doing Black Friday a little differently this year. Since Mama has to work the morning shift, and Anty is getting over the cold (but still determined to get out and do stuff; a week of Anty being inside all the time is driving all of us nuts) they are going to go and see what deals they can get in the afternoon. I have seen the list, and “cat food” is one of the first items on it, so I am not bothered about anything else they might get while they are out buying that.

Until then, Anty is bundling under her blankey and reacquainting herself with this whole writing thing. A non-writing Anty is not a good thing for anybody. so I will not let that happen. I must return to m y mews duties, so that is about it for now. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

skyebye

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

Typing With Wet Claws: Mucho Laundry Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Before I get into anything else, and there is always an anything else, I first have to talk about Anty’s writing this week. This week, Anty sent off the first chapter of Her Last First Kiss that is ready for critique, to Miss N. This is her second draft, with some new things in it, and she is a little nervous and a little excited to have other eyes on this new version. She will see what Miss N thinks, and know more about that on Tuesday. That is still a few days away.

Miss Ezrah at Buried Under Romance fought the hackers and won (I think she is a warrior princess) so Anty was able to post a new installment of Saturday Discussion there. It is here:

http://www.buriedunderromance.com/2016/11/saturday-discussion-tainted-love.html#comment-9167

and it looks like this:

burtainted

Anty is also working to get current with her chapter for Anty Melva in the Beach Ball, which she had hoped to get done sooner than now, but it has been a week. She is also working on posts for Heroes and Heartbreakers. Some of those mean she needs to do some reading first, so she is looking at her available time to see when she can do that. Her goal is to get her desk clear and then pitch new posts, as well as work on books.

Sometimes, being a domestic warrior queen does not play well with that goal. Take today, for instance. Anty had wanted to get my picture for today’s blog before she had her big laundry morning. She had one load to do for Mama and then a big load to do for herself and uncle. I am a kitty, and do not need laundry because I do not wear clothes. I have fur. I also did not want my picture taken, and kept walking away any time Anty had her phone out. I did not feel like staying still. Anty did not know why, but she was focused on the laundry anyway. She likes to get laundry done in the morning, when the Laundromat is most quiet, so she can spend some time reading or writing while her clothes get clean.

Today was not one of those days. It was not quiet. The first time Anty went to the Laundromat, she shut off her phone, because there was a person there who wanted to talk to her, and she wanted to listen. Also, the custodian was there, making sure the building was clean. Anty figured she could read things and listen to music on her second laundry trip (it is a good thing we live kitty-corner -I am disappointed that it does not have anything to do with actual kitties, except maybe that I am one- from the Laundromat.) Anty had been wearing old clothes to do laundry in, and, while she was getting the big load together, she heard a tear. She had figured she could get one more wear out of that pair of jeans, but she was wrong. Time to change, so she did.

Then she came home. I was curled in a very nice ball, in front of the heater, and Anty knelt to take my picture. Then she stopped. Something was wrong. That thing would be that she realized she was kneeling in a puddle of my, um, stuff. For those of you who are new readers (hello!) I have special paws, so I do not climb. That means that I do not use a litterbox, even though many other kitties do. I have a special spot on the floor where I do my stuff, and, usually, I will let a human know when I need to go. This time, though, Uncle was at work and Anty was at the Laundromat. I did what I had to do.

As soon as Anty figured out what was going on, she got up, put the pee pads down on my puddle, and then Febreezed herself. That did not do the trick. She let out a long breath, stared down at her clothes and vowed she was not going to make three Laundromat trips in one day. Even if that would allow her to get current with the linens. Anty considers laundry to be therapeutic, but even she has her limits. It was laundry or writing, and, this time, writing won. That is a good thing, because Anty gets cranky when she is away from her writing for too long. Some times, writing has to come first, even when cat, um, stuff is involved. That is a sign of true dedication, if you ask me. Plus, humans seem to like putting on clothes warm from the dryer, so, from a certain perspective, I did her a favor.

That is about it for this week, because Anty is burning daylight. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

skyebye

 

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

 

Normal Things

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I wasn’t going to blog today, but I need to, so I am. This is not a post about the election. This is a post about normal things. For me, today, that means writing. This morning, I got up, my head muddled with news and social media feeds and friends fearful and angry and hurting, on all sides of this whole deal, my heart heavy, and the first thing I could do was go to my office, open my morning pages book, and put pen to paper. Because that’s what I do. That’s as much a part of the entire morning routine as feeding the cat and making tea.

Normal things give us a sense of purpose when it feels like invisible hands shook our lives like an Etch-a-Sketch. I love my office; it’s not yet perfect but it is a place I can go inside, close the door and feel that sense of peace, especially needed on days when everything feels turned around. This morning, I made tea, settled into my office chair, opened the morning pages book, took a moment to appreciate the pretty pages (pretty pages are like catnip to me) and put pen to paper, because that’s what I do. That’s what’s normal. That’s a first step forward.

This post was going to be about fountain pens, in honor of the National Fountain Pen Day that I missed, but I’m going to save that for another time. I didn’t want to write about pens today. Sure, I could, but that wasn’t what I wanted. What I wanted was historical romance. Not as an escape. I don’t use the word, “escape,” to refer to reading, of any genre, because it isn’t. Whatever is going on in my life or the world at large is still there when I close the file or notebook, or put book or Kindle aside, but it is a respite. A place where I can go for a little while, do something else, and come back stronger, fresher, more equipped to take on what else needs doing.

The “historical” part of historical romance reminds me that we are resilient. The “romance” part reminds me that we are not alone. Both things good to keep in mind during turbulent times. There’s something special about stepping into another time and place, somewhat like going into my office and closing the door. There’s that moment of taking a breath, letting the new (old?) surrounding settle around me and slipping into the world of the story, the cadence of the author’s voice. Still holds true when that voice is my own, but, depending on where I am in the story, guessing where things might go could me a little different when I’m the one in charge of that. (Or my imaginary friends are; they do tend to have minds of their own.)

It’s rainy today, my very favorite kind of weather, apart from snow, and so my instinct is to go out in it.  I have snazzy leopard rain boots, and the coffee house the next block over is always good for my story brain. Memories of a historical I tried to force out of my brain -well, two, really- in that very coffee house, inch by kicking and screaming inch, jumped into my head when I mentioned that. Maybe because this is the month of NaNo? Not guilt over them, or any feeling at all, really, only more of a “well, those were there, at previous points in time.” A passing thought, probably nothing else attached to it, but it was in my head, so onto the page it goes.

There is tea at that coffee house, and I may allow myself  a baked good if they have anything especially appetizing. The Earl Grey cookies are amazing, and I will go for anything with coconut in it, as long as it doesn’t contain any nut-nuts as well. Cup of tea, possible cookie, work on scene for Beach Ball, because that’s on the list, and spare a few minutes to take in the bare brick walls, adorned with the works of local artists. Take in some atmosphere. Fill the well. Maybe bake cookies myself when I get back home, because that’s relaxing for me, and we get cookies. Normal stuff; it has power.