possibly pointless blabbering

Write Like a Stove

annabowling 1 Comment

Not feeling the blogging thing today, and that’s okay.  Writing, yes, but not blogging. I have my daily task list all planned out, but when I come to “write blog,” there’s a blank. Which is fine. White space and all that. Part of the reason I blog is to clear out the gunk from my brain so that I can be primed and ready for the good stuff, which, from my perspective is writing fiction. The same could be said for morning pages, but the difference here is that morning pages are private, and blogging is…not. It’s the opposite of private. It’s splashed onto the screen with the explicit purpose of being read (passive tense, ooh, dangerous) by others. Commercial fiction, which is what I write (subset: romance, sub-subsets: historical romance (on my own) and contemporary romance (with writing partner, Melva)) is also meant for public consumption, and, when we add the extra factor of a reader or readers, that also brings in the knowledge of the potential reader or readers.

I do a lot better when I have a topic planned out ahead of time. This time, I don’t, so what you get instead is the first thing my brain can latch onto, which is…the stove.

 

STOVE

that would be this stove

 

This post is not about cooking. We did get a new stove yesterday, the delivery window starting after I had left the house for critique session with N. Real Life Romance Hero had the day off, and earned extra hero points for supervising the removal of the old stove (which Landlord and I delicately referred to as “vintage.”) and installation of the new one. Since strange people moving appliances around is not an environment especially conducive to writerly  concentration, Real Life Romance Hero and I agreed I would remain at Panera, post-critique-session, and get some work done.

Aha. Here we go. Connection time. One of the things I like about keeping some of the notebooks that I do, is that it makes the spotting of patterns easier. Since one of the patterns I’d noticed of late is that, when I try to cram all the work on Her Last First Kiss into Monday, because Tuesday is critique day, I feel rushed and crowded. Feeling rushed and crowded also makes me feel pressured, and I focus on the number of pages I’m putting out, rather than making the story the best it can possibly be. So, clearly, that is not a good thing to have going on, on a regular basis. N and I both agreed that we wanted to bring more pages to our critique session each week, which means I need to find more time to devote to that book. Where to find that?

As it turns out, right there. Since I needed to stay out of the house while the stove was installed, I had extra time in Panera, bottomless iced tea (my second of the day, as I’d accidentally knocked the first one into the trash; could not have planned that if I tried.) and my writerbrain already riding on N’s comments, as well as the energy of being with another writer in person. I don’t have any blogs due on Tuesdays. Double aha. Since N and I had discussed a new scene needed to break up a big block of Hero scenes, I wanted to strike while the iron was hot, and that worked out pretty darned well. A week is a lot more comfortable lead time than a day, so this is probably going to become a regular feature. The sooner N and I get to The End of our drafts, the closer our respective imaginary friends are to getting out into the world and into the hands of readers.

Right now, I’m looking at my task list for the day, and feeling that rushed and crowded thing again, and that tells me I need to recalibrate. The same as the stove only has four burners (plus oven and warming tray) my brain has space for front burner tasks and back burner tasks.  Back burner does not mean “never,” and trying to put all the pans on the front burners at the same time is going to result in dishes nobody is going to want to eat. In fact, the results may not even be fit for consumption, but, putting each thing in its proper place and time, well, we can get a banquet out of that.

Which all brings us to over the magic seven hundred, so that’s it for today. I am off to play with my imaginary friends.

 

 

Nobody Likes a Naked Panelist

annabowling 8 Comments

Let me qualify that; there probably are some people who would appreciate nude presenters at a conference, but A) I’m not going to  that kind of conference, and B) most of those who will be attending the workshop I’m co-presenting would prefer said nude presenter to have body parts I do not, if nude presenters were a thing, which, to the best of my knowledge, they are not. Plus there’s the problem of chilly conference rooms, so clothing is indeed in order.

The question, then, is what sort of clothing? This year, for the first time, people will be looking specifically at me for the better part of an hour. Thankfully, I have my lovely and talented co-presenters, each with their unique personal style, to share the vision, as it were, so anybody who shows will not be looking, specifically, only at me. That takes some of the pressure off, but the fact remains that dressing for this particular conference is different from years prior. This year, I am going not only as a writer, not only to network with my peers, not only to sit across a small table from a publishing industry professional and convince them why they might like to give me and my writing partner monies for the adventures of our imaginary friends (and, if the “do you have anything else?” question comes into play, my individual imaginary friends as well) but sitting/standing/walking in front of people who have chosen to learn about blogging, over the other workshops that are being presented at the same time.

So, clothes. In some aspects, men have it easier. In a word, suits. I’m sure there are gentlemen out there (or some dapper ladies) who can school me on the complexities of suit wearing, but, in broadest terms, suit, shirt, tie, shoes, done. Basic equation, which, at eight days before conference time, has me thinking the guys might have things easier in this regard. The clock is ticking, and writing schedule and other obligations mean that shopping is not going to be a much or an option, which means I’m going to have to work out of my closet, which is, to put things bluntly, in flux.

A few years back, I culled most colors out of my closet, because it felt too jumbly, to look in there and have to think of what went with what. I’m visual. I love color theory.  That wasn’t the issue. What bothered me was that those colors didn’t feel like me, so out they went. Immediately, I felt more settled. Calmer. Me-er. What’s left now is mostly black, gray, and white, a little navy, and occasional shots of red or purple. Almost everything goes with almost everything (do not ask me to mix black and navy, because that is not going to happen.) This should make things easier.

It doesn’t always. Neutrals provide a blank canvas for accessories, which are also in flux at the moment. Most days, I wear at least one piece of jewelry with a skull on it, sometimes more. I don’t know where the skull thing started, but A) I like skulls, and B) we all have one; for me, it’s a symbol of humanity.  I also love heels. Housemate is convinced I walk better in heels, and trip more often when wearing flats. She’s not wrong. I once fell down two fights of stairs when the heel of my flats caught on the edge of a tile. This was back in college, and I landed at the feet of two nursing students, which I thought convenient. (I was fine.) I am going to take a wild guess and suspect that I am not going to want to repeat that experience. So, heels. but which heels will depend upon which actual clothing items come with me, and, as of now, I have no idea.

Writing, domestic duties, and other obligations have meant schedule hopscotch this week, which left no time for going through the closet and making a proper, informed selection. While Housemate is happy to decide what she’s going to pack about five minutes before she has to be out the door, that doesn’t work for me. I’m a planner. I want to know in advance, preferably well in advance, and, preferably, have a backup plan, in case something (like a two-staircase tumble) goes wrong with the original. This makes me itchy. It also lets me know what I need to feel confident, which, as it would turn out, is the most essential thing I can wear to a professional gathering.

At some point, something in my head will click, and I’ll know what’s for Friday day, what’s for Friday night, and what I want to be wearing from very early Saturday to very late Saturday/possibly early Sunday. What I need to keep in mind is that I know this stuff. I have two smart, entertaining, stylish women to share the spotlight, and more people are likely to look at the Power Point presentation than what the presenters are wearing. It’s a workshop, not a fashion show. What’s most important is to be confident and comfortable.

Blogging, I can do. Talking, I can do.  Telling stories, I can do. Talking about stories, I can do. Sitting up half the night in the hotel lobby, talking with other writers about what we’re writing, what we’re reading, and the workshops we’ve attended, or, this year, presented, I can definitely do.  At some point, things will click, and I’ll know what to wear, what to pack, and, in the end, what most people will take away from the presentation is the content, not the appearances of those presenting it. Thinking about it, though? That’s all part of the process.

 

If At First You Don’t Succeed…Blabber

annabowling 2 Comments

Go figure; I plan a blog post with tons of pictures, to blabber about my various notebooks, and that has to be the day all the pictures get stuck in a Gmail queue. This is the same day that my desktop earbuds become my desktop earbud, singular. Slapping a greatest hits deskscape up for now, and we will see if anything changes by the time I get this entry posted. In one ear, I have 80s music, and in the other ear, (short intermission for minor domestic matter) the sounds of puttering Real Life Romance Hero and his fuzzy shadow, Skye. There was also a brief discussion of expiration dates on luncheon components (occupational hazard and/or benefit of having a spouse in the restaurant industry.) The verdict: lunch will not kill us today. That’s reassuring.

One more check of Gmail, annnnd….nope. Le sigh. Okay, winging it instead, because I have pages to get ready for N tomorrow, more pages for Melva soon thereafter, and an arduous stretch of research for an upcoming Heroes and Heartbreakers post. (Okay, not that arduous, as it involves watching key moments from The Walking Dead.) Right now, I’m grumbly, because I had an outline for the post I intended, even a bunch of sticky notes on the wall next to my desk. My first instinct was to take a picture to make up for the pictures that I can’t access until the queue comes through, but that picture would go to the end of the queue, so not exactly an option here. Which is okay. I can refocus.

Plan B is a part of the writing life. It’s going to happen. It happens when we hit “delete” instead of “save,” empty our trash, and then realize what we did. It happens when life intervenes, and we can’t write about XYZ right now, because it’s now either too close to home, or we’re not in that place anymore. Any number of reasons, really. This is the part of the post where I haul out the old Japanese proverb, fall down five times, get up six.

So, what does this mean for today? Since we are now three weeks until I join fellow writer/bloggers,  Corrina Lawson and Rhonda Lane at the Let Your Imagination Take Flight conference, and talk about blogging, I feel like I should have something to say here about what one does when one finds oneself in a situation like this. There’s “feel like” and there’s “actually do.” I like having a plan. In fact, the post I wanted to write was all about my use of notebooks in planning, my solution to getting to the end of my current morning pages book before finding a suitable replacement (the answer: DIY, pictures to follow) and how a notebook, no matter how much I love it when it’s pristine and brand new, isn’t really mine-mine until it’s stuffed full of sticky notes, with notes scribbled in the margins, decorative tape on the pages (that’s a new one, but what has been seen cannot be unseen) and how Picasso really was right that all creation begins with destruction (of the blank page/canvas.)  I can blabber about all of that, but it’s not the same without the pictures. Not that not having pictures stops me, but it does present a challenge.

Which is okay. I can write that post on Wednesday. I have the pictures on the way,  I have the sticky notes on my wall, and I’ve blabbered my way to nearly the magic 700, so I’ve got that going for me. Once I am done here, it is lunch with Real Life Romance Hero, and then I get to go play with my imaginary friends (part of me suspects I should be capitalizing that -Imaginary Friends- since I am using it instead of their names) and also have some tea. The tea is important. By that time, I will probably have given up on my earbud, singular, and opt for closed office door and computer speakers because I need my playlists. This will also result in Skye outside said office door, looking pitiful. Okay, maybe make the speakers and slightly open office door and Real Life Romance Hero will need to deal with the sounds coming from said speakers, because kitty face.

Allrighty, past the magic 700 mark, so time to feed my beloved family and then off to century eighteen. See you Wednesday.

Sifting For Nuggets (not the chicken kind)

annabowling 2 Comments

Right now, I am sitting at my desk, with my second cup of tea after I got back from the laundromat (third cup of tea for the day, total) in a short-sleeved t-shirt, with a blanket on my lap, because wearing a sweatshirt is too hot, but not having anything snuggly is too cold. This is the acceptable compromise. So far,  I have written and discarded several paragraphs of this entry, because they ended up going nowhere, which means they were not the right topic for today’s post. I am listening to the Discover Weekly playlist Spotify suggested for me. I would rather be writing fiction.

Part of that is because I have my weekly critique session with N tomorrow, and I need to show her pages. Part of that is because I have more of an idea what I need to write on both books than I do this entry. I like having a plan. Because of last week’s sinus headache, I do not have a plan for this entry. Which means I am winging it, because I can get to the fiction writing once I have the blog posted, so time to whip off the metaphorical coverup, run down the metaphorical dock, shout, “Ronkonkoma,” and cannonball into the water. There. That’s  plan. Kind of. We’ll go with that.

The first thing I tried to write about here was that today starts the official (for me, anyway) countdown to conference time. One month from now, I will be on my way to the Let Your Imagination Take Flight conference, and my first time co-presenting a workshop (on blogging, yet; wait, I know stuff about that? :shifty eyes: Hi, I’m Anna. I take pictures of my desk and blabber about my imaginary friends. Thank you for giving me roughly an hour of your time. Did I mention numbers are not my strong suit? Yeah, that’s why I make up stories and tell people who kissed on TV.) I am also, after a coughtycough years hiatus from pitching, voluntarily sitting across a very small table from an industry professional and tell her why her readers should hand over coin of the realm to play with my imaginary friends. I also have no idea what I’m wearing, although it will probably be black. So that’s one thing settled…and I’m drifting, but over halfway to the magic seven hundred words that will let me post this puppy and move on to the fiction writing part of our day.

The other part of why I would rather be writing fiction right now is that this is one of those turning points, where Hero commits to a course of action and takes his first steps -or missteps, really, at this point- in that direction. He knows what he wants to do, even if he isn’t entirely sure how to start actually doing it, and, while that’s not at all fun for him, it is for me. Call it one of those instances of authorial schadenfreude. Maybe two, really, because, when I get done with him, I get to go torture Heroine for a while. I also get to mess with Guy and Girl later in the week, when Hero and Heroine need a break.

The pull to get back to both couples is strong, and I get itchy when I’ve been away from them for too long, which is a very good thing. That means they’re real and alive and taking an active role in getting ready to meet readers. Always helpful when they carry their share of the load. Mighty kind of them, as Real Life Romance Hero would say.

One might argue, if the pull is that strong, that I might have flipped things around and written the fiction first, before tending to bloggy matters. That’s true, I might, but I also know myself well enough to know that, once I get in there, I’m not going to want to come out and I’d get to the end of the day and oh shoot, where did the blog go? Nope. This is where the discipline comes into play. To paraphrase Lin-Manuel Miranda (who kind of maybe knows a thing or two about this writing stuff) when inspiration isn’t there, toss stuff on the page without inspiration and then sift for nuggets.

I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean chicken.

 

Grouse

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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

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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

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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?