possibly pointless blabbering

Rust, Clear Water, and Finding the Corners

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…and you write until the rust comes out of the faucet, and it’s clear water. Then you write down the clear water.

–Lin-Manuel Miranda

Furious writing in the margins is a good thing. Furious writing in the margins, that wraps around said margins, across the top, and down the other side of the page, is even better. After yesterday’s breakfast with N, and her critique of the revised outline for the last leg of Her Last First Kiss, (there is a unique sound made by a writer when the writer’s critique partner announces they have a few notes on the pages the writer sent them the night before, and then takes out six handwritten pages. Ulp is not quite it, but probably the closest approximation, only more whimper-y.) and possibly the longest detour I have taken yet on my way home (on the plus side, there are some gorgeous brownstones in this city) I arrived home, thankfully not overheated, which is rare for this summer, and ready to work. Bold and italics both needed here, because brain was firing on all cylinders and I needed to get home and make some serious notes.

There’s a special feeling for us puzzler writers when it clicks that, yes, we have all the pieces now, and we can move on to the  next stage of the game. I’d tossed the outline N’s way, to make sure there were no dangling threads (there were a couple, but a bit of chatter over tea/coffee and bagel/Danish) sorted that out right proper, and…yeah. This stage is done. I’m one of those writers who has to know where I’m going, and if that means splashing around in the shallows for a while, I am, at this stage in my life, fine with that. I’m not writing anybody’s book but my own, so I need to do what works for me. It’s like finding all the corner pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, because once one has the corners, one knows the boundaries of the image. Top and bottom and side pieces are also clear, and, once that happens, then the mess in the middle isn’t quite so…messy.

It’s actually kind of fun, fitting things where they ought to go, especially helpful when the characters do the heavy lifting. Going from “Hero has to find out Heroine is pregnant somehow, but I don’t know what he’s doing while she’s doing her stuff over here, blah, blah, self-flagellate, cry, etc, ” to “well, this time when she blurts it out to Other Character would be the worst possible way for him to get this information, so that has to happen, so that fits,” is pretty heady stuff. Since characters aren’t waiting in the wings, tapping their feet and waiting for their cues, that means Hero was doing something else, and since things have to come to a head with Supporting Character and Hero, oh, well, it makes perfect sense they were over here, doing that other thing, and then they saw/heard the thing and came to see what it was, and then, dun dun dun… Not fun for them, but good for the story.

Now it’s a matter of going back to the start and make sure everything that comes full bloom in the end is planted in the beginning, and that I properly tend it along the way. That is about as much as I know about gardening, so I will leave the analogy there. What I do know is writing historical romance. Now that I know Location is actually going to get some screen time, as it were, there’s research to do on that, and, now that it has a name, I have to go back and change references to “that place over there” to Location’s proper name. Still keeping names close to the vest on this one, because that’s what feels right for this story, at this time. It’s not big enough to play outside on its own, without holding onto Mama’s hand at this stage but, at the end of the next pass, I think it will be.

With the framework in place, now it’s time to start making it pretty. There’s still the whole matter of connecting the back part to the front part and that’s going to take some work and some loose leaf paper and some sticky notes (Plot board in my closet, I am looking at you.) and looking up from the keyboard to see the metaphorical story contractors standing there, in their hard hats and overalls, clutching metaphorical blueprints and wanting a minute of my time, because we’ve come up against a zoning ordinance or the  new guy brought the wrong lug nuts and has to go back to the hardware store, or unicorns are nesting in the hole dug for the reflecting pool, but those are occupational hazards. What’s important is that I know where the corners are, and the water coming out of my faucet is clear again. Next evolution.

 

 

Into The Arms of The Undiscovered

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But know everything lost will be recovered
When you drift into the arms of the undiscovered.

–Ben Gibbard, “Me and Magdalena”

 

Run for your lives, she’s gone artsy. Which means, in this case, that she found a vintage effects photo app (actually, a lot of them) for her phone, has begun referring to herself in the third person, and was curious to see if she could make the usual deskscape look slightly more interesting. Jury is still out on that one, because A) a writer’s desk is always interesting, and B) I have no plans to change my desktop wallpaper any time soon, and C) even though I am writing this blog entry on my trusty pink laptop, I don’t particularly like taking pictures from the lap desk in the living room. Too much light, and now that I have my office looking more like an office and less like the wake of a hurricane, not to mention that the weather, while not autumnal by any stretch of the imagination, is cool enough for me to actually want tea this morning, so that’s what I have. I have also gone back to using first person, so there is that, as well.

Apparently, the vintage app thinks I am always in Instagram, and automatically crops square. Not sure how on board I am with that, but, for today, since I am sticking to my schedule, and actually really excited to get back to ruining Hero and Heroine’s lives (it will be okay in the end, I promise; I write romance, so the endings are always happy) so there is no time for the overthinkings. What there is time for is this blog entry, and then popping appropriate files onto my nifty pink (I do not know how it started, but my electronics are pink now, whenever possible) flash drive, so that I can do the actual work in my office, until/unless I decide it’s coffee house time. Then, the laptop gets to be the star. Unless I decide it’s a paper day, but pink laptop makes me happy, so we will see.

This past weekend can be summed up with “summer is trying to kill me.” Too much time out in the sun, running errands, left me with zero energy, so, once I poured myself into my comfy chair, in front of the fan, and hugged the ice pack of the hour, I basically did two things: I read and I napped. Seriously, I was a reading machine, and now that I’ve found how to track progress for what I’m reading on Goodreads, I have proof. Interestingly enough, I’ve also found that the point where I am most likely to wander off from a book is right before the midpoint. That’s when I’m pedaling my metaphorical bike up the metaphorical hill, get a leg cramp, hop off and call a metaphorical cab. Push a little bit farther, though, and I’m over the hump, and can take my feet off the pedals, stick my legs straight out and yell “wheeeee!” while I coast down the hill, wind in my hair and joy in my veins. This all gets me thinking if the same holds true to some of the partial manuscripts lingering in various drives. Not talking about the miscarried stories; a writer knows what stories are dead and which ones are merely resting.

Backing up a tad to clarify that one could count me as doing three things when not running errands, because, half the time I napped,  I had my earbuds in and there was technically music playing. I can’t say that I was always listening-listening to it, but I was taking it in, because this was some serious well filling. I highly recommend serious well filling. Earworm of the moment is “Me and Magdalena,” by the Monkees, written by Ben Gibbard of Death Cab For Cutie. The mere concept of The Monkees after the passing of Davy Jones was something I didn’t want to think about, for a long time. I fell in love with The Monkees, watching reruns on TV when I was but  wee little princess, bonded with college friends over same (:waves to Heather and Carolin:) and have done more than a few virtual fistpumps when a once upon a time friend wrote about how badass the Monkees actually were, because, dang, they really could make their own music, and fought for it, and won, and, even after Davy’s passing, here they still are. Plus, there was the lyric video right there on my Facebook page when the album first came out, and, reader, I clicked on it.

Oh, my heart. Yes. That. So completely, totally that. Nothing big, and yet, and yet, bam, there was a complete, vivid, image, of that one perfect moment in the narrator’s world. I felt the wind, and the sun (without it draining me, miracle of miracles) and that long drive along the coast, when life is infinite and love rules over all. Yes. I want to do that. I want to make that. I want to be that. I want to put that in my stories and give others that moment.

I also inhaled, among other things, One Hundred Summers, by Beatriz Williams. Oh my stars. Oh my gravy.Yes. That is historical romance, people. Technically, there may be some wiggle room on the historical aspect, as the 1930s are still within living memory, and my personal definition of historical romance is loosely prior to that, but my review, so I’m going with what feels right. I won’t repeat my Goodreads gushing here, but you can read it on your own:

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1741156270?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Both of those things twined around the latest episode of Fear The Walking Dead, which I liked okay before, but am totally on board with now, because they, too, did things I didn’t expect, took me places I didn’t think I was going to go, or wanted to go, but the gasping and the jumping and the “Oh man, I cannot wait to get to HLFK in the morning,” that’s my barometer of getting into something good. Cue Herman’s Hermits.

Okay, far past the magic 700 -do I need to give myself a cap for maximum length?- so I will close with this: both of my current commercial fiction projects are taking me places I didn’t know I was going to go. Ask me a year ago, and I’d have kicked and screamed and laughed at the idea (derisively, not from amusement) AND YET, here I am, and I’m not bashing my head against a brick wall, sobbing about how much I suck, etc. Instead, yeah, make that tea, pop those files on that drive, and let’s take that leap. You with me?

Typing With Wet Claws: Precautionary Cone of Shame Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. This has been a week full of adventures, as you can see by this week’s picture. Normally, I have to talk about Anty’s writing before I say anything else, but Anty says that, this time, I am allowed to talk about my butt first, because some people might worry when they see I am wearing the cone of shame.

Normally, I am a very good girl, but this morning, Anty saw some red next to my puddle, and asked Uncle to look at my butt while she picked me up (I do not like being picked up, but I loooove Uncle.) Uncle said he did see a very tiny pink spot. Busted. Now they know I was going at my bottom when the humans were not looking. That is why I have the cone of shame on, so that I cannot do that again. Uncle said it was only a very small spot, but Anty is cautious. She had Uncle hold me while she put the cone on me. Then they fed me, because I really love my food, and they wanted to make sure I can do all the normal kitty things with the cone on me. As it turns out, I can. It also helps me gain pathetic points when I give them hungry eyes, so this may actually work in my favor. This may also mean the return of the butt compress, but I am not sure. We will see. If the humans have any doubts, back to the pokey place we go.

Okay, enough of that. Time to talk about Anty’s writing, because we have a lot of ground to cover this week. Anty’s latest Buried Under Romance post is about how to handle a book hangover. If you have read a book that stays with you after you are done, and it is hard to get into a different book afterwards, that is what it is. If it has not happened to you yet, Anty says you need to read more books. I suggest hers. The post is here and looks like this:

BUR

I think feeding kitties also helps book hangovers. I suggest feeding me.

In case the computer is picky and the link does not work, you can read the post here:

http://buriedunderromance.com/2016/08/saturday-discussion-the-sweetest-book-hangover.html

Anty will get to the bottom of what is making the links go all picky later, because she is busy writing right now. She and Anty Melva outlined the rest of the Beach Ball this week, and Anty Melva says they are almost halfway through. That is very exciting. Still no cats in that story, though. I am disappointed in both of them. Anty is also making good progress on Her Last First Kiss, and hopes that there are no more big adventures in this upcoming week, so she can make up for time that last week’s adventures took.

Even before I got busted on the butt thing, it was an exciting week. First, while Anty was getting the house ready for Aunt Mary and Uncle Brian’s visit, Mama came home and asked if Anty had seen the notice from Gas Company on the door. Anty had not. What happened was that, while Gas Company humans were turning on the gas for our new neighbor, Miss S, they found something that needed fixing. They had to turn the gas off so that the right human could come and fix it. That meant that we could not cook for our guests. That was all right, because Anty Mary loves Crave, the burger place very close to our house, so the humans had their lunch there. I stayed home and had fish jelly . I regret nothing. Except getting caught with the butt thing. That, I regret.

CraveFoodCollage

What the humans ate. Things in the basket are birdie wings.

If the link does not work, I will put it here:

http://cravealbany.com/

 

 

Since Anty Mary knows Anty loves pirates, she brought her one. Now Anty has Will Turner from Pirates of the Caribbean to watch over her writing. I do not know if I have the heart to tell him there are no pirates in Her Last First Kiss. Maybe next book.

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Newest member of Anty’s crew..

 

 

All the humans went to the New York State Museum of Natural History. The link to that is here: http://www.nysm.nysed.gov/

Anty’s favorite exhibit was Hudson Valley Ruins, because she loves pictures of abandoned places. They make her think about stories right away, about who might have lived there, and why they left, and what they took and left behind, and other story questions like that. She did not get to see her favorite permanent exhibit, forensic reconstructions of skulls taken from colonial graves, but she will go see it another time. There is also a carousel there, that she likes to ride, but tehre was not time to ride it. Another time, again. It is a very big museum, with a lot of things to see. There is a whole exhibit on birdies that live in this part of the country. I think that would be my favorite exhibit if I were to go there, but that would require leaving the house, and I do not like leaving the house.

For those of you who were wondering about the gas part of this entry, yes, the gas is back on, which means Anty can cook and take hot baths again. A lack of baths makes Anty cranky, and nobody wants that. Especially not me. Anty is the one in charge of when I cant take off the cone of shame. She says its proper name is “Elizabethan collar.” Maybe she  needs to read more Elizabethan romance novels, instead of dressing up her cat in period costume. I think that might help.

Anty is making her need-the-computer noises, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

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

Once More Into the Breach

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Today is an odd day, and not only because it’s Wednesday’s post on Thursday. I woke around seven, which is late for me, felt completely drained, so went back to bed for a few minutes. When I woke again, it was nine forty-five. Well, then, sure sign that this was time for some well-filling. In this case, tea, because A) we have gas again, thanks to Landlady’s talented Handyman and the fine folks at National Grid, and B) it was cool enough to actually savor a cup of Lapsang Souchong and its lovely, lovely caffeine along with my morning pages. I am now one week away from filling this book, which is, for those keeping count, number three, and the first one where I’ve gone to seven days a week. I’ll be keeping that practice for the new book. As with any other exercise, the more I do it, the ehhh, don’t want to say easier, exactly, because when is it, really, but it does become more natural. As my mom often said, the more I do, the more I’ll want to do. Thanks, Mom. You were right.

It’s blog entry time now, because this is the time I have for a blog entry, and keeping the discipline is part of the whole “be better at writing” thing. After I do this, I get to go play with Hero and Heroine. One thing that working on two books at one time has taught me is that Hero and Heroine get jealous of my time. They know when I’m seeing other characters, and they are not entirely pleased with it. Guy and Girl, on the other hand, seem to be fine with the arrangement, though that may have something to do with the fact that they have two writers to bother, rather than only one. I’m all Hero and Heroine have, so it’s only natural that they’re going to want more of me, in more ways than one.

There’s a difference in the feel of a Hero and  Heroine day versus a Girl and Guy day. Writing solo versus in collaboration is one part of it; very different energy when one is co-creating, and the ability to have somebody else take a certain scene certainly isn’t there when one is writing on one’s own. Writing in different time periods is part of it. I am a historical romance writer at heart, and, while Guy and Girl’s story is what I term historical romance adjacent, with Hero and Heroine, it’s full on immersion. The tones of the books are different, and yet there are similarities. They’re both romances, so there’s that, and, in both books, there is a central character who has a parent in need of special care. That’s not something I planned on putting in two different books, but then again, both of these stories found me. I didn’t go looking for them.

That’s something I’ve found, in the time between falling off the metaphorical horse and now. The best stories are going to find me. That’s how it works for this particular writer. I can look around, read a lot, watch a lot of movies and/or TV, listen to a lot of music, wander through parks and museums, play computer games (when I actually have a computer that will run them) and, at some point, it all jumbles together and sorts itself out. When asked if I’m a pantser or plotter, I now say puzzler, because that fits me best.

Back when the writing life went off the rails, I thought that my love of organization and planning was an indicator of how I should get back on track, and, to some degree, that’s true, but trying to adhere too closely to that meant completely shutting off the intuitive part of my process, which turned into obsessions over should and forms and word counts and must, must, must, must, must, etc. Which turned into miscarried manuscripts and frustration and a whole lot of banging my head against a brick wall. Which was not good for anybody, me, the wall, or my imaginary friends, some of which packed up their stuff and left, or at least went on very long vacations.

That’s the magic seven hundred right there, so I technically could stop here, but I like to get at least some sense of completion to a post, so let’s try for that. The best stories find me. That’s how I work. I turn into a magpie and throw a bunch of things onto the table, then stand back and see what sort of order they want to sort themselves into. It has to be them, not me. I can look through lists of period appropriate names, but it’s the characters who tell me what their names are, what they look like, when they lived. Hero, for example; I wanted him to be blond and play the violin. He’s a ginger, and he draws. If I’d been intent on forcing him into my perception of him, we’d still be wrangling about his hair color, and I would have a headache from trying to remember my extremely brief stint in a class on the Suzuki method. I never got past the Kleenex box (standing in for the violin) stage. Since Hero and I can connect on a love of pen and ink, that is probably a good call on his part. Speaking of which, he’s tapping his foot, so off I go.

Coldwater Morning

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This morning, I got up around three-thirty in the morning, because my hair was dirty. Reluctantly, I should add, because it was a long-awaited cool night, and Real Life Romance Hero and I had one of Housemate’s awesome afghans on the bed, a far cry (and a welcome one) from drowning in our own sweat on top of the bare sheets, but there is no fighting the moment dirty hair becomes too much. Not even if it means dunking my head under cold water, which is exactly what happened, and I knew it was coming.

Let me explain. This Friday, while I was getting the apartment in shape for our guests, (visit went awesome, but more on that later) Housemate came home and asked if I had seen the notice from National Grid on the door. I told her I had not. She gave me the basics: in preparing to turn on utilities for the new tenant downstairs (Hi, S! :waves:) they found something that needed attention, and so shut off the gas for the entire  house. Shutting off gas when there is a gas problem is a good thing, because we don’t want any explosions, and, if the gas has to be shut off, August is the time to do it. I would hate to think what would happen if this were to happen in January. No, actually, I do know, as Real Life Romance Hero and I lived through the huge Halloween blizzard of some years back, and it was, in a word, COLD. Not merely uncomfortable cold, but dangerous cold. In comparison, heat being off in August, during the year of the heat dome, eh, not that big.

It does, however, make personal hygiene, shall we say, brisk. There is an impact, as well, on the grocery shopping, because it’s either no-cook, microwave, or takeout/prepared food. Again, August, so not having to cook is a good thing, and the gas people will have to light the pilots on the stove and long-dormant oven, once the gas is back on, so this may give us our oven back. Hopefully, we will see that soon, but in the meantime, we’re doing okay as we are. Minor inconvenience, not a catastrophe, so I’ll take it.

Which brings me back to this morning. This post is up today instead of yesterday, because yesterday was a flop day. We had a wonderful time with our friends, Mary and Brian (Skye will bring everyone up to speed on that on Friday) but all the excitement and preparation left me in need of a good flop. So, I took one. I regret nothing. Sometimes, one needs to put the laptop down, look at the clock, see it’s eleven AM, and go back to bed. Or recliner, in my case, but that’s beside the point. Back to where we started.

This morning, I got up between three and four, stuck my head under cold water, and then went directly to my morning pages, because that’s what I do, first thing, whenever possible. Computer was not on yet; that will come later, so assume that at least Abbie and Ichabod were still snoozing, as was the rest of the house. Except for Skye. Skye was waiting on the other side of my office door, because she knows that, when Anty comes out, Anty will feed her. Skye is smart.

I would love to say I know where I am going with this, but I don’t. It bothers me that I took a photo of a blank computer screen, though that is exactly what the desk looked like when I sat down to write my morning pages. Today, at breakfast with N, we got each other up to speed on our current projects. She’s moving toward her goals, and I am on track to having both Her Last First Kiss and the Beach Ball in at least first draft and ready to pitch at NECRWA for 2017. Today is for transcribing my handwritten scene for the Beach Ball, and sending that on to Melva. Last week, we plotted the second half of the book and discussed possible future projects. I ran my amended outline for the rest of HLFK by N, who gave a thumbs up, and, once this blog entry is posted, am diving into Guy and Girl’s world, with a Hero and Heroine chaser. I’m good with that.

Kind of like being good with cold water for a few days. If cold water for a few days is what it’s going to take for the house not to blow up, I am fine with that. If re-learning how I tell a story is what it takes to write the best books I possibly can, I am fine with that, too. Sometimes, we have to break away from the “everybody knows” and the “shoulds” and muck around for a while in the land of try-and-fail-and-try-again to see what it actually takes to get the job done. Seems to be working pretty well for my characters, so I may be on to something here.

Ever since I started increasing my morning pages to seven times a week, I’ve noticed that I write more during the day. When I write longhand, the story comes quicker. When I write longhand, on pretty paper, even faster. When I make time for reading books that call to me while I’m doing other things, plan when I can sneak in a few minutes, a few pages, to see what the characters are up to, especially in  historical romance, I want to write that sort of book, the one that will whisper to readers (or come after them and drag them back, I’m fine with that, too.)  When I can talk writing with writer friends, and reading with reader friends, wander through a museum and let the past speak to me, that’s when writing feels the most natural. I like that place. I want to stay in that place. If it means dunking my head under cold water at four in the morning, well, okay, though I hope that’s not a requirement for staying in the groove. For now though? For now, it’s fine.

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

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

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

BUR

How far do you dig for your next great read?

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

i1035 FW1.1

Until next week…

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

Right Now

annabowling 5 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Notebook and a half, actually

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

 

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

Marginally Speaking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Typing With Wet Claws: Cat Days of Summer Edition

annabowling 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Until next week…

 

 

Postmidweek Rambles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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