possibly pointless blabbering

Still In Favor of Tire Swings

annabowling Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Typing With Wet Claws: Happy Cat-nada Day Edition

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Hello all, Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Because this is a holiday, I am allowed to wish all who celebrate a happy Canada Day. We are not Canadian, but we live far enough north in New York, that some of the street signs tell us how to get to Montreal.  At the bodega across the street, we can buy Canada Dry ginger ale (well, a lot of other places, too) and once, we got all dressed potato chips there, which are popular in Canada. Anty probably knows more about the Degrassi franchise than an American of her, um, vintage, should, especially the original cast version. She also likes reading books by Canadian authors like Mary Balogh, Virginia Henley, Marsha Canham, and the late Jo Beverley. Maybe she needs to do some remedial reading of said authors, in celebration. Maybe while eating poutine, because some local restaurants have that on the menu. We have some Canadian neighbours (note Canadian spelling, please) we could invite to join us:

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I think some of these birdies are bigger than me.

 

Holiday wishes conveyed, Anty’s latest post on Buried Under Romance is all about the covers on romance novels. This can be a very heated topic, especially as trends in cover art, and the mediums in which said trends are executed, are constantly changing. What kinds of covers do you like or not like to see? Anty would love to know. Her post is here, and it looks like this:

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What does your ideal romance cover look like?

Even though Anty is not Canadian, she is celebrating vicariously today. It is always nice to be happy for one’s neighbors, so there is that. Besides being close enough to the border for some things to dribble down, Anty has a writer friend she talks to through the glowy box, who is Canadian, and she would like for her friend to have a nice day. Hero and Heroine have a Canadian connection, too, which means that Anty has to learn new things about what Canada was like in the time Her Last First Kiss takes place.

One thing she already knows ties in with her rabid Anglophilia, and her own connection to the Revolutionary era. The part of New York where Anty spent her people kittenhood had a lot of British sympathizers still living there when the war was over. As you can imagine, that was not the best place for them to be, so going someplace else was in their best interests. Many of them made the trip north, and began new lives in Canada. That is something some of Hero’s relatives do, in Her Last First Kiss, and something Anty has always found very interesting. She has visited a museum that has (probably a replica of) a document that announced the date all British subjects/sympathizers needed to be gone from that town (since the British army did burn down the whole town at one point during the war, I can see where there might be some bad blood going on there.)  That was one of those moments that sent a jolt of electricity through her writerblood. Anty says it was like touching history, to read that. She can only imagine what it must have been like to actually see the notice nailed up  in person, and know that the people the notice addressed would mean her and her family. Maybe that will be in a story someday.

Anty actually has been to Canada, once, when she was a tiny people kitten. Anty’s mama’s anty (and several other relatives) lived in Dunkirk, NY, and Anty’s parents took her there for a visit. Since they were close enough to the Canadian border, they took a day trip to bring Anty to the Canadian side of Niagra Falls. One of Anty’s mama’s relatives thought it would be funny to tell Anty (remember, she was a very tiny people kitten when this happened) that visitor to Niagra Falls had to go over it in a barrel. Suffice it to say that Anty was not entirely on board with this idea, but her parents got her into the carrier anyway. She had never been to a different country before, so crossing the border was a new experience.

Seeing Niagra Falls in person was also a new experience. Anty loves waterfalls anyway, and her mama’s relative was wrong; the vast majority of people stand on land and look, although some get to go in a boat (Anty’s family did not; they stayed on land.) Getting Anty back in the carrier to go back to Anty’s mama’s anty’s house was another matter, because A) being in a different country is very, very interesting for a very tiny people kitten who has never done that before, and B) giant waterfalls. Giant waterfalls are also very, very interesting to a very tiny people kitten. Anty’s papa had to bribe her with a toy canoe made of real bark, and a doll dressed like an indigenous Canadian girl. Anty is not sure to which people group that doll’s character belonged, but it was probably Algonkian or Iroquois. Since it was already a very long trip to see Anty’s mama’s anty, they did not get to visit Niagra Falls again, but that does not mean the story is over.

Anty and Uncle would like to visit Anty’s friend from the glowy box someday. Anty’s friend does not actually live inside the glowy box. She lives in Montreal, which is a big city, with many interesting things Anty and Uncle might like to see. I, of course, would stay home, because I am a kitty.

Now, it is time for Anty to work on her books, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

 

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Until next week…

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

 

There Are Lobsters on My Desk

annabowling 1 Comment

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Officially Summertime Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

It should also be obvious that that is about it for this week, so, until next time, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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

Hungry

annabowling 2 Comments

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

–Kara Brooks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Phantoms

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Closer to Fine

annabowling 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Under the Influence

annabowling 2 Comments

No, not that kind of under the influence, and yes, that is a vintage (recent vintage)  workspace picture for today’s entry because A) burning daylight here, and B) it’s pretty. I like the contrast of the retro robot and the Paris travel mug, and the mere thought of carrying yet another owed blog post (I will get that long-ago Wednesday post redeemed at some point, I promise) makes me shudder, plus I have had an occupational hazard of typing with wet nails, meaning I have to do it all over again, polish-wise, so here we are.

Last week, I got tagged by the equally fabulous Jodi Coburn and Kari W. Cole for the prompt to list fifteen writers who have influenced me. For the curious, here it is:

Bertrice Small – historical romance
Valerie Sherwood/Jeanne Hines -historical romance and gothic romance
Aola Vandergriff/Kitt Brown – historical romance and gothic romance
Nick Hornby -general fiction/lad lit/screenplays
Angela Hunt – inspirational fiction and nonfiction/historical fiction/women’s fiction  David Levithan – Young Adult fiction and poetry
Rainbow Rowell -Young Adult and adult fiction
Jennifer Roberson -fantasy with romantic elements, historical fiction with romantic elements and historical romance
Erma Bombeck  – humor, memoir
Billy Joel  -singer/songwriter
Mary Chapin Carpenter – singer/songwriter
Ben Folds  – singer/songwriter
Marsha Canham – historical romance
Barbara Samuel/Barbara O’Neal/Lark O’Neal/Ruth Wind -historical, contemporary and category romance, women’s fiction, New Adult romance, nonfiction
Anita Mills – historical romance and traditional Regency romance

A diverse bunch, and I don’t consider the additions of Joel, Folds and Carpenter as cheating, because some of their songs are amazing stories in their own right. Billy Joel’s “Scenes From an Italian Restaurant,” Ben Folds’ “Brick,” and Mary Chapin Carpenter’s “Goodbye Again” (which is on my playlist for Her Last First Kiss, oh so very much) definitely count; even the first few notes of any of those, before the lyrics start, are enough to engage my emotions, and I’m going to need a minute after it’s over because they give me feelings…which is exactly what an emotional story, musical or not, is meant to do.

What they all have in common for me is a strong emotional impact, across genres, formats and decades-of-origin. All of them have had a strong influence on why and how I do what I do. The moment I cracked the cover of The Kadin, by Bertrice Small, which I’d stolen from my mother’s nightstand, and first inhaled the opening pages, I knew I had found what I wanted to read and write for the rest of my life. I first heard “Brick,” by Ben Folds, in the passenger seat of BFF’s car, when the clock on her dash slid over to 6AM on December 26th, and the mournful first line, “6AM, day after Christmas,” chilled my blood, and became part of me.

That’s how it works with an influential book, song, piece of art, etc. We can appreciate it for what it is, in its original state, and most of us would probably fight those who suggest  changing it, but then something else happens – it meets us, and new life begins. We aren’t the same after we’ve experienced the original work, and, for those of us who also work in creative fields, neither is what we produce. We’ve been changed. We can’t go back to the way we were before, whether we want to or not, because now we know. Everything we’ve known and seen and done and hoped and feared and imagined and wondered combines with this thing we’ve never encountered before, and something new now exists.

Under the big brass bed in my parents’ guest room, with that purloined historical romance, in that front seat of BFF’s car as the saddest music of ever started in the predawn hour, I got that YES. That THIS. That mixture of discovery and recognition. THIS is mine. THIS is part of me. THIS is my fuel for the journey. THIS is what I need to get to the next level. I want more of THIS.

Fifteen is a pretty short list, and that’s okay. The instructions were to take the fifteen off the top of my head and I tried, but, for me, that isn’t where my favorites live. They’re not in my head. They’re in my heart, in my writerblood, combining with each other to make wholly new what-ifs and if-onlys while I’m off doing other things, waiting patiently for me in quiet moments, or chasing after me, calling my name, because no, they will not wait. It does have to be now, and the world is going to have to deal.

 

Typing With Wet Claws: Grow-ning Pains Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

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

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

 

BUR

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anty says it is now time for her to work on her draft (and sniffle about the magazine a little) so that is about it for this week. Until next week, I remain very truly yours,

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Until next week…

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

Digging Up Bones

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

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

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

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

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

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

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