possibly pointless blabbering

Typing With Wet Claws: Conference Week Edition

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hereLet Your Imagination Take Flight conference,Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. This is the last week before Anty heads off for the annual Let Your Imagination Take Flight conference, put on by the New England chapter of Romance Writers of America. A whole weekend in a hotel full of people who love the same things that Anty loves is something she looks forward to every year, even if that is also a hotel empty of kitties. At least she has pictures of me to tide her over, and many of the other writers like to talk about their kitties, too, so she is not totally doing without. I will, however, expect extra scritches when she gets back. I think that is only fair.

This week means it is time to prepare for the conference. Besides picking out what outfits and other personal items she is going to bring, there is also the task of the elevator pitch. If you do not know what that means, I will explain. An elevator pitch is a very short description of one’s manuscript, quick enough to tell someone (hopefully an editor or agent) during the span of an elevator ride. This means whittling the whole story down to its very basic parts, while still whetting the appetite so that the other person will want to hear more. As you can imagine, this can sometimes be quite the challenge.

For Anty, this week, it may be even more of a challenge, because she is dealing with a spring cold. This cold is the kind that makes her brain all foggy, and her body want to take go to sleep at times that are not nighttime. Nighttime, during colds like this, is for staring at the ceiling, and thinking about story things. Also going through a lot of tissues, though she does that during the daytime, too.

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Pen guts for Pilot Plumix and MontBlanc Noblisse

Anty thought that getting some of her pens ready for new ink would be a good idea. That is not exactly what happened. The part of the Mont Blanc that takes ink does not work, and Anty thought she could put the standard cartridge from Jinhao in that pen, instead. It went in, but she is not yet getting the new ink to show. That is okay. She will put the pen, capped, nib side down, in its cup and then try again later. The Pilot cartridges should arrive later today. Uncle will probably check for her, because he is home, and does not have a cold. Also, he ordered Chinese food. I do not eat Chinese food, because I am a kitty. I eat kitty food. Speaking of which, I think I have some humans to stare at once I get this blog entry posted.

In case you missed it last week, Anty’s most recent Buried Under Romance discussion post is here, and it looks like this:

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What kinds of books do you wish your favorite (or new) writers would write? Anty is always interested in hearing answers to questions like that, even when she has a new topic. I would like to see more books with kitties in them, but maybe that is just me. Humans probably have different answers.

Anty will find a lot of humans with different tastes in reading and writing at the conference, but they all have a love of romance fiction in common. Anty loves the energy she gets from these conferences, and says that Saturday morning breakfast, is extroverted morning person Christmas. A room full of people, who love what Anty loves, want to talk to other people, plus endless caffeine and breakfast foods? That is about as good as it gets in that respect. There will be old friends and new friends and free books and lots of swag, plus the ride there and back, with Anty Melva, where they can talk about the story they are writing together. Best of all, Anty will get new stories to tell, both about the conference, and maybe even some seeds for new books yet to be written.

Since Anty will be getting a late start on her pre-conference preparations, I will be standing by, in case she needs me to take on one of her regular blog entries in the upcoming week. That is part of the duties of being a mews, and so is making sure Anty gets enough rest. To do that, I curl into a ball and sleep right in front of her chair, so that she cannot get up without waking me. I had better get to that, 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)

Spring Sicko

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Yesterday morning, I woke at my regular time, feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. No energy, sandpaper throat, hot and cold running nostrils. I decided to drag myself out of bed and do laundry anyway, because A) I am a big ol’ stoic, and B) I was convinced that a couple of hours in Laundromat B (Laundromat A is the one kitty corner from our house, Laundromat B, a few blocks away) with its calm atmosphere and the promise of clean clothing would make me feel better. I was wrong.

The near-weeping-with-joy moment when I found a forgotten licorice cough drop in the bottom of my bag should have been a sign. I am not always good at reading this kind of sign. I used the time to make some notes on the current writing and make some headway on reading a book pertinent to an upcoming Heroes and Heartbreakers post, washed, dried, folded, and headed home. I should have known something was up when Real Life Romance Hero met me at the door. He and Housemate were going to run a few quick errands, and did I want to come, or stay home and get some work done? I elected to go, because extroverted me would rather die in misery around people than die in misery alone.

Errands ended up taking a solid eight hours, six if we don’t count the two I insisted on spending in Panera, because I had a scheduled conference with Critique Partner Vicki, and was not going to miss that. To my surprise, I actually got something done, but did pay for it later. Today, I have no voice, am going through tissues at an impressive rate, and consistent awake-ness is not one of my strengths. I am vaguely amused by all of this.

 

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Real Life Romance Hero provided French toast therapy.

 

 

There’s still writing and reading to do. The ink cartridges for the Jinhao pen (currently using a converter on that one) arrived, and I want to see if they would fit the MontBlanc. The Pilot cartridges should be here any time now, and you bet I am stopping whatever I am doing at the time, to stick one of those babies in my Plumix and take it for a spin. A new friend asked me for a short story for her birthday, which is next week, so there is that. I am rambling here, and that’s fine, because it still counts for the blog entry. I still have my morning pages to write, and then it’s time to visit with Hero and Heroine, puzzling my way along to that bullet point draft in June, which now seems super close, yet still do-able.

While writing an email a few minutes ago, it hit me that the NECRWA conference is…next week. I’m not pitching this year, because I have learned we do not pitch books that are not completed yet. Head down and eyes on my own paper with HLFK and novella, and then, next year, I will have two projects to pitch, if they haven’t found homes already. Three, if I want to dust off Ravenwood and see what I want to do with that. I think I still need some time and distance there, but one never knows. One of the best things about a conference is that there are people there who are as excited about the types of books I love as I am. There are people there who want to buy what I want to sell.

Conferences are a place where a stranger can become a friend in an instant, when the answer to a generic “what’s your all time favorite romance novel?” asked of everybody at the table gets a joyous squeal from a few seats down, because that’s my favorite book, too, and we must now discuss it at length, quote favorite passages, compare and contrast with other books by the same author, by different authors in the same setting or subgenre, and detail how it affected our overall reading and our own writing. Free books and swag don’t hurt at all, either.

Where am I going with all this? Immediately, a nap. I’m thankful that both writer and domestic warrior queen duties mean I don’t have to get out of pajamas when I feel like road kill, and that I can go at my own pace, even when that pace is mostly “pause.”

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Top notch nursing staff makes sure I get my proper rest.

Typing With Wet Claws: Adaptability Edition

annabowling 4 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is a very nice sunbeam day, but I am a dedicated mews, and so I am blogging for my Anty anyway. Anty tried to take some pictures of me in the process of fur maintenance (I am in shed, because it is spring) but I kept moving, so she could not get a good image. I do not always have good fur days when I am in shed, like  I am right now. Uncle tried to help by getting my attention, but that only made me look at him, not at Anty, who was not interested in photographing the back of my head. Note that I did not say who I was helping. Anty gave me treat anyway, because I am cute, so I do not see a problem here.

Anty had an interesting morning today, because she went to two different Laundromats. Normally, she goes to the one that is kitty corner to our house (I cannot see too much out of the window, because it is high and I am a floor girl, but if Anty is going to a corner where there are other kitties, when there is a perfectly good me here at home, I am not sure I am okay with that.) and she did, at first, but she did not stay there. Some almost-grownup humans came in, and not to do laundry. Anty was there to do laundry, and to get some writing and/or reading done, neither of which were going to work out well with the almost-grownups not-doing laundry. They way they don’t do laundry is distracting, so she took her load out of the dryer (it was still wet, and there was still time left on the dryer) and walked to the other Laundromat, a few blocks away.

That other Laundromat is very different. It is farther away, for one thing, and bigger, and there is an attendant in the dry cleaner next door, so almost-grownup humans do not feel as free to not-do laundry there. Anty stuck her load in one of those dryers, then sat down nearby the dryer to get back to her writing. Nobody interrupted her, so it was a good session. Anty may consider using this Laundromat more often, because it is a nice walk, and easy to get both laundry and reading/writing done there without any bother. The regular place is closer, though, so she may have to see.

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gratuitous duck picture; ducks make everything better.

 

Anyway, this is the first Friday since Sleepy Hollow made a lot of humans angry with their maybe-season, maybe-series finale. Anty is glad she did not have to recap that episode, because it brought back memories of when she did have to recap the How I Met Your Mother series finale. I will give you one hint as to what both finales had in common: she hated them both. Like really, really, really, saying bad words at the TV hated. Mama thinks Anty should write a blog entry about how angry it makes Anty when (mostly) boy writers think a good romantic ending means one half of the couple dies, or they break up for no reason.

One thing Anty likes about writing  and reading romance novels is that, because we know what the end point is going to be -that the two humans want and get to be together- that means the writer can throw absolutely anything at them on the way there. That is a pretty sweet deal, if you ask me, although I do not know if anyone should ask me about writing romance novels, because, after all, I am a kitty. Maybe ask Anty instead. Anty loves to talk about writing and about romance novels. She especially loves to talk about writing romance novels, so if you ask her about that, I hope you have brought some tea, and probably some gummi bears. Anty can talk a really long time when she gets going, and it does not take much to get her started.

Although it is never fun to see a TV show, movie, or even book that Anty likes take a sudden turn in the wrong direction – especially cutting off a romantic arc with a tragic ending, when the story was not billed as a tragedy in the first place (Anty will admit to being interested in seeing 500 Days of Summer, in which it is allegedly said at the outset that the humans do not end up together; it is okay in cases like that.) or strongly indicating two humans will be happy together, but whoops, no, one is dead now- there is still a good thing that can come out of it.

 

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Updates? Notebook, you’re on!

 

 

Bad and/or disappointing endings in other works can still be good for a writer because they are a natural call to playing the what-if game. What if things had gone differently? What if the human who left did not leave? What if the human who died had not died? What would have happened next, in the natural (or supernatural, if it is that kind of story) course of events? What unexpected thing could happen so that the humans still have (or still can have) each other, but the story would not yet be over? One of the superpowers writers have is that they can make up different endings for stories where they do not like the ending that was given, and, more than that, they can make that be the beginning of a whole new story of their own.

A little bit of a favorite TV show, a little bit of a disappointing movie, snatches of songs and whiffs of scents, a few interesting images from media and real life, an assortment of other things, let them sit for a while until they are ready to filter through keyboard or pen, and a whole new story can be born. Sometimes, this happens right away, and sometimes, it will marinate for a really long time, but, with dedication and discipline, wonderful things can come from all of that. Like I said, pretty sweet deal.

In case you did not see Anty’s post last week at Buried Under Romance (there is a new topic every Saturday,) on the effect character names can have on the reading experience, you can still read -and comment on it- here, and it looks like this:

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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)

It Happens

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Winging it today, because I’ve tried three different openings and none of them stuck. I was going to blog about pens, but I’m waiting on that one until the ink cartridges I ordered arrive. They were due yesterday, so my optimistic side want to say they should be here any day now, and my pessimistic side wants to know when they’re going to get here already. The there’s the suspicious side that wonders if the mail carrier put them in our neighbor’s box instead (I’ve had the pen I ordered at the same time for over a week now) by mistake. Odds are fifty-fifty that I will find them on my doorstep when I arrive home.

Today, I ran a scene from Her Last First Kiss by Critique Partner Vicki, and got back the tough-but-useful sort of response that first stings, but, dangit, does make things better. So, I’ve been doing that, and I like this angle better than what I’d originally had, which may be why it’s harder to come out of the story space to write a blog entry. These things happen. It’s not that I mind, exactly, (the redoing of a scene, that is; I do mind waiting for the ink cartridges, because I am a newly converted fountain pen lover and I want to play with my inky toys, dagnabit) but that, sometimes, getting to The End of a book feels very far away while firmly in The Middle.

Breaking things down into manageable bites helps. All I need to do is focus on one scene at a time, and put them all together in my bullet point draft. It’s messy-ish, may not make sense to people who are not me (or Critique Partner Vicki; N has yet to see one of my bullet point drafts, so we will see how that goes. One day at a time, one foot in front of the other, and we get there. That’s how it works. I’m not nervous about Never Having Another Book Released Ever Again, because that’s not the issue. There will be a next book. There will be next books, plural. I got this. I’ve written books before, I’m writing books now, and will be writing books in the future. I got this. If I don’t find the right fit in traditional publishing, I can go the indie route, and I don’t have to please Every Reader Ever (pretty sure that’s not even possible) – only my readers, so that’s a lot of pressure off, right there.

Finding my readers, well, there’s a thing we can talk about if we want. In publishing years, I’m basically dead starting fresh, it’s been that long since my last release. Life will do that sometimes, and even in the times when I feel like it might be easier to just stay down, as it were, the stories don’t stop coming, the desire to see them published doesn’t go away, so okay. This is what I’m doing. The stories are going to be told. The books are going to happen. That’s not the question here. I certainly hope that readers who like my blog and my articles and other posts would like my fiction as well.

Some won’t, and that’s fine. As the late Eugenia Price once said, not every writer can please every reader; that’s why there are so  many of us.  There’s a lot of truth there, and it helps keep things in perspective. It’s not an “if” in my mind, but a “when.” When the draft is done. When the next draft is done. When the book goes out in the world, to meet a nice publisher and make beautiful book babies, or stride boldly into the teeming throngs on its own, seeking readers where it may find them.

My goal, when I began this iteration of Typing With Wet Nails, was to be honest about the writing experience. It’s rough sometimes, fun other times, sometimes both at once, and every point in between. It’s not something I can put down or turn off (I’ve tried; it did not go well.) It’s something I am. These are the stories I have to tell, and they are the stories that are going to get out of my head and into the hands of readers. Every step in that direction is progress. Including this one.

Typing With Wet Claws: Z is for Zoomies Edition

annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. My day started early this morning, and, because of that, so did Anty’s. What happened was that I had a case of the zoomies. That means I had too much energy, and I needed to run. A lot. Very fast. I needed Anty to know that I was running, so I would run up to her, chirp, and run away again. I kept that up until she knew it was time for up, which means time for feeding me. As you can imagine, I worked up quite the appetite with all that running. Uncle thinks it is cute when I get the zoomies, but he is not the one who has to deal with the aftermath, which is usually my, um, stuff. Needless to say, Anty required more tea than usual to get her brain into gear after a start like that.

In case you missed them, Anty has two posts at Heroes and Heartbreakers this week. Her post about the second-to-last episode of this season of Sleepy Hollow is here, and her post about the first book in Charis Michaels’ Bachelor Lords of London series, The Earl Next Door, is here. They look like this:

 

There is a new member of the family that joined us this week. The Jinhao fountain pen Anty ordered online came in the mail. She was super excited, because she did not know it came with a converter, which meant she did not have to wait for the cartridges to arrive. She could ink it right away, which is exactly what she did. The ink is purple, which is very good for writing in Anty’s daily pages book. Here is the pen, resting on that book. Anty gets grumbly when she reaches the end of a two-page spread, because she usually wants to keep going, but that only means she is ready for the real writing of the day.

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deskscape, with new pen and daily pages book

 

Yes, that is Henry VIII peeking out of the top of the Paris notebook. Anty likes to live dangerously. This is one of the perils of being a historical romance writer with various interests. Although Anty does not write her books in her daily pages book, sometimes, she writes about them. That is kind of like zoomies of the brain, when she has so much in her head that she has to dump some of it out on paper. It is fitting that she does that with a fountain pen, because filling those can sometimes be messy, the same as it is putting things down on the page for the very first time. Also, going over the same thing multiple times, exploring new layers, from different angles, until Anty gets what she needs.

Another way of getting things out of her head and onto a page is with her art journals. Those do not always involve words at all, and the supplies smell very interesting, so I like to stay close when she is working on those. This is a current page in progress:

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Anty says that the Picadilly paper is not very good at taking wet media, so she probably will not use it again in this book. That only means she can get a different book, with watercolor paper, so she can use wet media in that one. Pencils and stencils and magazine papers are better matches for this sort of paper. Anty has put more things on this spread since this picture was taken, but we do not have pictures of that new layer right now. There will probably be more by the time she is happy with it and ready to move on to the next spread. She also needs to find stencils that can make different shapes from the ones she used here.

It is kind of like that with writing. In the stage where Anty is with Her Last First Kiss, the bullet point draft, it is only when Anty drops things onto the page and mushes them around, that she can tell what the story still needs. This week, she found out she misplaced a certain character for several chapters, so that, when she needed that character later on in the book, she had no idea where that character would be. This will involve reading through what is already there and finding out how fast that character’s injury would heal, so she knows if they would be able to move around on their own or not. She also is working on a scene where she knows the beginning and end points, but does not know the middle of the scene. She has worked both ends against the middle before, so that is not a new thing, even if it can be aggravating at times.

Anty is also getting ready for the Let Your Imagination Take Flight conference, which will be at the end of the month. If you are going to be there, Anty would love to talk to you. She will have pictures of me on her phone, if that is an incentive. Maybe even some videos.

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)

Elsewhere

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Yesterday, I left the plug part of my phone cord plugged into the wall at Panera. I did not realize this until I had walked all the way through the park, was at home, inside, out of my winter gear (Winter gear! In April!) and computer bag unpacked. I informed Real Life Romance Hero that I was not going all the way back there to get it. I wanted to pick up a new cord anyway, as I would have had to replace the electrical tape holding the…um…bendy…part…of…pointy…thing…that…goes…into…tiny…hole…on…bottom…of phone… together. Jack. It’s called a jack. I think it’s called a jack. Look, I write historical romance. These newfangled gadgets confound me. Let’s say that I needed a new cord anyway, and leave it at that. Maybe I can find a pink one.

Also yesterday,  Real Life Romance Hero kicked me out of the apartment, because I would be cranky if I didn’t write at the coffee house, even though I said I might take the afternoon off and do nothing, due to spotty sleep the night before. He said I’d hate myself if I didn’t, and I’d be grumpy, an he’d have to deal with my grumpiness. (The man is astute, I tell you. He also informed me I was not allowed to pretend to get stuff done; I had to actually get stuff done. He knows me.) I got to the coffee house, and realized, while setting up my work area, I had left the computer cord at home. Twice in one day, that is a new one, even for me. Caffeine obviously needed. I would have run home and grabbed the cord, but I had my tea already, so decided to make the best of it. Worked off battery for Scrivener, used my phone for Spotify, and commenced poking Her Last First Kiss with a stick for the duration.

Also yesterday (I am going to say Tuesday was my Monday this week) I saw my copy of Romance Writers’ Report sticking out of our neighbors’ mailbox. Yes, I am sure it is my copy, because my copy is not in our box, and our neighbors are three college-age gentlemen, whom I have never once seen at a CRRWA meeting, nor discussing writing or romance fiction. There is more of our mail in their box, plainly visible, and I have no idea if it’s legal to take it if I can see it, or if laying in wait for the postal carrier tomorrow is my best option.  Their box is full to overflowing and ours is empty, so maybe carrier only looked at the street address, not names or which box goes to which floor?

Today, I got to the coffee house, proud of myself for remembering the novella notebook so that I can transcribe the scene I wrote for that, set up for my workspace photo…and realized I’d left my phone at home. At least I left it in the charger. Well, the charger for my tablet, because that charger is doing double duty until I can replace the phone cord. :headdesk: Still, “blog entry” is the next thing on my list, and I have to earn my leisure time with writing time. Which is why you get a picture of the back of my head, instead of the front of the computer. At least it’s a good hair day. Now, if we can get what’s inside my head working correctly, I’ll be good to go. Blog , novella work, novel work, then I get reading time.

Speaking of reading time, I have a new post up at Heroes and Heartbreakers today, gushing all over The Earl Next Door, by Charis Michaels. As Skye would say, and may well in her post, because I’ve been a busy beaver with the posts lately, it is here and it looks like this:

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Though I’d originally intended to use today’s post as a “you are here” sort of thing for new readers/followers/leibchens, and six hundred and seventy-five words into a post is a wee bit late to be starting that kind of nonsense, I’m thinking it’s not that far off. Random ramblings from the brain of a romance writer, blogger, domestic warrior queen, and babbly extrovert with intermittent confidence issues, about the process of mojo reclamation, making things up and muddling through. Three times a week, seven hundred word minimum per post. My cat posts on Fridays, because that’s how we roll.

 

 

 

Draw Shapes

annabowling 2 Comments

We have snow. In April. I am going to have to go outside and shovel the sidewalk. In April. Even though snow is my favorite weather, it had the whole season of winter to show, and it didn’t. I live with two springophiles, and they’re sad at the loss of their favorite season, which makes it hard to enjoy this unexpected dose of mine, so this is an interesting conundrum. I may need to take a snow day.

 

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view from our balcony

 

 

For my fellow Sleepyheads, my recap of Sleepy Hollow‘s latest episode, “Delaware,” is up at Heroes and Heartbreakers. Man, this episode. Two particular Ichabbie scenes could count as love scenes -donuts and boat, for those who have seen- because the connection is that strong, and sure, and understated and all the more obvious for it. If this were a book, I would have sticky notes on those chapters, so I could see how they did it and learn to do it for myself. Still no word on whether the show will be renewed or not, so next week’s season (and hopefully not series) finale should be interesting, not to mention cause for great speculation. It is here, and it looks like this:

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New member of the (notebook) family came home this weekend, when I saw this gorgeous specimen at Barnes and Noble, in the red dot clearance section:

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new art journal – what can I do to it?

 

I’ve always wanted to try an unlined Picadilly, and one of their larger notebooks, so when I saw this, and it announced it was my new art journal, (because notebooks talk to me; don’t they do that to everybody?) I fell in love with the creamy pages, and spent a rather blissful chunk of time at the kitchen counter, slapping down seemingly random things that were within easy reach, and I’m rather pleased with the results.

Though I don’t remember who actually said this particular gem, I want to say it was in an issue of Art Journaling magazine. In every issue, multiple contributors are asked the same question about their creative process. That’s probably my favorite feature, as I love finding out how different people do the same thing. In one issue, I want to say the question was something like, how to get started when ideas aren’t coming.

One answer stuck with me.  “When you don’t know what to draw, draw shapes.” I am fairly certain I’m paraphrasing here, and probably need to go back and find the actual quote and artist’s name, because that had a big hand in getting me out of a creative funk. Draw shapes. Well, that’s easy. Anybody can draw shapes. So, today, when I sat down with a two page blank spread in front of me, that’s what came to mind. I stuck down a piece of scrapbook paper, tried out some long-neglected stamps, with a longer-neglected ink pad (that pad has earned all the RIPs in the image) and then…nothing. Which is where the shapes came into play.

I grabbed an old stencil that was, apparently, made by IBM, for…IBM-related something, I imagine; my dad probably bought it for art use, and now it’s mine…and started tracing shapes. Then I filled them in with an old #2 pencil, which I’d found in the same box of stuff. I didn’t think, didn’t plan, only let one shape flow into the next one, my mind drifting along with the music, picking out the stories from the songs, the snapshots of emotion captured in sound, and that told me where to go next. When I got to the point of “done” with shapes, I looked at the blank space for a while. It needed a figure. I grabbed a stack of pages torn from old magazines, cut out the first one I saw, glued it down, added some shade, then sat back.

Words. I needed words on that page, but didn’t want to overthink it. What ended up going on the page were the lyrics that played at that exact moment. It worked. Done. I liked the whole process a lot, and will probably do that again, because it gets my creative brain in gear. So, what does that have to do with writing? Other than inspiration, that is, because there was definitely that.

It’s the blank page. It’s the shapes. It’s knowing that I know how to  do this. Once there is a shape on the page, once there is a splash of color, or even a single mark, the page isn’t blank anymore. The first step will invite the next one, which will make the page an entirely different thing from that, and once I get in the groove, it’s easier to keep going than it is to stop. It’s trusting myself and knowing that  what works for me, works for me. It’s feeling the doubt and going ahead anyway, because otherwise, what else is there to do but stare at a bank page? Put something down. Anything. Fix it later. Add to it later. Cover it later. Rip it out later, if you want, but put it down there. Use a template if you need. Go freehand if you want, but start. Make your mark. Draw a shape. Write a word. I dare you.

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Allrightyroo

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Two wondrous things happened this morning, in my office. Thing one is that I found out that the snooty nameplate pen on my desk, which ran out of ink ages and ages ago (like back when we lived in a different part of the country ago) actually takes the Pilot G2 refills that I bought for the…um…PapermatepenwhosenameIforgetbutthoughtwasPilotG2, so that pen is now back in business. Thing two was that Real Life Romance Hero knocked on my office door while I was writing my morning pages, and asked if I wanted him to make some French toast for me.

For my new readers, Real Life Romance Hero used to cook professionally, so if he offers to cook something, it is going to be amazing. I utterly love his French toast, so it took me about half a millisecond to accept that offer. French toast, a fresh cup of tea, and, exactly when I thought “the only thing that could make this better is bacon,” RLRH came through with…bacon. That is one of the many reasons I love that man. The only downside to this breakfast bonanza is the amount of dishes left behind, because French toast for me means eggs for him, and dude had to be out the door to work, and I…was already in the door, because I work here. I don’t mind. There are prices we pay for the good things in life, and if a few dishes is what gets me French toast to go with my tea (especially  with bacon) then hand me my rubber duck scrubber and leave me to it.

As you may have guessed, this is another one of those winging it entries, and I got over two hundred words talking about my breakfast, so yay for me. If I give another two hundred each to lunch and dinner, I’m almost all done right there. Downside of that is that lunch was English muffin pizza (common fare when I am sola for lunch) and not terribly interesting, so we will skip to the time I noticed I did not have time to pack up and head to the coffee house if I wanted to make my scheduled chat with Critique Partner Vicki. Critique Partner Vicki has been on fire with her chapters lately, and I have three of them that need my attention. I also owe her an updated outline of Her Last First Kiss, because critique partners need up to date roadmaps.

The last several days have left me feeling like a teddy bear tied to the back of a bullet train. The thing-I-did-not-want happened, and that’s an adjustment, but life works that way sometimes. Doors close, windows open, et cetera and all that other ancient wisdom. Real life plot twist, let’s call it, and move on along. Listen to Ben Folds and Mary Chapin Carpenter, entertain pipe dream of those two making music babies, and uncap aforementioned pen (or others) to make lists of things that have to be done, then do those things. Plug in earbuds, call up appropriate Spotify playlist and find something to hold notebook open on lap desk. Grouse to cat about how all notebooks should open flat, and then make some tea. Check off things as they are done, and, when at bottom of list, kick back and refill creative well.

Five hundred and fifty-nine words, huh? Almost there. Almost there. Keep on going. Once blog entry is up, I can spend time with Hero and Heroine, and those people in the novella, which I have not yet decided terminology for, when it comes to blog talking. Collaborator and I have not yet named the darned story, except to refer to it as our “beach ball,” because we throw it back and forth to have fun. Maybe I’ll call it Beach Ball until we find a proper name. Fun fact: we refer to it, when talking with each other, by the name of a supporting character, though it is definitely the story of its hero and heroine. Some stories end up naming themselves, and this may well be one of them.

Six hundred and eighty-nine words, or, as a math teacher whose name I can’t remember (nor can I remember much math, for that matter; I think I traded in the math part of my brain for more story space, and I regret nothing) would insist, the proper name of the number is six hundred, eight-nine. Putting the “and” in the name of the number makes it addition. Hah. I’m over the minimum right now, so I could technically stop, but I’ve fallen into one of my blabbers and I could also keep on going. Only problem there is that I lost my train of thought and am now talking merely to talk. This is what happens when I am not around enough people, people.

So, that’s an entry. I’m in my comfy chair, I need more tea, and I have to get up and get my HLFK notebook anyway, so I can multitask. Time to visit eighteenth century England and mess with Hero and Heroine’s lives.

 

 

Respite

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I don’t feel like blogging today. I really don’t. What I want to do is nap. A nap would be lovely, under my duck blankey, in my comfy chair, a cup of tea at the ready, maybe the TV on, though I can’t think of what I’d want to watch, so maybe we can switch that to music. I don’t like silence-silence right now. I have a headache, my brain is full, and yet, it is also trained that this is writing time, so I’m  here, butt in chair and fingers on keyboard.

Breakfast with N was lovely as always, getting each other up to date on what we’re working on, how it’s going, and our shared irritation with movies we hate. After that, I took out one of my HLFK notebooks and worked on a scene that needs fleshing out. I walked home through the park, into a cold, gusting wind the entire time. That was not my favorite. Lunch, cat tending, and now, I’m here. Novella work happened last night, which sent me to bed in a productive mood, if later than I had hoped.

 

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Skye says less dithering, more blogging.

 

Okay, okay, cat goading always works. I can get something out of this. I’m already over two hundred words, which is a pretty decent inroad. This is one of those days when I’m tempted to let the blogging slip for another day, but then there would be the blogging equivalent of a multicar pileup. Tomorrow is Wednesday’s post, and #1linewed, then Thursday, I write my Buried Under Romance post. Friday has Skye’s post, and it’s the Sleepy Hollow season finale, which I will be recapping. Domestic tornadoes took yesterday, and that leaves today, so I’m here.

So,  what am  I talking about? I have no idea. I’m sure something will happen, and days like this are part of the normal scheme of things. I’m in a stinky mood at the moment, but I know it will pass. Once I get this entry crossed off my list, then I’ve earned some downtime, which will very likely include reading, or maybe that nap. My brain keeps going back to that nap thing, which I am taking as a sign. Soon, brain. Soon. Blog first.

 

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care for a random mint picture?

Yesterday, my confidence took a hit. Something didn’t go the way I wanted it to go. That’s life sometimes. We get knocked off our metaphorical horse now and again; I don’t think anybody is immune to that. There are a few minutes of lying on our back in the dirt, blinking up at blue sky and white clouds,  and, well, dang. That wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did and now, the choice is, stay there, or get up.

I got up. Set the thing-I-didn’t-want aside and opened my novella notebook. A bullet point draft of the scene my collaborator and I had agreed I would tackle spilled out. The next scene that would be mine suggested itself in the end of this one, and a quick email to said collaborator got her thumbs up, so now I know where my next scene (she’ll write the one in between) for that story begins.

 

This morning, after N left to meet Mr. N, my brain still had some funk, but it also had the germ of the scene I needed to tackle for HLFK. Heroine has to encounter Other Character,, and I knew the when and the where, but not the how. Apart, that is, from making things as difficult as possible for her. The old chasing character up a tree and then throwing rocks at them school of thought. It’s a meeting she very much does not want, but she knows is possible, and she’d love nothing more than to slip out of the venue so it doesn’t have to happen. Which means that, not only can she not slip out, but there will be multiple eyes on her, so she can’t react the way she wants to react. A few pages of that, and my brain was still funky, but I had a loose outline of the scene, and that’s more than I started the day with, so I’ll take it.

I’ve always had a quibble with those who say fiction is an escape. I would rather say that it’s respite. Dive into reading or writing a good book, and the rest of the world will still be there, but there is one important difference. That’s us. We got a break from the everyday. We got to travel to a different time and place, walk around inside somebody else’s skin, lived another life, and, somehow, it’s made us better equipped to handle our own. I’m going to call that good.

Typing With Wet Claws: Rainy Day Edition

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Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. It is rainy here today, so Anty is very happy about that. Rain gives her energy that too-bright days take away, and she is looking forward to getting things done. That is why she wanted me to get my blog out nice and early. I do not mind, because I would not have sunbeam time anyway, because of the rain.

This week, Anty had to say goodbye to one of her favorite characters, Derek Morgan,  on one of her favorite shows, Criminal Minds. Then she got to write about it for Heroes and Heartbreakers. That is a little tricky, because this character was part of a shipped pair, and that ship is now in drydock because Morgan married somebody else and left the job, and the show. It is here, and it looks like this:

MORCIA

goodbyes are never easy

 

Anty is not sure if she will keep watching the show, but she will give it a few episodes, at least, to find out. She is interested to see the shift in the group dynamics of the rest of the team, and what sort of character will come along to fill the vacant spot. Anty is very aware that Criminal Minds is a crime drama, so the relationships are not the focus of the show, but that is still one of the main reasons that she watches. (Uncle refers to this show as “Soothing Serial Killers,” because Anty finds the show calming. For the most part, that is. There is an older episode where bad things happen to kitties, and she will not watch that one. I fully support her in that regard.)

Besides the relationships, Anty likes the psychological aspect of the show. She likes to see the profilers figure out why the bad guys are doing what they do, and what is the best way to stop them. Getting inside the characters’ heads is one of the things Anty loves best about writing, and that works very well with figuring out how relationships work, because romance novels are all about relationships. Every couple is comprised of two people who have psychological and emotional baggage of their own, and that is not magically solved when they fall in love. If anything, falling in love makes it worse, because that brings a whole new set of problems.

This kind of thing makes Anty very happy. Anty loves solving these sorts of problems and getting her heroes and heroines through their difficulties and on the right road to their hhappy endings at the end of the book. That gets her about as excited as waking up and finding our that the day will be rainy (the only thing better than a rainy day is a snowy day. We did not really have any of those this year. That did not please Anty, but she is over that now and happy to have rain.) When both of those happen at the same time, then that is a perfect storm. Today, Anty  has to go out with Mama and get some things done, but she is taking along her story notebook (and her all purpose notebook, and probably another notebook, in case she needs that one. She may also buy a new notebook, because she is Anty and requires multiple notebooks to survive.) because she does not want to shut off the movie in her head while doing other things, like getting cat food.

When Anty is on the right track with a story, it plays in her head all the time, even when she is doing other things, and, sometimes, she will follow it off to wherever it goes. This is all right when it is writing time, but when it is grocery time, that can have some interesting results. Mama knows Anty’s story world face (I am not allowed to post a picture of it) and can tell when Anty’s body is in the regular world, but  her brain and her heart are somewhere else. That is either a time to let Anty do what she needs to do, or very gently steer her back to the mundane task at had. She will usually be crabby if that is done too quickly, so Mama has to be very careful about when and how to do that. If all else fails, gummi bears can usually do the trick.

Sometimes, though, the only thing to be done is to leave Anty to it and try to keep up if she decides she needs to talk. For Anty, talking and thinking sometimes happen at the same time, and she will not know she knows something until she can talk about it. Then the idea unlocks and she needs to put pen to paper. This is why she has this many notebooks. On rainy days, especially rainy days when Anty is out and around a lot of people, the likelihood of this is a lot higher. I think this is going to be one of those.

It is about time for the humans to leave the house, 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)