Head Down, Eyes On My Own Paper

March 23, 2016annabowling 6 Comments

Welp. I’m sitting here in Panera, rather than the coffee house one block from my house, because we needed at item from a store near Panera, work area photo (the above is not it) taken but phone is being persnickety about sending it to other devices, so this will have to do. No idea what I’m going to talk about right now, because, right now, my brain is quite firmly lodged in story world (actually more than one of them, but I can compartmentalize things like that fairly easily) so we’ll go with the picture for inspiration.

Technically, I do not need any new notebooks. Ideally, I need them all. Reality is somewhere in between. This set of three cahiers screamed out that it wanted to come home with me, and I didn’t even have the shrink wrap off before I knew exactly how I wanted to hack this trio. I almost always hack notebooks, except for those that are already a perfect fit, as with my current daily pages book.

These are by Picadilly, one hundred pages each, a nice, round number, and have cream-colored, lined pages. I love Picadilly paper, but need more structure on my pages, so I draw a frame around each, add some color (in this case, suggested by the covers of each) et voila, new purse notebooks. I’ve used my Pilot Varsity and Micron pens in the “Make Today Great” book and will probably use my Bic Cristals in them at some point, but am leaning ever more strongly toward fountain pens as my favorites. I already have my eye on two more Pilot Varsity pens at our local art supply store, green and turquoise, and I’m going to need to replace the black one soon. I’ve read tutorials on how to refill the Varsity pens, which are sold as disposable. Half of me wants to try it, and half of me remembers I am me, and this will require pliers and an open bottle of ink. . I may have to recruit Housemate or Real Life Romance Hero on that one, or actually buy a real fountain pen, because that’s what I really want. We’ll see what happens.

Picture break while I change the subject.

In the meantime, I’m writing. Current projects include Her Last First Kiss, as well as co-writing a novella I can best describe as ‘historical romance adjacent,’ and am diving into more book-related posts for Heroes and Heartbreakers. I can fangirl about historical romance novels all day long (no, seriously, I can. Ask Housemate or Real Life Romance Hero. They know.) and, as much as I love some of the older titles, this is an exciting time to be currently in the genre, as well.

This means I’m doing more reading. A lot more reading. Library books give me baleful looks from my TBR shelf as I peer intently at the screen of my phone, because either A) I have somehow missed how to increase the font size on Adobe Digital Editions, or B) their option to increase font size is only a cruel joke, and/or a test to see how badly I want to read the EARC (electronic advance reading copy) I have for an upcoming post. Blocking out time to read (and using a planner to do so) has meant a big boost, not only in how much I’m getting read, but the amount of time I devote to it.

Reading more keeps my brain closely aligned to story, and reading within my genre (though still keeping an eye out for realistic YA that catches my interest – I literally squealed when I saw the release of a new David Levithan is imminent. I’d read his grocery list, seriously.) gives me a firmer footing there. I hadn’t known that was missing. Well, no, I had, but I didn’t know that I didn’t know, if that makes any sense.

What it comes down to, for me, is head down, eyes on my own paper. It’s not a contest. While I’m sure there are people who read books by only one author, ever, that’s the exception rather than the rule. X’s success does not mean Y’s failure. It’s up to the individual. As long as I know what I’m doing, where I’m going, and what I need to get there, keep moving in that direction every day, it’s going to happen.

I can’t control the market. I can’t control the readership. I can’t control current events or other writers or the internet. What I can control is this: what I write. That’s it, and that’s probably a good thing. My job is to write my stories, my way. That means knowing what tools I need to get the job done, making sure that I have them, and that they are in good repair and ready to use. That means shutting out things that are going to get in the way of getting from “once upon a time” to “happily ever after.” That means studying my craft by reading the work of historical romance writers who came before me, and the work being produced by my contemporaries. That means filling my creative well and exposing myself to new experiences, to put new tools in my toolbox. That means knowing my voice, and knowing how to protect, nurture and develop it. That means saying “no” to things that are going to take me farther from my goal and “yes” to those that will bring me closer to it. That means making mistakes and falling down and getting back up to try again. That means butt in chair, pen on paper and fingers on keyboard, by any means necessary.

TLDR: Head down, eyes on my own paper. I got this.

The Middle

March 22, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

I don’t want to blog today. I really don’t. It’s Tuesday again, and, again, I am on Monday’s entry. Session with N got me pumped to write…but on the book, not on the blog. I’ve started this I stopped counting how many times, and probably as many times, switched over to camera mode so I can blabber in video, but then switch it back off again.

So, do I know what I’m doing today? Seriously no. I don’t. That’s okay. I’m doing it anyway. I can figure it out as I go. Parts of it, I have figured. I am working on HLFK. I am writing this blog entry (obviously.) I am reading for pieces that will be posted on Heroes and Heartbreakers. That should take up most of the day. I am chatting via Skype with a writer friend who dragged me, kicking and screaming, onto that platform, because we needed to chatter at each other. I have come, quickly, to love Skype. So far, I’ve only used it for text chatting, not video, but that will probably happen at some point.

The companionship helps. Writing can be a lonely business. Some writers need to be completely alone. If I’m alone too long, I start to loop my thoughts, and I go round and round and round and can’t find the off ramp. This is dangerous, oh so very, very dangerous. This is where miscarried stories lose it, mired in the sea of possibilities and questions over what I should do. There’s that word, should. I don’t like that word.

Seriously, should what? Should why? Who decides on all these shoulds, anyway? Probably them. We all know them, or rather, we don’t. The Hypercritical Gremlins do, I am quite sure. They get us second guessing ourselves, until the list of things we should do, the list of things we believe we can do, gets smaller and smaller until there isn’t anything left but rocking back and forth in a fetal position under the dining room table, clutching a stuffed animal and muttering something about gummi bears. Or not gummi bears. I couldn’t think of anything to put in there, and plugged in gummi bears as a placeholder. Plus I also really like gummi bears. I have gummi bears. Gummi bears, gummi bears, gummi bears.

All right, enough free association. We have come to the part of the post where I give up all pretenses of trying to impart any wisdom and concentrate instead on babbling until I reach magic word 700 and then I can post this entry and get back to the writing of actual fiction. That stuff, I can do. It’s a glorious thing, to have stuck with the characters and their story and puzzle it out until, hey, there’s an outline. This thing happens and that thing happens and I don’t know what has to happen before this other thing, but I get down what I do know and then…and then, things happen.

The friend I’m chatting with today likened stories to houseplants. If you don’t tend to them frequently enough, they’re going to commit suicide. My friend put it more colorfully, but there’s some truth there. With the dubious distinction of as many miscarried novels under my belt as I personally have, I have been there. I have a key to there. There was a time when I was getting my mail there. I won’t say that, occasionally, a piece or two will route through there, but, by and large, I think I am very most likely on the other side.

How do I know this? Is it even possible to know this sort of thing? Am I calling my shot too soon and not watching for the black claw of despair to grab my ankle and pull me back into the pit? Is that being a tad melodramatic right there? I don’t know, maybe, possibly, and likely so. The brain of a writer is a scary place, on a good day. All those people milling about in there, all with their own minds, wills and emotions, and it’s our job to make them play nice, or at least work toward the same goal – a finished book.

Lovely as it would be if those finished books could spring fully formed from our writerly brains, then we’d miss the strength that comes from the journey. It’s babbling over instant message and playing Mad Libs, asking the person on the other end for a location and type of character. It’s throwing songs onto a playlist by instinct and mushing them around until they fall into the right order. It’s reading and thinking what if – and following it through. It’s finding a couple dozen ways that don’t work, before the one that does. It’s cracking open a notebook and putting pen to paper, and/or typing into a file. It’s theory and practice. Concept and execution. It’s coming back to the page again and again and again, even on the days when that doesn’t seem possible (and some days, it isn’t, and that’s okay; try again the next one) and putting something down, until, at last, the words that flow from finger to page are The End.

Until then, it’s The Middle. The middle can be murky. It can be sticky. It can be confusing and tricky and hard and discouraging, but it is, and we have to go through it to get to The End. Up and down those three steps in the theoretical PT room of our writing minds. Put something on the page. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It won’t be perfect, but it does need to be written. Like this. Look right here; I had to keep going for 700 words, and this is 960 by the count on the bottom of my screen. This is why the discipline works for me.

Three blog entries per week. Two handwritten pages each morning. Weekday afternoons at the coffee house. Writer chats that include “if I have to write, you have to write,” and showing each other what we did. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, we’ll get there, as long as we keep going.

–

Blarney

March 17, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

I got nothing today. Seriously nothing, blogwise. As in zip, zilch, nada, empty, dry, tumbling tumbleweeds through the echoing expanse of my head when it comes to blog topics for this midweek post. Only the thought of Skye making excuses for my lag (not a kind thing to do to a kitty) keeps me moving forward here. If there’s such a thing as blogger’s block, the only way through it is through it, and so here we are. Which is all a fancy way of saying I’m winging it today, at the end of the day, instead of yesterday, at the start of it.

Yesterday was one of those domestic tornadoes that would have their own special on the weather channel, but things are settling now. I have heard there is a thing called “sleep” that I might like to try, but it is still daylight, and so not yet time. Yesterday, I did manage to get out of the house despite the tornado, but the entirety of my blogging experience was staring at the screen, making a noise best described as “ummmmhhhh…” Okay, I didn’t really make an audible noise. I made a mental noise, but that’s what it sounded like in my head. I think. I’m punchy, so it’s all pretty much a fog.

Look, ducks, to distract from lack of wordage. Inversely as many ducks as productive blog ideas today. The fact that these ducks are from yesterday shames me. :hangs head:

I started today with the best of intentions. To do list made (mentally, that is, which was probably a mistake, in retrospect, because I forgot a big chunk of it) and self hustled out the door only an hour or two (ish?) later than intended, due to aforementioned punchiness. This brought me to Panera around (very early) lunchtime. I ordered a cup of tomato soup. They gave me a bowl. This may have thrown me. That is a big bowl. Like, a really big bowl, but I knew I was camping, so the longer I had food in front of me, the less obvious my camping would be.

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A lot of tomato soup. Also a lot of bread. Next time, I’m bringing a friend. Who likes soup. And bread.

My plan was to bang out a blog entry, which, in my notebook, I’d made some stabs at acknowledging the holiday. I might be part Irish. Maybe. Or possibly English. Potentially both. My birth mother’s last name (I don’t know her first name) has both Irish and English roots. The part of Virginia where I was born, where there are a lot of people with that last name, is also where the Crown used to drop off convict labor back in the day, so speculate at will as to how my biological ancestors first crossed the pond, at least on birth mother’s side. Which is exactly where my brain petered out on that idea.

:cue cricket sounds here:

:cricket sounds echo:

:tumbleweed blows past:

:more crickets:

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Okay, no blog entry? Let’s try book. Book works. Yay, book.

Some days, it’s not going to happen. This was one of those mornings, blogwise. Couldn’t force it, couldn’t command it, couldn’t push through. Prompts left me cold, quotes left me doubting my ability to understand English, and my Hypercritical Gremlins’ ears perked. So, okay, we’ll put the blog entry off for later. Instead, I opened Scrivener and worked on the draft of the scene I’d been working on later. That clicked. Blue font, to let me know what phase of this thing I was on, and Hero and Heroine got chatty, writing the dialogue for me. Except for that one part where I forgot where they were and thought they were in the middle of the previous scene (I figured it out within a couple of paragraphs, so easily fixed) I’d say that went rather well. :pats self on back:

That unlocked one of the things I need to know for the next scene, so I’m confident in picking up there again tomorrow. I’ll make some notes tonight and then back to work tomorrow. Which is all great for the book, but…blog. Blogging three times a week is a discipline I need to keep, to strengthen the writing muscles, keep them supple, and remind myself that yes, I can do it, even if all I can do on a given day is babble.

Mas ducks. Ducks of distraction.

Whee, magic seven hundred words have been reached. This calls for Canada geese, because I think the big male may be reading this blog. At the very least, he’s keeping tabs on me in some form (seriously, he has some potent stink-eye; trust me on this. I assume the other boy geese know to stay well away from him and his woman.)

Nothing to see here. Move along. No pictures. Keep walking, human.

Normally, this is where I’d make some sort of closing statement, but, once again, I got nothing. (Hey, repeat of my opening. At least this entry is structurally sound. That’s something, right?) Time to kick back and focus on taking in, rather than putting out. Time for tea and blankey and books and Sims and TV with the hubby and cat stares and what’s-for-dinner and online chatting. There may or may not be dancing in the kitchen.

Adieu, Daily Pages (Book)

March 15, 2016March 15, 2016annabowling 4 Comments

On October 26th this year, I decided to start writing my own version of daily pages. One two page spread, every weekday, no matter what. If I was late, or missed, I had to make it up. No skipping. No censoring. Whatever was in my head went on the page. Domestic tornadoes, family stuff, existential angst, my Hewig and Hamilton obsessions, books I’ve been reading, thoughts on books I’ve been writing. Sims. Tea. Random thoughts. Writer things. Domestic warrior queen things. Me things. Yesterday, I started on the last signature of this volume. It’s taken me seven months. So, what did I learn?

A few things. One, setting aside time to record my thoughts is essential for anchoring myself in the work of writing. Nobody is going to see this, except for whoever goes through my stuff when I have completed my life cycle (not planning on that anytime soon, so there will be many more of these volumes) so Hypercritical Gremlins are not allowed. This is for me, and me alone. This is putting on my own oxygen mask before tending others. I remember dragging my Martian-death-flu-riddled body into my office because I needed to fill pages, dagnabit. I’m not going to guess how much sense those pages made (probably not a lot) but getting the discipline in there was and is key.

When I realized I was on the last signature, I remembered that I hadn’t taken any pictures of the blank pages, in what is, hands down, my favorite notebook I’ve ever used for this purpose. I’ve attempted others, but this is the first one I’ve come this close to filling, and, as the habit is now entrenched, I don’t see anything coming between me and that.

Since yesterday was a domestic tornado day, I didn’t get to my pages until after 5PM, but even with groceries to be put away, all family members arriving home at the same time, and Skye needing to collect on back food and scritches for the time we were away, my first priority was – pages. Also pictures, because I wanted to save some record of what the book looked like before I got my hands on it. My lobster friend, Dashing John, (thanks, Mary) wanted to help out, because this book does not open flat.

I still don’t have any ideas for Paris-set stories, but as soon as I saw this gorgeous Punch Studio specimen, I knew this one was special. It became my morning pages book, and I’m going to miss it. I have candidates for its successor, and at least one of them is also Paris-themed, but it won’t be the same, and that has me feeling nostalgic.

This particular book has seen me through a lot. New relationships come into my life, and old ones gone out of it. The ups and downs of Real Life Romance Hero’s health and his move to a new job. The aggravation of my Sims 3 installation going wonky, and ripping the whole thing out and putting basegame back in, because yes, I do need gaming. Physical things. Spiritual things. Writing things. It’s a time capsule, and now that Friday will mean it’s time to close that capsule, and put it on the shelf of completed notebooks, I don’t want to let it go. I work a lot of stuff out on these pages. Some of it, I’m still working.

But back to things I’ve learned. The visuals on the page anchor me. Even when I don’t know what I’m going to write on a given morning, there’s an image right there. I can write about that. Do I like the colors? The art? Do I know what that landmark is? What ink do I want to use on this page? What kind of pen? The visual connection matters, and, since the designs cycle through the four shown, I’m not tempted to keep on going when I reach the end of my “assignment.” Different picture, different ideas, different day. Close the book, put it back on the shelf and get thee to some novel work.

Some days, novel things do find their way into my morning pages, and that’s okay, too. Whatever is in my head is what goes down here, and I can move things to my novel books later and/or continue them there. There are days when Hero and/or Heroine poke their heads over my shoulder and want to talk, and there are days when I write a bullet point list of what’s in the refrigerator. Most days are somewhere in between.

I’ve loved watching the bookmark (a piece of paper from a Punch Studio notepad) move from the front of the book, to the back. I’ve loved the harmony of the art not being the same, but page and marker agreeing with each other, and I will probably tuck that notepad page into the back cover of this book when I’m done. They’ve bonded by now. The next book will have something else as its marker. I don’t know if any of the candidates have built in ribbon bookmarks, or I should say, I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that I’m excited about starting the new book, deciding what pen(s) I will use, what color(s) of ink, probably intuitively when it’s time to plunk myself down on Monday morning and begin the new adventure. This new book will know Her Last First Kiss as the current project, not a pile of angsty possibilities. This new book will know the me that I am now, evidence of the me who lived in the past seven months tucked away with the sheet from the notepad. Some months from this coming Monday, I will tuck that book away, too, and start on another. Circle of stationery? Maybe so, but what I do know is that I’ve found something that works for me, and isn’t that the whole reason we try new disciplines in the first place?

fin

Signs of (Writing) Life

March 9, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

Right now, I am in my comfy chair, next to a soon to be opened window, cup of tea at the ready, headphones in, blog window open. I had a post typed out, but accidentally trashed it when I got up to take pictures to go with said entry, so I’m going to babble here, stick the pictures up anyway, and see where that takes me.

Today, our temperatures here in upstate NY should top 70. The waterfowl are back in the lake at the park. On my walk home from my meeting with N yesterday, one of the male Canada geese (should I be calling him a Canada gander?) rather pointedly strutted his stuff for the benefit of the Canada goose ladies. Waterfowl romance season, it would seem, has begun. It feels early for that, but if goose love is in the air, it must be spring.

In less than two weeks’ time, I will have filled my morning pages book. I started this one on October 26th. I’m looking forward to writing the last word on the last page and starting a new notebook (I have a few candidates in my stash already) but I’ll miss the gorgeous pages inside this one. Pretty pages make me want to write more, and knowing there is a set place where I must stop helps me focus on what I want to say in that space.

Hacking my plain cardboard binder for Her Last First Kiss clicked like wildfire. I love when colors and textures suggest themselves, and it’s easy to see where one choice flows into the next. This is my story bible, with all pertinent information gathered in one place, easily accessible. Times and distances between locations (and noting when our historical people would need to change horses matters, people) and who went to school where, owns what, and employs whom. My best way into this sort of thing is to let myself blunder blindly ahead and, after I smack into a few (dozen) walls, I’ll find what works, and then get to it. Housemate has threatened me with bodily harm if I attempt to use a regular binder again, though there is still some hacking to do.

I need to Mod Podge the cover that slipped oh so easily into the plastic pocket of the old binder (but then I never wanted to use the old binder because the plain white bothered me, so tradeoff there) and there are no pockets to hold loose papers. I can buy those at the office supply store, though, stick some coordinating paper on them, and glue the kraft envelope on the inside of the back cover, to hold smaller ephemera. I blame Moleskine for giving me a need for back cover pockets on pretty much all notebooks, including binders.

I’m working, I promise

These babies are all set to be my constant companions for this week, as I’m prepping for a post at Heroes and Heartbreakers. I did want to increase my reading for this year, and to write more book related posts for H&H, so I’d say I’m doing all right on that front. Who needs sleep when one has books? Seriously, if that could be worked out, I would be a very happy camper. In the meantime, blocking out reading time as though I were studying for a college class is the best way for me to make sure the work gets done. Family has been informed that, when my nose is in these books, I am working.

Reading that is not related to any posts (as far as I know) also needs to happen, because that also fits under the umbrella of “study.” I’m very curious about Kerrigan Byrne’s The Highwayman, and have heard wonderful things about it, so can’t wait to start that. Elizabeth Hoyt’s latest Maiden Lane novel is an auto-read, so that’s going to happen, especially since it fits with my immersion in all things Georgian. I’m still determined to get back on the Bertrice Small horse (and the fact that the book I picked, The Border Lord’s Bride, is number two in its series means I will have to go back and read book one, A Dangerous Love, because that’s how I roll) and I’m still devouring realistic YA like a starving hyena. Seeing notice of an upcoming David Levithan release in the current issue of Romantic Times Book Reviews magazine made me literally squeal (Skye is used to this kind of thing) when I read it in the upcoming releases section.

Okay, there’s the magic 700 word threshold to call this blog entry good enough and traipse off to century 18 with Hero and Heroine. See you later, Liebchens.

In a Bind(er)

March 7, 2016annabowling 2 Comments

Sticking with your own style is incredibly important. It’s exactly what you should do. You should never allow someone to talk you out of your natural style or water down your writer’s voice.
— Nat Russo

Right now, I am in my comfy chair, duck blankey in my lap, cup of tea at the ready, disposable fountain pen now empty. Maybe I’ve been using it more than I thought I was, or maybe I hadn’t checked how full it was when I bought it, but there I was, this morning, in the Laundromat, furiously scribbling notes for a scene for Her Last First Kiss in my pocket sized Hero notebook, with a ballpoint pen. One scene I knew had to happen pushed itself to the front of my brain this morning, and “something has to happen here” turned into a heated exchange between two characters, which may end up getting physical, (I did not see that coming, but Hero’s berserk button gets pushed, and yeah, he might) and propels him into Heroine’s path at a critical moment.

This is what I’ve been going after with all those miscarried stories, all the methods that didn’t work, for the times when the story takes on a life of its own, talks to me, pushes through the whispers of Hypercritical Gremlins and tells me “this is how I go. This is what I look like. Here is what you do next.”

Part of that is moving my binder materials into the right binder. They’re in a white binder right now, which may possibly bother Housemate more than it bothers me, and plain white anything usually does bother me, so that’s saying something. While I do hold with the old Japanese proverb that a poor workman blames his tools, there’s something about having the right visual setup that clicks with my brain.

Scrapbook paper is for covering the section dividers in my story binder. Pastel sticky notes match the paper that is color-coded for each section. Index cards are for listing scenes and shuffling them around. Sticky index cards? I’m not sure what I’m doing with those yet, but they are super cool and I will find a use for them at some point.

I love the visual component of writing. If I know what the story looks like, not only the faces of hero and heroine, their clothing and such, but the story itself, there’s a thrill that goes with that. While I’m putting together this new binder, Hero and Heroine are over my shoulder, giving advice (Hero is an artist and Heroine likes to manage things, so they have a lot to say) and the story itself simmers on the back burner of my brain. I love that.

Later, I’ll add pictures as needed, maybe song lyrics, maybe lines of poetry or favorite quotes. I’m not sure yet. The physical act of setting up the binder, moving from the plain white temporary binder (Housemate has informed me she is taking said plain white binder away from me once I do transfer everything, so I can’t use it again.) to its permanent binder that has never belonged to anything else. This new binder, plain cardboard, is a blank canvas -the clean sweep I thought I would find in the white binder- ready to be personalized -more layers- and it feels right.

Last week, N asked me if I would write a second book about Hero and Heroine. That’s a tricky question. First, I write romance, so a direct sequel with Hero and Heroine would need to provide some new obstacle for the love relationship, by that time, the marriage. For the second, I’m so in love with this story right now that I don’t want to think about any others. That’s a good place to be. Then there’s also the question of what the market will bear. I don’t see a lot of direct sequels with the same couples, though there are some serial stories. This doesn’t feel like one of those. I naturally think in standalones anyway, and always have. Do I have ideas? Yes, but this book now. The date is on my calendar, June first as my target for my bullet point draft. Let me get there first and then we will see.

Right now, when I spend time with this story, my heart leaps. The papers and stickies and all the rest are part of the puzzle. I love touching them, moving them around, throwing everything down in haphazard fashion and then making order out of chaos. I like structure, and I like intuition. This way, I get both. Onward.

Typing With Wet Claws: Plot Pants Puzzle Edition

March 4, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Anty is on a tight schedule today, with hunting for food (she hunts at a place called the “supermarket”) and writing things. She has some research to do for some upcoming articles, and then there is book work, which she thinks really ought to come first (I agree) but she also likes to be the strangest person in the Laundromat, so she likes to do the laundry early. Laundry time is very good time for Anty to sort through ideas in her head, and, if she has her headphone in, and keeps her head down and pen moving on the paper, people generally leave her alone to do exactly that. Well, sometimes, almost-grown-ups ask her how the machines work. If the owner is there (he was not there today, but the custodian was) she will chat with him some.

This week, Anty has a lot of feelings about what happened to Morgan and Garcia on Wednesday’s Criminal Minds, (or what will apparently not be happening between them in the future, because the writers decided to…what? Oh, sorry. Anty says no spoilers, so I will stop there.) but she did not have to write an article about that, so I cannot give a link to an article that does not exist. What I can say is that she and Uncle had a grumbly conversation about it yesterday -they are both on the same side, so it was not an argument- which showed Uncle’s impressive grasp of romantic arcs and character dynamics, as well as genre expectations and creative choices that limit options once a path has been chosen. Spend enough time around Anty, and these things tend to rub off on a person. Or kitty.

As Anty’s mews, I spend a lot of time around her. Pretty much all of it, except when she leaves the house, since I am an indoor kitty and only leave the house when it is v-e-t time. It is not v-e-t time now, so I have an up close and personal view of her creative process. When writers get to know each other, they will often ask if they are pantsers or plotters. That means, do they make things up as they go, with no firm plan (or a very loose one) or do they plan things out ahead of time? Anty has come to learn that she has to give a different sort of answer to that question: she is a puzzler. That does not mean she stares at a blank screen or page and puzzles over what comes next. Well, not all of the time.

these all fit together

What it does mean is that Anty does not always work from beginning to end. That may sound crazy to some -it did to Anty, at first- but that is how her brain works. Finding things that look like her story also help give Anty visual cues. Since Hero in Her Last First Kiss is an artist (she wanted him to be a musician, but he said no; Anty did not mind too much, because when characters tell her she got them wrong, that means that they are alive inside her head, which is a good thing.) the visual cues are even more important. They are another piece of the puzzle, and working in notebooks that look like the story helps her feel connected. That is why she is going to hunt at the craft store for some toile patterned cardstock so she can make better dividers for the binder where she keeps important story information. I like that, because I get to play with the strips of paper from the bottom of the cardstock; they are really fun toys. Anty holds one end and wiggles it, then I bat the other end with my paw. Sometimes, I get so into it that I even go back on my hind legs. Since my balance is sometimes special, sometimes, I fall over, but I get right back up, because I like to play that game. Falling over is worth it.

Anty is like that with writing. At one point, she thought that being punster was the ‘real’ creative path, and she tried that, but she soon felt like she was lost in the middle of the ocean, and did not know what was going on. Some of the stories during that time did not make it. Then, she tried plotting, and that worked better, but the stricter she tried to be with it, the more restrictive it became, and then she found that she could not move. Well, write, the same as when she tried to pay strict attention to word count. I think those actually happened around the same time.

This week, she played with index cards and listed scenes, then transferred that to her binder, color-coded, so she could see where she was missing things and what had to happen when. It literally can be a puzzle, when she sits on the floor with her index cards, or puts sticky notes all over her plotting board. When she can see what is missing, then finding out what goes there is a lot easier. That is probably why she has lots of sticky notes all over her notebook pages, because when the puzzle pieces start fitting together, they really start fitting together. Something that comes clear to her about the end of the book could fill in a hole about something she did not know near the beginning, so she can go back there, put down a sticky note and come back to it on the next pass.

I do not mind this at all, because it means more paper for Anty, which means more toys for me. Granted, I am in one of those learning how to play again phases, but Anty says that fits with her relearning how she works best. I guess that means we are in sync. That is about it for this week, so, until next time, I remain very truly yours,

Until next week…

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

Leap Post

March 3, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

Not sure where I’m going with this, but an extra day in the month (all right, last month, technically) calls for an extra post. Right now, I am in my comfy chair, lap desk in my lap, a pile of pale yellow sticky index cards (how did I ever forget those existed; not thrilled with the yellow part, as that’s my least favorite color, but sticky index cards are the closest thing I’m going to get to cross breeding my office supplies) and Skye kitty snoozing in a sunbeam. Real Life Romance Hero is taking it easy after a hard week’s work, and I have the binder for Her Last First Kiss wedged between my hip and the arm of the chair.

In a bind(er)

Okay, not anymore, because I took it out so I could photograph it. I take a lot of pictures these days. Scrolling through my Instagram feed, I see it’s mostly my workspace and Skye, with a smattering of local food, current reads and art supplies, the odd bit of scenery and, surprisingly early this year, waterfowl. I did not expect to see ducks on Tuesday, but there they were, a pair of mallards, contentedly paddling their way along the greenish water I had last seen as a solid sheet of ice. Late winter/early spring in upstate NY is a curious thing, which I have come to accept.

Now that I’ve started talking, I have to keep going until I hit the magic number of 700 words. That’s the deal. Discipline is a big part of the writing process for me. Counting my words doesn’t work in the drafting process. Give me a pen and some paper and let me loose, and we’ll do the math when I come back up for air. I’m not going to pretend I’ve got this all figured out. It’s a long trip back up onto the horse when I fall off on things like this, but I do know that try/fail, try/fail, try/succeed works in actual writing as well as it does in fiction, though the real life version does not always play nice and follow the rule of three. Usually exactly the opposite.

I’ll haul out the old Japanese proverb here: fall down five times, get up six. Or sixteen. Or sixty. Or six hundred, if it comes to that. There’s a sweatshirt I saw once, in an ad (funny what pops up on one’s Facebook sometimes) showing clothing marketed toward drill sergeants, that said:

Sweat dries
Blood clots.
Bones heal.
Suck it up, Buttercup.

Summer, the heroine of my time-travel-in-limbo, immediately told me that was her favorite sweatshirt (she’s never been in the military, but she is a competitive dancer, and the words suit her, so okay, she can have it) and the words stuck with me beyond that. I don’t know when I’ll get that story written. I will, though, and it will likely be a far different tale than the one I’d found myself irretrievably stuck on, but, right now, I’m writing this book. Hero and Heroine’s book. Head down, eyes on my own paper. Keep on going until The End.

In the words of Elvis Costello, every day, every day, every day, I write the book. Monday through Friday means morning pages. By my count, I will need a new morning pages book in two weeks. Thankfully, I have a few candidates in my stash already. That fat stack of index cards turned into a page with scenes listed. Which turned into Scrivener files, which are easy to nip into an blabber upon. I actually like rewriting, so this isn’t staring at giant blank white wall, a strangled “uhhh….” rumbling in my throat because I’ve forgotten how to English. I’m a talker. I talk. I need to talk more.

I’m into the six hundreds now, and Skye is waiting on my left (her signal for “I really want your attention, Anty, and did you notice what time it is? Answer: treat time.) so time to wrap this up. Hypercritical Gremlins are grumbling behind their blanket in my office closet (blanket is hung over the hanger rod in lieu of a door) and, more importantly, the cat needs to be fed. To haul out another old proverb, (Japanese again, but don’t quote me on that,) the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Open the file. Open the notebook. Put something down. Anything will do. As a former writing group facilitator often said, the process begets the product. We got this.

Flowing Into the Next

March 2, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

Yesterday, I ran out of white index cards. Yesterday, I saw two mallards swimming in the lake. when I walked home through the park after my weekly meeting with N. I’m not saying that ducks and index cards are related in any specific way, but that’s what came first to mind when I opened the window to write today’s blog.

Today, I danced in the Laundromat, listening to my Broadway selection playlist while I waited for the dryer cycle to complete. Today, I had a brief chat with the Laundromat’s other patron, because I always peek to see what book someone is reading, when caught doing so out in the wild. This time? Shanna, by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss. I gave Other Reader a thumbs up and told her that was a great book she had there.

Other Reader responded that she loved everything she’d read by Ms. Woodiwiss, but this wasn’t the whole book. Someone had thrown it out somewhere, and a chunk was missing out of the end. Readers who love particular books know how big the book is, and this did not look anywhere near thick enough to be all of Shanna. I loved the determination in Other Reader’s voice when she informed me her next step would be the library, to pick up or request a whole copy of the book. I heartily approve of such actions.

Oddly enough, or maybe not, the book I was reading at the time, Angel in a Red Dress, by Judith Ivory (aka Starlit Surrender, by Judy Cuevas) is also falling apart. It was like that when I got it from the library, chunks of pages unglued from the spine (it’s a paperback) and part of me wants to ask the librarian if I can just have it if it’s going to be destroyed for said falling-apart-edness. Sign of a well loved book, to be sure, and I know, I could go buy my own copy, and probably will, but we’ve bonded, the two of us (but I’ll still do the right thing and return it; I’m not a savage, well, not in that respect.)

I got to page 338 of this particular edition, and I gasped out loud when certain information was revealed. This was one of those “I-did-n0t-see-that-coming” and “of course, how did I not know that all along” moments at the same time. This is a book that makes me gasp and choke and sniffle and want to bash heads and want to hug the pages back together and a number of other reactions non-readers would never understand, but readers and writers do understand. This. This is why I do what I do. This is why I write historical romance. This is what I’m aiming for when I open notebook and/or computer file, every day.

This is why I sat down yesterday, after passing the ducks on my way home after meeting with N, popped Me and Earl and the Dying Girl (okay, I had to watch the movie then, because it was my only chance before the library wanted the DVD back) into my old laptop and got out my stash of index cards, a black Sharpie, and wrote a short description of each scene I know is in Her Last First Kiss on each card. I ran out of cards before I ran out of scenes, which surprised me, but this does mean I get to buy more index cards. They look solid there, in their pile. Hefty, even. Substantial. Like a real book, because they are, encapsulated, the foundation of a real book.

It’s been a while since I had that feeling. The miscarried manuscripts never got to that stage, never put down that root. Maybe because I didn’t know that particular root needed to be there, but, once I started, there it was. One scene spilling into the next, into the next, into the next. Color coding the scenes, when I copied each one onto a sheet of graph paper, with felt-tipped pens, showed me where I have multiple chunks of Heroine scenes. What’s Hero doing through all of that? X, obviously. I’ll figure out the particulars of that later. I’ll know what I need to know, when I need to know it.

What I do know, right now, is that the focus, for me, doesn’t have to fit any prescribed shape, method, or form. Only what works for me. Life is going to happen (the alternative doesn’t make for a lot of writing, really, so good thing there) but as long as I move from Once Upon a Time to They Lived Happily Ever After, it’s all good. Ducky, even.

Leap Day

February 29, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

There’s no feeling like showing off the notebook one has hacked into a planner, with days blocked off and numbered months in advance, and then remembering this is a leap year. Which means an extra day in February, which means that throws off the entire numbering system, which is a problem, because ink doesn’t erase, especially on top of colored pencil. Yeah, small problem there. Easy solution, though, because correction fluid works beautifully in said situations, and, with a flick of a felt-tipped pen, the numbers fall quickly back in line.

That’s about all I’ve got on that one, not as much material as I’d thought. One of the tricks I’ve started doing in my planner, when I have a blog entry slated, is to jot down a couple of possible topics ahead of time. I am pretty sure I did that for today, but I left the planner by my comfy chair, which is where it lives. I am going to say it’s the leap day that threw me off.

I love to organize. Taking chaos and turning it into order gives me a thrill, so the process of making my own planner out of a plain notebook has its benefits. Gets the brain firing in new directions. Can I use colored pencil instead of highlighter? Sure can. Which leads to finding out that colored pencils aren’t made from graphite (I should have gathered that, but was still surprised to find out for sure) but wax and pigment, which is one of the reasons the “leads” break as easily as they do. Which leads to noticing that several of the colors I would use if I had them are missing from the colored pencils I inherited from my dad, which leads to making a list of what I’m going to need at the art store.

That, in turn, leads to me wondering if I could use crayons where I’d been using the colored pencils, because crayons are also wax and color. Answer: yes, but not worth it with the regular size crayons; I’d need the big kind preschoolers use to lay down a decent amount of color, and those usually don’t come in all the nifty colors I prefer to use, because, well, they’re made for preschoolers. Which also leads me to remembering my grade school love of fluorescent crayons (side note, I am a proud Crayola snob) and wondering how those would look on those same pages, even though the super bright highlighters, which are kind of fluorescent, are too bright for my eyes when used in large blocks. Without the colored frame, my eyes wander; the frames keep them on task.

I could use a frame on this entry, as my brain wants to go skipping around and try a little of this, a little of that and basically anything other than what the planner says it needs to be doing. Usually, brain consults planner, says “yes, ma’am,” and at least makes a decent effort. That’s not today. I’m fed. I’m hydrated. I’m bathed and dressed, entertained and socialized, and motivated to keep moving forward with Hero and Heroine’s story, but….

There’s always a but, isn’t there? It’s Monday. It’s Leap Day. The sun is far too bright for my comfort, and I don’t like sitting down without an idea of what I’m going to do. The hypercritical gremlins are gossiping in their closet, and if I could follow my heart of hearts right now I would take a nap. That would probably not go over too well at the coffee house (especially since the couch is currently occupied by people who are not me, and whom I do not know) so I may as well actually get some work done.

This is where organization saves my day. There’s lots of longhand to transcribe, and Friday’s work of tracking important objects throughout the story helps keep things moving at the right pace. Pick a place and dive in. I’ve done this book thing before, and I’ll do it again after this current manuscript is done and off to seek its fortune. I’ve been this way before, and it’s only a step on the journey, not a final destination.

Which paragraph above brings me to 701 words, and 700 is the magic number to allow me to check “blog entry” off my list. I do not have to write the entire book today. In fact, I cannot write the entire book today. I can, however, write. It won’t be perfect. It can’t be perfect, but it can be. That’s good enough.

Typing With Wet Nails

for the love of romance

possibly pointless blabbering